I hurt my friend.
The man I love.
A sob breaks out of me. I double over on the mattress and pull my knees to my stomach. I press both palms over my mouth to stifle the noise, weeping until I’m empty.
Then I pick up my mobile. My fingers tremble so hard I can barely unlock it. He might hate me now. He might never speak to me again. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help him.
Chapter 23
Scottie
I buried my fist in Nevin’s face, and now the recoil is about to snap my career in half.
The corridor of the Duncraig Stadium offices is dead air and silence. I’m a specimen on a slide, magnified and waiting for the final verdict.
Ten days ago, Ava walked out of my life. Today, I’m about to get walked out of my career.
I sit on a plastic chair that was designed by someone who hates the human body. My hands rest on my knees. Two useless lumps of meat and bone that have spent more than ten years carrying balls, fending off tackles, and yanking teammates from the mud. Now they’re the things that ended my career.
Insert Coin. The vending machine gives off an electrical drone that scratches at the inside of my cranium. I don’t have any coins. I don’t have my kit bag. In half an hour, I won’t even have a team.
I check my mobile. The black screen reflects my face back at me. Dark circles, stubble that’s gone past rugged into derelict. A man resisting the urge to sprint for the exit.
That’s about right.
A daft part of me – the part that believes the hero gets the girl instead of a court martial – was hoping for a signal. A missed call or a notification. One word from her to prove she still exists on the same planet. That I didn’t dream it.
But I guess I did. I dreamed it.
The door to the boardroom opens. A woman I don’t know sticks her head out. She’s wearing a grey suit and the expression of someone who has to put down a sick dog.
‘Mr Kerr? They’re ready for you.’
I rise, and my knees crack. The sound is loud in the empty hallway. I head in.
The boardroom is an oven. The radiators are blasting enough heat to wilt the ferns in the corner. Late February sunshine is pouring through the window, promising spring. But the sun in Scotland can’t be trusted.
Coach Wallace is at the head of the long table. He’s aged five years since last week. He refuses to meet my eyes. To his right sits Nigel Stark, the club chairman. A man who thinks rugby is played on spreadsheets, the right hand of the Canadian billionaire owner. He’s tapping a gold pen against a notepad.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Two other board members – another woman and a man I recognise from events but whose names I’ve never bothered to learn – flank him. This is admin to them, a line item to be deleted. Impaired asset: One Centre. Total write-off.
‘Sit down, Mr Kerr.’ Stark doesn’t offer me a water. Not a good sign.
The leather chair at the far end scrapes against the linoleum as I pull it out. I sit and keep my back straight.
Stark opens a folder and slides a piece of paper across the wood. ‘Nevin Neely claims you struck him, unprovoked, in his private residence. Is this true?’
The room holds its breath. Coach Wallace bores a hole into the piece of paper in front of him.
‘Aye,’ I say.
Stark adjusts his cuffs. It’s obvious that he expected a defence or a “but he started it”. Not from me. I’m not four. I’m a man. I take responsibility for my actions.
‘To be clear: you admit to the physical assault of a teammate?’
‘Aye.’
