‘Photos from the past few months,’ Finn says. His voice has lost the lightness.
I close my eyes. Bitter nausea rolls through me. She shouldn’t be reduced to evidence on a screen in a room full of strangers and people who don’t know the story. She’s so much more than what Nevin did to her.
‘She gave you permission?’ I wrench the question past the tight lock of my teeth.
‘No. She actually asked me to,’ Finn matches my gaze. ‘Was her idea. She told me to tell the truth.’
Stark pushes the phone away. ‘This is obviously disturbing and wrong. But it’s hearsay. And domestic matters are?—’
‘Criminal matters,’ Brodie corrects from the threshold. ‘Scandalous matters, if I might add.’ He raises a suggestive eyebrow.
‘It’s still not proof that Neely provoked Kerr’s assault.’ Stark is clinging to his procedure like a life raft. ‘We have a business to run. We can’t have players punching each other because of personal entanglements. It sets a…problematic precedent.’
‘Ah. Precedent,’ Finn repeats the word as he stands up. ‘Let’s talk about precedents. Like the one where a club doesn’t act when one of their players is involved in domestic violence and instead sacks the lad who did the right thing? Tsk, tsk, tsk. How does that look on the front page of the Herald? We can’t have that, can we?’
He nods to Brodie, who pulls the door open.
The corridor isn’t empty anymore. It’s a wall of lads.
James MacKenna. Connor Duff. The entire front row – twelve hundred pounds of prime Scottish rugby beef – shouldering the backs into the corners. Even the academy kids are there, eyes hard. A phalanx of muscle and intent. Their eyes aren’t on Stark. They’re on me.
Jamie steps forward. ‘If Kerr goes, we all go.’
Stark laughs and smooths his tie, trying to find his footing on a rug that’s being pulled out from under him. ‘You’re all under contract. A wildcat strike is a fundamental breach. We could sue the lot of you.’
‘Aye, you could,’ Brodie counters and moves forward until he looms over the table. ‘But here’s the thing: you can’t play a fixture with lawsuits. Suspend Kerr, and you forfeit the season. Play the rest of the calendar with the Development Squad. See how many tickets you sell when you’re getting pumped by sixty points every weekend.’
‘This is mutiny,’ Stark hisses.
The other board members look desperate to vanish to a Caribbean island. Or Orkney. Or Mars.
‘See it more as a…union,’ Finn says, his grin sharp enough to draw blood. ‘We protect our own. And Nevin? That cunt can fuck right off.’
‘Lennox, language!’ Coach swipes a thumb hard across his mouth to kill whatever expression sits there.
I stare at them. At Jamie, who I’ve screamed at for lazy tracking. At the props I’ve dragged off the floor when their lungs were burning. At Finn, my flatmate and best pal. At Brodie, who’s risking his captaincy, his precarious reputation – everything – only to stop me from going under.
I should tell them to leave. My instinct is to shove the line back and front the damage alone. But the words die on my tongue.
I’ve spent my life trying to be the concrete slab that holds the house up. I never thought anyone would bother to hold me up.
My ledger doesn’t add up. I’ve done nothing for half these lads beyond yelling at their defensive drift, and here they stand, torching their own contracts for me. The whole equation is wrong.
They’re here for me.
The weight of it fucking levels me, driving my arse back down into the chair.
Then, against all logic, I laugh.
Coach Wallace stands up and glares at Stark. ‘Well, Nigel? Do you want to rethink this?’
Stark looks at the phone and the army in the doorway. He prices up the PR disaster, the refund requests, the empty stands. Then he puts the cap back on his pen. ‘Pending a formal review of the Integrity and Conduct report regarding Mr Neely,’ Stark’s voice is tight, ‘the suspension of Mr Kerr is lifted. Provisionally.’
‘Provisionally,’ Finn mocks. ‘Fine. We’ll take it.’
Coach Wallace walks around the table to my chair, grabs my hand, and hauls me to my feet. ‘You stubborn prick.’ He pulls me into a hug that nearly cracks two of my ribs. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Wasn’t my story to tell,’ I rasp into his shoulder.
