Page 72 of Blindsided By You

She laughs. “Tell me about it. You only have him for your coach. Imagine what it’s like being his daughter.”

“Pretty tough, I’d say,” Fraser replies. “Can’t be easy keeping on his good side.”

A dirty smirk splits Kyle’s face. “Especially when he finds out you’re spending time with this one here.” He grinsat me. Jenna stiffens as if she’s paralysed by an electric shock. I give Kyle a ‘what the fuck?’ glare and then turn my face to hers. It’s masked with a polite smile, as she pretends to ignore the remark and continues to focus on Fraser.

“Well, after that performance out there today, I think you’re safely in his good books,” she says a little too brightly to Fraser, who pipped Brandon for man of the match with his relentless defence.

“MacDonald here has to be, too, after that last try,” Kyle interjects, luring the focus back onto me. “Reckon he deserves to get lucky tonight, eh?” he says with a suggestive wink at Jenna.

She brushes Kyle off like he’s an annoying midgie flitting around on a summer evening, not worthy of her attention. She keeps her face focused on Fraser.

“How you kept your cool after that disallowed try, I have no idea. Up in the stands we were all ready to storm the pitch and sort out the ref ourselves.”

I’m torn. Part of me wants to grab Kyle by the collar and throttle the bastard; while the sensible, rational part argues I do as Jenna is doing right now—ignore him and not give his filthy suggestions any oxygen in the hope they’ll die down.

“Anyway, I think I’ll go get a drink,” she says, turning on that mega-watt smile, although I’m guessing, like me, she’s fuming on the inside. I let her walk away. As the conversation returns to a post-mortem of the game, I slip out of the group after her.

The scrum of people gathered in the bar area works in my favour. I intercept her before she’s made it to the bar, inserting myself into her path. She goes to step around me, and I block her. She changes direction with the agility of an outside centre under the pressure of a defender, but I’m faster.

She halts with a disgruntled huff, arms crossed, her chin tipping in an aggressive question.

“What?” she says, eyes flashing. She has every right to be mad, but her anger is based on an untrue assumption, and I intend to put her straight.

“I didn’t tell them,” I grind out. I want to add ‘And so what if I did?’ I’m over all this secretive shit. Yes, it’s best for both of us if her father doesn’t know; but the guys, for all their winding, would never dob us in, not even fucking Kyle. He might be a right royal arsehole at times, but he’s still a mate of sorts, and mates don’t do that.

We no longer have to worry about Rachel. She’s agreed to leave us to sort this on our own timeline. I’m sure Mum suspects and, of course, these guys in the team must see it, too.

The ugly thought that’s been whispering in my ear this past week, now pushes itself forward, insistent:It’s not just about her father. She’s ashamed of people knowing she’s with you.And with it a question:Is she ashamed of you?

Yeah, I know I’m not the greatest catch, not for a girl like her: university educated, a professional, a career woman, but she’s no snob. You can take the girl out of Cluanie but you can’t take Cluanie out of the girl. Like my sister, there’s a lot of the down-to-earth, small town attitude still there, and so I don’t think she’d be wowed by a man with slick clothes or a flashy car—but this smart and successful woman is no doubt looking for an intellectual equal. She deserves one, too. Guess she thought she’d found it in that arsehole, Adam.

I’m definitely not like him, not only in the way I cherish her, and would never hurt her; but also the man the world sees is very different. No fancy suit, no Porsche in the driveway, no framed paper proclaiming my academic success.

Surely Jenna understands a person with practical skills can still be intelligent? Her father is the perfect example. Surely she knows a man can be successful without flaunting it like a big badge for the world to see? Or maybe she doesn’t.

I’ve proved myself no slouch—topped my trade school class. And there’s no doubt in my mind I’ve been successful: held positions of responsibility on the rigs, trusted with expensive equipment and the lives of men in a dangerous and sometimes unpredictable environment, and damn it there’s a whopping few hundred thousand pound bank balance sitting there to prove my worth in monetary terms. However, Jenna doesn’t know any of those things.

The only place she has seen me succeed is on the rugby field. Fine—I’ve proven I have other talents too, reading her every murmur and movement in bed. If she let me, I’d be just as successful at something more important—caring for her, loving her the way I want to.

But these are the only sides of me she knows, and I can’t shake off the nagging voice. Even though hearing her confirm it would break me, I have to ask.

“Jenna, tell me, what’s the big problem with the guys knowing? Are you ashamed of me? Ashamed to be seen with me?”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“What? No!” she hisses.

Her forehead creases, the little divot that’s even faintly there when she’s asleep now deepening. I want to stretch out my thumb and smooth it away, but now’s not the time. From the flare of fire in those brown eyes, Jenna is seriously pissed off; and this time it’s with me.

“We need to talk.”

The words a man never wants to hear from the mouth of an angry woman. They come out as a steely command, a tone I’ve never heard her direct at me. It’s the business-like voice I’ve heard her use on the phone. It’s the voice with which she wrangles difficult clients and pushy sports agents. Just as they don’t argue back against the force of her words, neither do I.

“I think we do,” I agree. “Van’s outside. Unless you’re worried it’s too conspicuous. Someone might see.”

I hate myself for the sarcastic note, but her apparent indifference to Kyle’s words, like a silent protest against their truth, tears at my gut. The day was always going to come when someone would find out. For chrissakes this is Cluanie. Why couldn’t we just laugh it off, accept a bit of good-natured shit from the boys and move into a new normal?

This is not that normal. If the look on her face is anything to go by, normal might be nothing at all. Finished before we’ve barely started. The thought punches me in the chest, and reeling from the blow, I swallow and try again.

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