Page 71 of Blindsided By You

His lips move; one word, a secret mantra, none of us can know for fear it might spoil the spell. Then his mouth curves up in the slightest of smiles. There’s no doubt who he’s imitating; his hero, McKenzie, the Kiwi kicker with the Scottish name. I swear Brandon’s got the potential to be that famous if he decided to take one of the offers dangled in front of him; but that would mean leaving Skylar and he won’t do it.

For the first time I get it; how caring for someone might bind you to a place. These last weeks it’s happened to me, too. What was an impulsive decision to spend some time in Cluanie, taking stock, making a plan for where to next, has morphed into something else.

The wanderlust has stilled. The restless need to be anywhere but Cluanie—the force that once drove me away—has faded, replaced by a quiet certainty. I belong here. With these men, my friends. And with her.

She calls us friends, insists that’s all we are, but I know better. There are layers beneath her relaxed exterior, hidden things she won’t admit. I’ve been patient, careful, waiting. But every week, it gets harder. Sometimes, I want to break from this defensive line I’ve held for too long and charge straight through her guards like I did against the Duncraig men today—no more sidesteps, no more tactical plays—just raw momentum and determination. I want to wrap my arms around her walls and drag them down, force her to see what’s been right in front of her all along. In rugby, you can’t score if you never cross the line. It’s time I stopped playing it safe in the backfield of her life.

As the crowd hushes in reverence for the kicker, I look towards her. Unlike every other person, Jenna’s eyes are still locked on me, until the thump of Brandon’s boot drags our attention away from each other and we turn to watch the ball sail through the air with absolute certainty of its destination.

The hometown crowd roars in triumph and my eyes flick back to Jenna’s, drinking in her adoration for a moment, before a crush of players descends on me, in a whirl of back-slapping and rough hugs.

Chapter 38

GEORDIE

Freshfromthebestshower of my life, I step into the clubrooms and a wall of heat hits me. Beer and sweat hang thick in the air. The place is packed. Our supporters are raucous, jubilant at our hard-fought win. They shout good-naturedly across tables, against the backdrop of clinking glasses and the scrape of chairs on the old wooden floors. It all but drowns out the 80s rock music playing in the background.

Everyone’s talking a bit louder, laughing a bit harder. The special buzz that only comes with a win runs like an electric current through the room. The bar is three deep. As one person peels away, pint and pie in hand, another takes their place.

I spot Grant Darby over by the trophy cabinet, as if the County Cup is already there, and he’s guarding it. He’s a proud president in his Cluanie blue blazer surrounded by a few of his committee and some unhappy Duncraig officials in their own colour of emerald green. His weapon of choice, Robbie Sharpe, stands at his elbow, glass of water in hand, but a satisfied glow like he’s already downed a couple of whiskies.

I scan the mass of bodies, but Jenna is nowhere in sight. As Coach’s daughter, she’s probably buried in some group of locals receiving congratulations on his behalf. The thought of some beefy farm boy or scruffy tradesman taking the opportunity for a hug; arms that aren’t mine around her, other hands on her perfect waist—fuck, maybe even chancing a sly peck on her cheek—ignites jealous anger in my veins.

I take a place at the leaner, breathing in the familiar smell of freshly-washed bodies, with a faint overlay of liniment, finding it soothing. Brodie, Nathan, and Fraser are propped against it, each with a beer already in front them.

“What’s this then?” I frown as Nathan raises his bottle of Stella and takes a long swig. “Feeling cocky after the win?”

“You didn’t hear?” he replies, thumping the bottle onto the table. “Two each, lads. But no more.” He delivers the words in perfect imitation of Coach’s rasping tone, including a passable Scottish accent, and his face contorted into the growling expression we know so well.

We all howl with laughter, like we’re once more a bunch of cheeky high school boys mocking Mr Carswell, our old maths teacher, behind his back.

“But he didn’t say two of what.” Connor shoulders his way between us, sliding a pale gold pint of Tennent’s lager in front of me, and placing two others on the leaner. “If we’re allowed a beer, might as well make it a decent one, eh? No knocking back pissy little bottles of Belgian crap.” He scowls at Nathan’s drink of choice. “We’ll never make a Scotsman out of you, till you learn how to drink, man.”

“You’re really saying that to a guy who can make a damn fine Scotch whisky?” Brodie leaps in todefend the Kiwi boy.

“Now we’re talking,” Fraser says, draining his pint glass. “If Coach didn’t specifically say we can’t.”

“No fucking whisky,” Connor warns. “Or at least save it for when we sneak over to the Railway after this.”

“Sooner the better,” Nathan suggests. “At least they have a MacFarlane’s on the shelf and I won’t have to drink this pissy Belgian crap.” He chortles, unfazed by the winding up by his teammates.

“I’ll stick to my Tennent’s, thanks.” Kyle Stewart sidles in next to Nathan. “We may have won a game, but we’ve got a bloody great mountain to climb in the morning, lads.”

I groan inwardly. Every muscle in my body aches. I’ve got too many bruises to count and a massive grass burn on my side where my jersey rode up as I dived for the try—not that I’d have chosen to do anything less but slide across that ground and press the ball over the white-painted line. The only workout I’m up for after today’s pummelling is with a certain beautiful woman. Maybe tonight, given my last-minute heroics on the field, I could convince her to stay over. Even so, I’d have to haul arse out of bed early in the morning, and leave her behind, tucked up in my sheets. I can’t let the guys down, but the thought of trekking up a mountain is the last thing I feel like.

“Shit,” Brodie says, his mouth terse, “I’d forgotten about that. Tell me again, why the fuck we’re doing it tomorrow? After a big game? Wasn’t the smartest idea, was it?”

Fraser leaps in. “Because, mate, you and the rest of us all bragged about knocking off a Munro, and Cap here”—he says with a nod towards Connor, who’s looking a little embarrassed—“who has been kind enough to offer to take us so we don’tfall off the side of the fucking mountain, has to put his paying clients ahead of dumb bastards like you and me.”

We’ve delayed this trip twice. Connor, a cousin to the famous ‘kilted climber’ himself, Callum MacFarlane, has the mountains in his blood. He mixes his work on the Murray family farm with guiding for a local tour company, taking hikers who fancy bagging a Munro to the top of mountains. None of us would deny the man income to take a group of his teammates up Beinn Greannach so we can claim we’re true Scots who’ve bested a mountain.

“Toughen up Brodie,” I snort. “Besides, it’s no man left behind, right, Connor? So one way or another, we’ll make sure you get back down, though I can’t say I’d want to carry you.”

“We can always stretcher the pathetic bastard,” Connor says with a grin. He volunteers for the mountain rescue too, so if anyone can work out how to get an incapacitated bloke off a mountain, it’s him.

I sense Jenna’s approach before I see her, the tropical fragrance so feminine, its delicate floral note distinctive amongst the manly odours surrounding me. She slides into the gap between Nathan and me, and I don’t move to widen it, grateful for the warm press of her body close, even if it is clothed in layers I’d rather weren’t there.

“Made your dad a happy man today,” Fraser says, grinning at her. “No disrespect, but he’s not an easy man to please, so it’s extra sweet.”

---