Page 73 of Blindsided By You

“Sorry, Jen. He got me riled, too. If you want to head out the side door past the ladies’ loos. I’ll double back through the change rooms. OK?”

With a nod, she slips away through the crowd, politely accepting a congratulatory hand on her shoulder from one supporter, offering a smile to another’s murmured words in her ear, before disappearing through the door where a hand-painted sign says ‘Lassies’. I make my way in the opposite direction.

“Not leaving already, man?” Brodie accosts me before I can escape.

“Nah, just left my phone in my locker. I’m on call tonight.” The second part of that statement is actually true.

“Fuck, really?” he scoffs. “Surely Sparky could give you the night off after the first game?”

“He’s got some dinner at his in-laws. Needs me to cover.”

“Ooh,” Brodie winces at the mention of Sparky’s mother-in-law. Nerida Hatfield, Deputy Head at Cluanie District High, is a scary lady none of us ever want to see again. “Rather him than you or me, eh?” Brodie says, giving a tight grin as I roll my eyes in knowing agreement, before edging past him.

Usually, I’m eager to leave a place when I know Jenna’s waiting for me at the next stop, but as I head towards the car park, weariness sets in, my body aching and drained, and it’s not only from the hammering I took at the hands of the Duncraig boys this afternoon.

Chapter 39

JENNA

Theearlyeveningaircools my flaming cheeks but does nothing to quench the fire smouldering inside. I stride towards the white van, the gravel of the carpark crunching under each furious step of my booted feet.

The bold lettering on the side—Bright Sparks Electrical Services—makes it obvious whose van I’m heading for, but no one’s around. Anyway, I’m beyond caring. Even if the whole damn crowd packed inside the clubrooms came spilling out to witness my meltdown, I wouldn’t flinch. I glare at the stupid cartoon lightbulb man on the side of the van. I’ve a violent urge to wipe the mocking, toothy grin off his face.

This is why I shouldn’t be with someone like Geordie. Adam was right—there’s some deep flaw inside of me, some lack—and he saw it in time to save himself. I tried to save Geordie too, back in that hotel room. We could have left it a fun one-night-stand and gone our separate ways in the morning. But he wanted more and, selfishly, I agreed.

Now this fucked-up friends with benefits arrangement has caused the outcome I wanted to avoid. Geordie thinks I’m embarrassed by him—that I’m like his father and all the others who’ve shone a spotlight on the things he lacks, rather than the qualities that make him so special. I’ve hurt a man who doesn’t deserve it, simply because I couldn’t do the right thing and walk away from him before we were both in too deep.

As my hand snatches at the door handle, there’s one beep, a click, and the vehicle unlocks. Determined footsteps echo behind me. I wrench the door open, clamber up into the high seat, and shut myself inside with a slam.

I suck in an enormous breath and exhale a sob. I willnotcry. I willnotcry. The second breath is even more of a failure. A single tear escapes. I swipe it aside with the sleeve of my jersey, as Geordie jerks open the driver’s door.

The van rocks as he hefts himself up into the seat. He fumbles the keys with a clatter and then, finding the ignition, fires up the engine. He jiggles the gear lever into reverse and the vehicle shoots backwards.

“Geordie, what are you doing?” I snap, and he brakes hard.

With unnerving calm, he swivels his head toward me. “I’m not going to sit here and fight with you in the rugby club car park, Jenna.”

“Fighting? Is that what this is?” I stare him down.

The quiet anger simmering in my chest boils over. I hear the snark in my voice and hate that he’s right: I am spoiling for a fight.

“I don’t know. Are we fighting?” His tone of disinterest riles me. I see his eyes, dimmed to the same blue-grey as the cloudy evening sky above us, offering a steady challenge and I leap to meet it.

“Yes, we bloody are,” I bark. “Now drive the damn van.”

“Thought so,” he says, releasing the brake.

Until this afternoon, I had my escape route mapped: November would come, I’d leave, and distance would naturally dissolve whatever we had. Our secret would remain a pleasant memory while Geordie built his new life here with his rugby, his mates—and eventually, someone else in his bed.

But a few hours ago, in one delusional moment, I let myself imagine rewriting our story—giving us the romance-novel happily ever after. After all, that’s how it works in books, isn’t it? Girl returns to hometown. Meets the guy from her past. They fall in love. She stays.

Except in real life, someone pays a price. Geordie gets the girl but loses what he loves most: his rugby. Our epilogue becomes a life where resentment for what he sacrificed festers between us. Where he wakes up one day and realises he’s tied himself to a place and a person and I was never worth the price.

A blazing argument—that’s my way out. Clean. Final. Geordie will hurt, then heal, then forget. But something deep in my gut twists at the thought of burning this bridge, of watching everything turn to ash in the space of one brutal fight.

He manoeuvres the van between tightly clustered rows of cars, out into the dark streets, before turning into the road leading to the top of Bourke’s Hill. It winds upwards, the scraggly bushes of the lower slopes giving way to larger trees and dense undergrowth.

The path bordering it, although steep, is popular with runners looking for an alternative to the flat, boring grid of streets that crisscross Cluanie. The car park, a wide area at the top, overlooking the town, is popular for other reasons. However, it’s too early forteenagers making out in cars. Ours is the only vehicle parked up tonight.

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