Chapter 5
Scottie
Duncraig in November is less of a pitch and more of a punishment.
The rain slashes the turf. Underfoot, it’s soup.
Overhead, the floodlights turn the downpour into static.
A thousand silver needles blurring the stands until the only things left in the world are the mud, the cold, and the man I’m about to put into the dirt.
I hit the ruck low, square to the gate, and drive through with my shoulder. The impact shudders up my spine. Two bodies fold around me. I clear them both, create the space, and the ball spills back to Brodie. He takes two strides; sidesteps like he’s made of smoke.
Coach Wallace’s whistle cuts through the rain. ‘Good! Reset. Forwards, tighter on the bind. Kerr, solid work.’
Two words. Solid work. The participation trophy of compliments.
I straighten up with mud caked to my thighs. It’s cold enough that my lungs burn when I breathe deep. A standard Scottish November. The weather that separates the lads who want it from the lads who don’t.
The heated hybrid turf at the city stadium feels like a fever dream. I spent three years in the Academy dreaming of that pitch, then one breakout season playing on it. Now I’m back to mud and spite in Duncraig, playing for a franchise that didn’t even exist a year ago.
Finn jogs past, pink hair plastered to his head, a wet tangle of candy floss. ‘State of you. Look like a hairy coo.’
‘And you still look like a flamingo fucked a traffic cone. Jog on, ya bawbag.’
‘Love you too.’ He slaps my arse without breaking stride.
I shake my head, laughing.
Brodie hasn’t said a word in fifteen minutes.
He stands at the edge of the ruck, arms folded.
The others reset without a peep. Brodie’s jaw is set like granite, but his eyes are somewhere else entirely.
Somewhere that hurts. That man needs to sort his emotions out.
But maybe that’s why he’s so stellar on the pitch – because that’s where he’s channelling it.
We all do, I reckon.
The session grinds on. I make the hit that frees the winger.
Absorb the contact. The thing about not being the centre of attention is that you get very good at watching.
Tracking the lads is second nature. Brodie barking at the forwards, ice on his back between sets.
Jamie scrolling his phone near the touchline, probably checking the Sin & Tonic drinks list. Finn is winding up the scrum coach with some fanboy stuff about Taylor Swift.
Jamie catches my eye and lifts his chin.
A single, wordless nod that says good shift, big man.
I return it. We’ve never spoken more than thirty consecutive words off the pitch, but in a ruck, he’s the first body I feel arriving at my shoulder.
Always. Connor’s the same. Clueless with words, relentless with actions.
The pack looks after its own. That’s the covenant.
You bleed for the man next to you, and you trust he’ll bleed for you.
And then there’s Nevin. Our hooker.
He’s on the far side of the pitch, working through his line-out throws.
Textbook form. The picture of focus. He moves with that private school polish.
Shoulders back, chin up, like he expects the world to rearrange itself around him.
I’ve shared a changing room with the man for half a season.
We’re not close by any stretch of the imagination, but we’re teammates. That means something.
Or it should.
Wallace blows the final whistle. ‘Inside, lads. Get warm.’
My boots squelch on the grass as I trudge toward the tunnel.
The sallow light of the changing room bleeds through the door at the far end.
I should be running plays in my head, analysing my performance.
Instead, I’m thinking about a girl in a red scarf with a laugh that sounds as if she’s kept it in storage.
The changing room hits like a wall. Steam, sweat, and the thick reek of body spray and Tiger Balm fighting a losing battle against the raw, earthy stench of twenty men who’ve spent hours in the dirt. Someone’s blasting The Kidney Flowers from a tinny speaker.
Connor’s boots slap past, leaving peat-prints. Jamie shakes water from his scrum cap and hangs it on the peg. I peel off my shirt and wring brown water onto the tiles. Finn’s already stripped to his Gucci boxer briefs, towel slung over one shoulder, admiring his tattooed self in the fogged mirror.
‘Oi, Lennox.’ Jamie lobs a sock at his head. ‘Stop shagging your own reflection. It’s hard to watch.’
‘You mean you get hard watching.’ Finn catches the sock. He’s a phenomenal flanker and a colossal pain in the arse. ‘Don’t be jealous. Green’s an ugly colour on all of you. Why do I have to repeat myself?’
‘Not as ugly as your Barbie hair,’ Connor throws in.
‘This gorgeous pink?’ Finn runs a hand through his strands. ‘Iconic. You just have no sense of style, Duffy.’
‘And if you had dynamite for brains you wouldn’t have enough to blow your nose.’ Connor’s trying, but he’s no match for Finn.
‘Looks like my late gran’s rinse,’ Brodie grumbles, face set in its usual scowl.
Finn winks. ‘Your gran had taste, then.’
‘And your gran sells crumpets.’
‘That’s the best shite talk you’ve got, MacRae?’ Finn shakes his head. ‘What’s next – “Yer da paints flags on roundabouts”?’
I grunt non-committedly and shove my kit into my bag. Their familiar banter washes over me. This is the part I’m at ease with. Listening. Laughing at the right moments.
Jamie swipes through his phone. ‘Sin & Tonic tonight? Gwen’s posted about two-for-one cocktails.’
It’s a bit of a shitehole, but it’s the only pub in Duncraig village, where the club has most of us put up.
‘Gwen?’ Finn perks up.
‘The new owner,’ Jamie says coolly.
‘What’s the story there?’ Connor pokes. ‘Do you fancy her?’
‘There’s no story, you absolute fucktard.’ Jamie takes a swig of water, pretending to be unfazed, which is his standard mode.
I’ve never seen him actively fazed.
‘Ah! So you’re finally getting pumped?’ Connor slaps a palm against his hairy chest. ‘An early Christmas miracle.’
‘Piss off and stub your toe.’ Jamie takes his kit off. ‘Coming, Scottie?’
I hesitate. Friday night. The lads. There’s no match for us this weekend, and I could use a pint. ‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe means aye in Scottish, so you’re in.’ Finn kicks his briefs into the bottom of his locker and wraps a towel around his middle. ‘MacRae?’
Brodie grunts. ‘Naw.’
‘Poor old Captain Misery.’ Finn swings his washbag in a lazy circle as he backs toward the showers. ‘Who pissed in your protein shake?’
Brodie’s neck goes corded, the muscles bunching up to take the impact of a scrum that isn’t there.
He doesn’t answer. The whole room knows why.
His monumental fight with Charlie in South Africa five weeks ago.
One minute, they were all secretly lovey-dovey, the next it’s all the Silence of the Lambs.
I guess that’s what happens when you mix business with pleasure and neither of you knows how to back down.
But what do I know about love?
I lost my virginity five years ago in a Glasgow pub bog with the drummer of some punk band.
Didn’t tell her it was my first time, but she didn’t seem to notice the fumbling.
It’s been mostly casual bits and pieces since then.
Nothing serious. Definitely nothing that’d turn me into a seething headcase like Brodie.
And sweet FA since I joined the Rebels earlier this year.
Nevin strolls in from the shower, towel around his hips, steam rising off his shoulders. He’s got that air about him. The one where he knows everyone’s watching, and he’s decided to let them.
‘Lads.’ He nods and drops onto the bench opposite me. ‘Right then, what are you up to?’
‘Sin & Tonic,’ Jamie says. ‘You in?’
Nevin exhales with a weary sigh. ‘Can’t, mate.’ He rubs his jaw. ‘Ava’s not doing great.’
Ah, so he’s asked about tonight as a prompt to complain. Dick move.
Finn raises an eyebrow. ‘Your girlfriend?’
‘Aye. She’s injured her foot during rehearsals for The Nutcracker.’ Nevin checks his reflection in the mirror behind Finn. ‘Some tendon thing.’
Finn pauses in his hairstyling. ‘That the ballet she’s in?’
‘She was.’ Nevin’s second sigh is laced with irritation. ‘She’s in fucking bits over it. Reckons they’re trying to push her out and replace her for good.’
Connor exchanges a confused look with Jamie.
‘Total paranoia, obviously.’ Nevin turns back to us.
‘But she’s losing it. She’s a glass doll right now.
Terrified she’ll shatter if she moves wrong.
Won’t even eat properly because of all that stress.
Walking on eggshells around her doesn’t even cover it.
I feel like I’m her therapist half the time.
It’s draining, but…the things you do for love, am I right? ’
‘My sister did ballet,’ Connor says. ‘That stuff’s tough, man.’
Nevin ignores him. ‘Her anxiety is through the roof.’ But then his bravado falters for half a beat. ‘Not sure what to do. My sister had a depressive episode at uni, and I missed it.’ His mouth pulls into a bloodless line.
Connor rubs the back of his neck, looking like he’d rather be discussing foot fungus or haemorrhoids. ‘Sounds…heavy, mate.’
‘It is what it is. Someone’s got to look after the broken ballerina.’
I grip the bench until the wood bites my palm.
Glass doll. Broken ballerina.
The image doesn’t fit. It doesn’t fucking fit at all.
The woman I sat next to in that cinema demolished a bucket of popcorn with the ferocity of someone who’d missed three meals. She cracked jokes and had a laugh that sounded rusty, sure, but real. Alive. Even in the dim light, there was a fire in her eyes that could burn a house down.
‘Hardest athletic discipline on earth,’ she said. ‘Don’t let the tulle fool you.’
And now Nevin’s calling her a glass doll?
Won’t even eat properly because of all that stress.
She ate awright. Oh, she definitely ate.
‘Ava barely speaks anymore,’ Nevin adds, towelling off his chest. ‘Just sits there. Stares at the wall. I try to get through, but…’ He trails off and shrugs. ‘Can’t seem to do it right. It’s bloody frustrating. Women, eh?’
I think about the finger to her lips. The silent plea.
My mum used to go quiet. Before Dad’s stroke, back when the bottles lined up under the sink and the house held its breath every evening.
She’d speak in monosyllables, staring at the telly without seeing it.
I picked up the signs before I could read a defensive line: Mum’s breathing going shallow, shoulders creeping up a beat before Dad’s voice changed pitch.
We all learned to read the silences, my siblings and me.
Learned that quiet didn’t mean peace. It was the fuse burning down before the explosion.
I’m not saying it’s the same. I don’t know Ava. I’ve met her twice in person, sat next to her once in the dark, traded jokes, and watched her devour popcorn. That’s nothing. God knows what’s really going on here.
But she’s not broken.
And Nevin’s a liar.
‘Anyway.’ He slips into his trackies. ‘Have fun, lads.’
‘Sure.’ Finn salutes with his phone, which is Finn-speak for bolt, ya rocket.
Nevin heads for the car park, and the room exhales.
The patter resumes. I don’t hear any of it.
Because it doesn’t add up. The woman Nevin’s describing and the woman I met at The Wallace don’t match.
Maybe she was putting on a front. Maybe Tuesday nights are her good nights, and the rest of the week she really does stare at walls for some reason.
Hell, I’d stare at a wall if the alternative was Nevin’s arrogant mug.
But the way Nevin said exhausting. He doesn’t appear tired. He’s fresh as a damn daisy. I want to believe I’m reaching. But the itch between my shoulder blades says I’m not.
‘Scottie?’ Jamie’s voice cuts through. ‘What about you?’
I grab my bag. The noise of the room presses in, all that heat and laughter and bodies, and suddenly I can hardly breathe. ‘Naw. Not tonight.’
Finn groans. ‘Pal, you’re turning into a hermit. One pint. Or milk and a biccie, if you’re feeling fragile.’
‘Next time.’ I sling the bag over my shoulder. ‘Need an early one.’
It’s a lie. I don’t need sleep. I need to figure out why Nevin’s voice is playing on a loop in my brain. I grab my gear and move, dodging the last of the patter from the forwards before anyone can snag me for another conversation I don’t want to have.
I’m crap at dishonesty. Always have been. If you can’t look a man in the eye and tell him the truth, you’ve no business being in his pack. That’s the rule. You show up, you front it, and you deal with whatever lands. Anything else is cowardice dressed in convenience.
The car park is dark and wet. I unlock the Audi, slide into the driver’s seat, and…sit there.
Next Tuesday at The Wallace Picture House will be Snow Way Out. Another lame Christmas romance with a predictable ending in the company of a confusing woman who might or might not show up. I shouldn’t care. I’ve got enough on my plate without borrowing someone else’s problems.
But I keep seeing her. How she asked if she could sit next to me, as though she needed permission to exist.
I’ll be there next Tuesday.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I dig it out, expecting Finn with some shite about me being a hermit again. He’s slowed down with his shagging and partying recently. And he’s my best mate. But he’s still a gobshite sometimes.
It’s Mum.
David’s chair is playing up. The wheel’s sticking and we can’t get it sorted. Any chance you could come Tuesday? He’s at the GP Wednesday morning, and we need it working by then. xx
I stare at the screen. The glow burns my eyes in the dark of the car. Tuesday. Of course, it’s Tuesday. The universe has a sick sense of humour.
I could say no and tell my mum I’ve got plans. She’d probably understand. But she’s spent twenty years understanding, making space, asking for nothing.
If I go to Oban on Tuesday after a half-day of training, I’d miss the cinema. I’d miss…her.
And I don’t even know why that matters. Only that it does. The way she asked permission to sit beside me… Nobody asks like that unless they’ve forgotten what it feels like to take up space. And that’s not okay. She’s not okay. Clear as day. And the mere fact of knowing that makes it my problem.
And I’ve no idea what to do.