Chapter 7 #2
‘The tendon,’ she says quietly. ‘If I slip and fall on it wrong, I’m done. Not six weeks. Months. Maybe forever.’
She strips all the inflection from her voice, matter of fact, but I detect the edge underneath.
‘How bad is it, really? Your injury.’
‘Posterior tibial strain.’ She still hasn’t let go of my sleeve.
‘It’s the one that holds your arch up. Every time you point your foot, it takes the load.
Every relevé, every jump, every single thing I do for a living.
’ She exhales. ‘I landed wrong, and now I’m watching someone else rehearse my part while I’m doing physio. ’
‘Right.’ I crouch before I can talk myself out of it. ‘Hop on.’
Her hand drops from my sleeve. ‘What?’
‘Piggyback. I’ll carry you.’ I throw a look back over my shoulder. ‘I’m not letting you destroy your future. Unless you’d rather crawl to your car on your nipples for safety reasons?’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ I stay crouched. ‘You weigh about as much as one of my legs. Get on.’
‘Scottie, I’m not—’ She stops and bites her lip. Her gaze flicks to the frozen ground, then back to me.
‘I promise not to drop you.’
‘That’s not—’
‘And I’ll walk slowly. You’re allowed to steer, but no yeehaw.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ she mutters.
‘Your point?’
She lets out a sound that might be a laugh or a groan.
‘Ava,’ I say evenly. ‘Get on my bloody back.’
The resistance cracks, and she comes closer. Her hands land on my shoulders, light and hesitant. I feel the press of each finger through my jacket.
‘Ready?’ she asks.
‘Sure.’
‘Here I come.’ She jumps, a small hop, and I catch her thighs.
Her arms wind around my neck, and her weight rests against my back. I hook my arms under her thighs and grip the hollows of her knees to keep her in place.
‘Okay there?’ I straighten.
Her breath fans past my ear. ‘Define okay.’
‘Not falling.’
‘Then, technically, yes. Yeehaw?’
‘No.’
I start walking, picking my path across the ice, testing each step.
Her chin rests against my head, and all I can think is how right she feels held there.
She’s the lightest but also the heaviest thing I’ve ever held, because she’s lowered her guard a bit more and I want to deserve it. I want to deserve her trust.
The car park is silent except for the crunch of my trainers. I feel the heat of her legs, the puff of her breath against my neck.
In this moment I know, I’d carry her seven times around the globe if I had to.
‘You’re very warm,’ she says quietly.
‘It’s the mass,’ I tell her. ‘Takes a lot to freeze me solid.’
The sound of her chuckle travels down my spine and seeps deep into my marrow.
Every step I take shifts her against me, the soft press of her chest against my shoulder blades.
I’m carrying her across the black ice and pretending this is a favour between friends.
My body knows it’s a lie. The fierce, possessive need to keep walking and never put her down confirms it.
Jesus Christ. I’m getting into so much trouble.
I bring us to a halt by the car, and crouch again to let her slide off. She drops onto one foot, steadies herself against the car, and turns to face me.
‘Thanks. I mean it.’
‘Nae bother.’
‘Same time next week?’ she asks.
‘Aye. If the roads aren’t shite.’
‘They’re always shite.’
‘Then I guess I’ll be here.’
‘Bye, Bear.’ She unlocks the car, climbs into the driver’s seat, and pulls the door shut. The engine coughs, sputters, catches on the third try.
I watch her headlights flare. She waves and then she’s gone, lights disappearing into the night.
I stand there, rain soaking through my jacket, replaying the shape of those bruises in my head.
Nevin.
The narrative he spun in the changing room. The saint tending to his broken ballerina. Bullshit. All of it.
I walk to my car. Unlock it. Drop behind the wheel. The seat is cold. The windscreen fogs with my breath.
My phone goes off, and Nevin’s name lights up the screen.
Fuck’s sake?
I stare at it for two rings before answering.
‘Aye?’
‘Scottie. Quick one. Did you get the email about the Christmas party this Friday? Wallace is being a prick about the dress code. Do you think we have to wear black tie? It’s the Sin & Tonic, not The Balmoral.’
I death-grip my phone. ‘Don’t know, man. Have you asked Brodie?’
‘He didn’t pick up. Will try again.’ A pause. Static on the line. Then, almost casual: ‘You haven’t seen a Volvo on the road, have you? Old blue one? Ava’s not picking up. Said she was doing physio at the studio in Glasgow, but she should be back by now.’
The lie forms before I’ve decided to tell it. ‘Naw, mate. Haven’t seen a thing.’
Silence. I can hear him breathing. Weighing. ‘Right. Cheers.’
The line goes dead.
I sit in the dark, staring at the fogged windscreen.
I lied to my teammate to cover for a woman I’ve been secretly meeting at the cinema for four weeks.
I told him I hadn’t seen her when I’d just watched her drive away.
The words came out smooth. No stutter, no tell.
And that sickens me more than anything, because it means I’m capable of it when it matters enough.
Capable of becoming someone I don’t recognise
I’m an accomplice now. Whatever’s happening between them, I’m in on it. The fucking line has been crossed.