Chapter 10 #2
I lift my water glass, take a sip, and set it down.
A warning bell rings in my head. De-escalate.
Fade. But the ‘coat rack’ comment is a splinter I can’t work out.
It’s not so much the insult to the discipline.
It’s the reduction. To him, I’m an anecdote.
Or decorative. A prop in his life, not a person. Like an Italian espresso machine.
He is five whiskies deep, and his reaction time is slowed. I have a window to strike.
‘Good thing Nevin is so patient. Not everyone could date a woman who has a professional career on an international stage.’ There.
A flash of the Ava I used to be. The one who argued back.
‘And it’s not like he is a doctor, either.
Only a bloke with a ball. And playing locally.
So he has enough energy left to manage me. I’m a lucky, lucky girl.’
Nevin’s grin hardens. The micro-expression is there and gone, a flicker of surprise that I’ve dared to bite back in public. Although his whisky-brain can’t really comprehend what I said. The retort was wrapped in enough self-deprecation to pass as a joke. He probably won’t remember it.
I hope to God he doesn’t.
I rise. Every movement is calibrated for control. Not for a second do I wobble. ‘Excuse me, I’m going to freshen up.’
Someone asks Nevin about the upcoming match, and he launches into an analysis of Edinburgh’s scrummaging. He doesn’t even look as I slide my chair back.
I walk with my spine straight. Ballet dancers don’t run.
I navigate the minefield of chairs and trailing gowns, push through the oak doors, and keep going.
The corridor is cold stone and dim lighting, ancient castle walls that have seen centuries of people fleeing dinners they couldn’t stomach.
I find a recessed window and splay my palms against the cold rock.
My breathing is a shallow, rapid pattern that precedes panic if I don’t get it under control.
In for four. Hold. Out for four.
Slow footsteps echo behind me.
Please don’t let it be Nevin. God, please. Why have I said all that?
‘Wrong turn or are you looking for the ghost of Mary Queen of Scots?’ It’s Scottie’s voice.
Thank you, universe.
My lungs stop fighting me. It’s infuriating how fast my brain drops the panic simply because he is standing there. I focus on the grey mortar and hide the sigh of relief.
‘I needed a bit of air.’
‘Aye. Air’s important for an oxygen-dependent species.’ He leans against the opposite wall. He doesn’t wear his too-tight jacket anymore, his sleeves are rolled up.
His presence is grounding, a fixed point in a room that won’t stop spinning.
I look up. He is leaning casually, but his wide forearms are locked in place.
They’re thick and corded. I track the raised veins and the copper hair on his skin, scars on muscles that come from moving men against their will. Controlled fury.
How much did he hear?
‘Really, I’m fine.’ My voice breaks on the last word, making me sound as tiny as I feel.
Scottie stands there, solid as the stone around us. ‘You’re allowed to not be fine. You know that, aye?’
Hot tears gather in the corners of my eyes. ‘It’s…a lot. Tonight… Och, everything is just… But I’m fine, really.’
‘Ava.’ My name in his voice is a full stop. ‘You’re not fucking fine.’
The composure I’ve maintained for months is fracturing, and I can’t stop it. I curl inward, my shoulders dropping.
Scottie gives me every chance to pull away, to tell him to leave.
I don’t.
His hand rises, hovers near my face as if asking permission. Then his thumb brushes my cheekbone, his palm settles along my jaw, and his vast warmth is seeping through me.
‘You don’t have to be fine.’ His voice is husky and deep. ‘Not with me.’
My eyes fall shut, and I lean into the solidity of his palm without meaning to, hungry for stillness, for shelter, for the safety of being seen without being judged.
For him.
‘I’m here. I’m always here. You can talk to me if you want to. Or not. Won’t change a fucking thing. I’ll still be here. Always.’ He catches a stray tear with his thumb.
Then I’m in his arms.
I don’t even remember moving. Don’t remember deciding.
But my face is pressed into his chest, my fingers clutch the fabric of his shirt, and his arms are wrapped around me.
I melt against the wall that is his body.
He doesn’t pull me closer just for the sake of proving he can.
He stands there, leaving it up to me when to let go.
I press my face harder into the cotton of his shirt. I could fall apart here, and he wouldn’t shift an inch.
For the first time in ages, I feel held instead of handled.
His hand moves to my hair, strokes it, slow and soothing. His heart drums beneath my cheek, and the pain I’ve kept shoving down suddenly breaks free with a whimper.
He absorbs my shudder, holding tighter instead of pulling away.
And then all that’s left is the reality of being so close to him. How perfectly we fit together. The safety of his arms blurs and I feel his raw strength. His muscles. His hardness.
I want his mouth on mine. His weight on me. I want to know what sound he makes when he stops holding back.
Oh god. I want him.
The truth doesn’t knock; it kicks the door in. I want the man who knows how to be a wall without becoming a cage. I’m wrapped in the arms of a man who isn’t my boyfriend. The arms of his teammate. His brother on the pitch.
And the only thought in my head is: Closer. More. Scottie.
I don’t know how long we stay there. I count his heartbeats against my face, memorise the feeling of safety so I can carry it with me when I have to let go.
Then I pull back, and his arms release immediately, no demand in his posture. ‘Thank you, Bear.’
He doesn’t speak. But the softness around his eyes tells me he understands everything I can’t say out loud.
He is incredible. Too good to be true.
And yet here he is. Right in front of me.
I smooth down my dress, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, reassemble myself one piece at a time. The mask feels heavy now, an iron weight I have to lift back into place. ‘I-I should go back.’
‘That would probably be wise.’
I turn toward the corridor, the gala, the table where Nevin is waiting. My feet carry me forward through the long corridor.
Voices and laughter bleed through the walls as I approach the Great Hall.
What does it mean, this pull toward him? Why does it feel like I’m constantly tilting in his direction?
You know why.
If I name this, if I admit that I’m counting the days until I see him again, he’ll look at me the way men always look when you show them too much too soon. He’ll retreat. And I wouldn’t survive that. Our friendship would be over and I… No.
I step through the archway.
‘There she is!’ Nevin’s voice booms across the table. He is proper off his rocker.
I smile and let him pull me back into the candlelight, the laughter, the cage I’ve built from silence and endurance.
But my skin burns where Scottie touched me.