Chapter 11
Scottie
Nevin’s thumb presses into the hollow of Ava’s collarbone, and my hands strain with the urge to grab his shirt. You can’t lamp him. He’s your teammate.
MacKenzie Sporting banners are draped over nearly every surface. It’s early February, kick-off for the Six Nations, and the Sin she’s trapped by everything he’s taken from her.
The cost of my anger would be her safety. I can’t do that to her.
I can’t do anything unless she wants me to.
Every time he touches her – guiding, correcting, owning – the tendons in my forearms strain against the effort of staying still.
I down the rest of my Coke Zero in one go and set the bottle down with too much force.
I’ve taken shoulders to the torso at full sprint – my spine compressing and springing back – trusting the whistle to end the contact.
There’s consent in that sort of violence.
Limits. Penalty kicks awarded when someone crosses the line.
With Ava, Nevin doesn’t play by the rules.
There’s no Television Match Official reviewing the footage, no sin bin for the hold that leaves fingerprints. Only silence and closed doors.
This is erosion. A man dismantling a woman piece by piece.
My teeth are set so tight the tension radiates up through my temples. I need to leave. If I stay, I’ll smash his head on a table, and that will only make everything worse.
So I don’t say goodbye to anyone. I just walk, pushing through the wooden door into the February night. I suck cold air into my lungs, trying to cool the furnace in my chest. I turn left, away from the main road. Take the back streets toward our flat. Duncraig is quiet at this hour.
Good. I’ve had enough of people.
I walk until the noise fades a bit, and my pulse slows enough that I trust myself not to turn around. But my mind keeps racing with the question I asked and the answer she almost gave. The look in her eyes before Nevin appeared.
She was going to say something.
The not-knowing grinds at me. I have a searing, bone-deep hatred for the man who stole that moment. For every piece of her he’s ground down.
I roam the streets of Duncraig until my legs burn. An hour? Two?
She’s not yours. She’s not yours. She’s not—
My phone pings in my pocket. Then I see the preview. One word and my guts drop right into my shoes.
Marzipan:
Help