Chapter 20 #2
I’ve no idea what he’s on about, but I trust him like I’ve never trusted anybody. ‘I’m driving this time. You’ve done enough, big Bear.’
It takes about seven minutes to get there. Scottie refuses to let me use the phone to navigate. He’s giving me verbal directions, because he wants it to be ‘a surprise’.
The venue is a converted warehouse on the industrial estate.
AxeVenture Bar, a sign announces in blocky letters.
They’ve gone hard on the urban lumberjack aesthetic in this pub: stripped concrete floors, exposed brick, rustic tables and benches, and a grid of wire separating the lanes where people hurl steel at scarred timber targets.
‘Axe throwing, Scott Kerr? You’re joking.’
‘I never joke about axes.’
An attendant gives us two hatchets and points to a lane.
The targets are cross-sections of tree trunks, bullseyes painted in red, blue, and white.
Around us, only a few other lanes are occupied by people on lunch breaks or team-building exercises.
It’s a Monday before noon, whoever is throwing axes right now has a purpose.
Scottie gives me a demonstration. Feet shoulder-width, axe above the head.
‘Throw with the whole body, not the arm.’ He plants his feet wide, and the denim pulls tight across his thighs.
His muscles bunch, a base of pure power. I forget the axe until he throws, and the blade thunks home, dead centre. He’s oozing wild warrior energy. Knowing firsthand how he treats me with the same fierceness in bed, my core gives a very appreciative tug.
Oh, I’m so on board with this vibe.
‘Your turn, Marzipan.’ He grins and winks.
I clutch the handle. It’s weightier than expected, and the wood is rougher than any barre I’ve ever held. I copy his stance, mostly. Then I swing and release. The hatchet bounces off the target with a sad clatter. I’ve had more graceful face-plants in rehearsal.
‘Stop being a dancer,’ Scottie says.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re too poised. Too…controlled. This isn’t about precision.’ He steps behind me.
His broad hands lock onto my waist. Denim does nothing to block his heat, and I forget all about the sharp axe I’m holding.
He crowds in close. ’You’re so beautiful when you play with dangerous stuff.’
‘What kind of dangerous stuff is that?’
‘Oh, you know.’
His hard ridge settles against me, and rational thought flatlines. I tip back into him, and he sucks in a harsh drag of air that sends a wave of fire straight between my thighs.
‘Careful, Ava,’ he drawls against the shell of my ear, ‘or the hatchet isn’t the only thing that buries itself dead centre.’
I let out a snorty laugh.
‘Now stop holding tension in your core. Stop thinking about lines. Feel where you want the blade to go. Then hurl the bastard.’
‘Where do I want the blade to go?’
‘Wherever makes you feel better.’ He plants a slow kiss against the curve of my shoulder and squeezes my waist once. Then he moves back and gives me the room I need.
I fixate the painted circles until they blur into Nevin’s face. The caption. #SpeakingMyTruth. The months I spent shrinking myself to fit his world, to become furniture.
I thrust my arm and let go. The axe rotates once, twice, and bites into the wood in a spray of splinters. Not the bullseye, but close.
‘Good form,’ Scottie says.
I heave the steel again. Harder this time.
But muscle memory is a bitch. Dancers spend decades to forge their bodies into tools of perfection.
My limbs want to extend, to point. But I force my muscles to revolt.
I don’t want grace. I want impact. Nobody tells you that a tear-down is almost as physical and a million times more cathartic.
Each strike strips away a layer. The apologies I never owed. The flinches that became reflex. The mornings I woke up counting his breaths to gauge the mood. The nights I lay still as stone because movement might wake him and waking him might mean…
The blade buries itself an inch deep. My shoulder burns and my palm is sore. I don’t care. I’m cackling like an unhinged bog witch. It pours out of me, graceless and ridiculous. I hurl the next one with a primal scream.
Who knew that the best way to get over your ex is with an axe?
‘I hope your next jobby is a hedgehog!’ I yell at the target. The axe hits high and left. Close enough.
I turn to Scottie. The look on his face steals whatever breath I have left. It’s as far from pity or embarrassment as it can get. He looks…proud?
‘That’s it,’ he says. ‘That’s my girl.’
His girl.
I like the sound of that.
We throw until my arm gives out. Then we sit on a bench with fizzy juice and a basket of chips for lunch on the table, and I feel lighter than I have in years.
The adrenaline sparks bright and clean in my veins.
Not the fearful kind for a change – the healthy, happy, and alive kind.
And it’s infinitely times a thousand better.
‘So I was thinking… We can fight him.’ My mouth outruns my common sense. ‘I know it won’t be easy, but—’
‘Ava.’
‘I have evidence. Texts. Voicemails. Pictures. We can—’
‘Ava!’ The urgency in his voice stops me cold. Scottie is staring at his phone. His complexion has gone grey.
‘What?’ The blood drains from my face. ‘What is it?’
Without answering, he turns it toward me. A voicemail icon. Coach Wallace. Five missed calls. One text from the Team Manager:
Where the HELL are you? Call me NOW.
He presses play. The coach’s voice, clipped and furious, fills the space between us.
‘Kerr. You were supposed to be at MacKenzie’s this morning.
The sponsors are asking questions. The press is asking questions.
Apparently there are rumours about—’ a pause, something muffled ‘—violence. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but until I get answers, you’re on ice.
Suspended. Pending investigation. Don’t show your face at the training ground.
Keep your mouth shut with the media. Don’t do a bloody thing until I tell you. ’
The message ends. Scottie stares at the black screen. The colour hasn’t returned to his cheeks.
Suspended.
The word tears through me. Suspension means no training. Not even stadium access. And no match bonuses. It means his income is frozen, his reputation under the microscope, his livelihood balanced on the whims of sponsors and PR managers who don’t know the truth.
And it’s my fault.
He decked Nevin for me. Took me to Oban. He chose me over the event, over showing up, shaking hands, playing the game. He chose me, and now he’s paying for it.
‘Scottie. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t… If you hadn’t—’
‘Stop.’ His focus drops away from me. ‘Give me a minute.’
He falls right back into it. Propping up the roof while the walls cave in. He steps in to protect me from the absolute carnage I caused.
Devastation settles across his features.
He’s a man who rages on the inside. He absorbs.
But this is different. This blow took his legs out.
Rugby isn’t only his job. It’s the gaffer tape that holds his world together.
The way he pays his family’s debts, literal and otherwise.
The only currency he knows how to trade in.
And I just watched it collapse.
Around us, strangers cheer and throw axes, oblivious.
I did this. I smashed the box when I came into his room, and now the fire is spreading, and I’m watching the man I love burn because he chose to stand by me.
Because yeah, I love him.
But the cost of my safety is his life. And there’s nothing – nothing – I can do to take it back.