Chapter 23
Scottie
I buried my fist in Nevin’s face, and now the recoil is about to snap my career in half.
The corridor of the Duncraig Stadium offices is dead air and silence. I’m a specimen on a slide, magnified and waiting for the final verdict.
Ten days ago, Ava walked out of my life. Today, I’m about to get walked out of my career.
I sit on a plastic chair that was designed by someone who hates the human body. My hands rest on my knees. Two useless lumps of meat and bone that have spent more than ten years carrying balls, fending off tackles, and yanking teammates from the mud. Now they’re the things that ended my career.
Insert Coin. The vending machine gives off an electrical drone that scratches at the inside of my cranium. I don’t have any coins. I don’t have my kit bag. In half an hour, I won’t even have a team.
I check my mobile. The black screen reflects my face back at me. Dark circles, stubble that’s gone past rugged into derelict. A man resisting the urge to sprint for the exit.
That’s about right.
A daft part of me – the part that believes the hero gets the girl instead of a court martial – was hoping for a signal. A missed call or a notification. One word from her to prove she still exists on the same planet. That I didn’t dream it.
But I guess I did. I dreamed it.
The door to the boardroom opens. A woman I don’t know sticks her head out. She’s wearing a grey suit and the expression of someone who has to put down a sick dog.
‘Mr Kerr? They’re ready for you.’
I rise, and my knees crack. The sound is loud in the empty hallway. I head in.
The boardroom is an oven. The radiators are blasting enough heat to wilt the ferns in the corner. Late February sunshine is pouring through the window, promising spring. But the sun in Scotland can’t be trusted.
Coach Wallace is at the head of the long table.
He’s aged five years since last week. He refuses to meet my eyes.
To his right sits Nigel Stark, the club chairman.
A man who thinks rugby is played on spreadsheets, the right hand of the Canadian billionaire owner.
He’s tapping a gold pen against a notepad.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Two other board members – another woman and a man I recognise from events but whose names I’ve never bothered to learn – flank him. This is admin to them, a line item to be deleted. Impaired asset: One Centre. Total write-off.
‘Sit down, Mr Kerr.’ Stark doesn’t offer me a water. Not a good sign.
The leather chair at the far end scrapes against the linoleum as I pull it out. I sit and keep my back straight.
Stark opens a folder and slides a piece of paper across the wood. ‘Nevin Neely claims you struck him, unprovoked, in his private residence. Is this true?’
The room holds its breath. Coach Wallace bores a hole into the piece of paper in front of him.
‘Aye,’ I say.
Stark adjusts his cuffs. It’s obvious that he expected a defence or a “but he started it”. Not from me. I’m not four. I’m a man. I take responsibility for my actions.
‘To be clear: you admit to the physical assault of a teammate?’
‘Aye.’
‘Was it unprovoked?’
‘I hit him. With my right fist. In the face.’
‘Bloody hell, Scottie!’ Coach Wallace sounds like he’s been gargling nails. ‘Give us something! Why did you do it? Nevin’s a wind-up merchant, we know that. Did he threaten you? Did he—’
‘I punched him,’ I repeat flatly. ‘I lost my temper. That’s that.’
Stark leans back. ‘Well. That’s unfortunate, but it makes things simple. Gross Misconduct. Bringing the game into disrepute.’ He ticks points off on his fingers. ‘We have a zero-tolerance policy, Mr Kerr. You’ve triggered the morality clause in your central contract, Mr Kerr.’
‘I did.’
‘Then you leave us no choice.’ Stark looks at the other board members. Two heads dip in unison. ‘We are moving for immediate termination for cause. You are suspended effective immediately, pending the formal notice period, but…’ He spreads his hands. ‘Let’s be realistic. You’re done here.’
I nod. It’s a simple mechanical action. Chin down, chin up. ‘Okay.’
Coach Wallace smacks the table with his open palm. ‘“Okay”? That’s it? You’re going to take it lying down?’
‘I broke the rules, Coach.’
‘Fucking hell!’ He stands up and his chair tips over. ‘You’re the most disciplined player I’ve ever coached. You don’t lose your temper. What did he say to you?’
I weld my teeth together. If I speak, I’ll tell them.
I’ll tell them about the bruises on Ava’s arms. About the way she flinches when a cupboard shuts too loudly.
How he made her retreat into herself, slowly erasing her.
Then they’ll drag her into this room, or even a court, and suits and the press will pick over her life like vultures on a carcass.
Or worse, the police. They’ll ask for evidence.
They’ll ask why she stayed. If she fought back. They’ll make her hurt all over again.
I won’t let that happen. ‘It doesn’t matter. I did it. I’m out.’
Stark picks up his pen and looks to his right. ‘If you’re quite finished, Wallace? We have the paperwork to—’
The door bangs against the wall with a gunshot crack, and Stark’s pen ricochets across the table.
Finn barges into the room, in joggers and flashy white trainers that squeak on the linoleum.
Brodie is right behind him, filling the entrance, a thundercloud about to break.
Or the Greek god Zeus right before throwing a monumental fit.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
‘Getting you off the hook, you eejit,’ Finn declares with the tact of a Great Dane pup.
‘Get out.’ I stand up. ‘This isn’t your fight.’
That fucker ignores me. He saunters straight to the table, pulls a chair out, and sits down next to Stark. He puts his phone on the table, screen up.
‘We need to have a chat.’ Finn’s voice is conversational, bone-chillingly light.
‘This is a closed meeting,’ Stark splutters. ‘I’ll call security.’
‘Security’s busy,’ Brodie rumbles. He shuts the door and leans against it, folding his arms. His biceps strain the fabric of his shirt. ‘They’re helping the other lads park.’
‘Mr Kerr has admitted guilt.’ Stark tries to regain altitude. ‘He confessed. There’s nothing we can do.’
‘Aye, he’d do that,’ Finn says. ‘Giant saviour complex, that one.’ His blue eyes are furious and filled with a disturbing amount of loyalty. ‘You’re a dafty without limits, Scottie.’
‘Finn, get out. Honestly. I don’t want you involved.’
‘Tough shite.’ Finn taps his phone. ‘Because I spoke to Ava.’
‘You did what?’
‘She called me. I was a bit shocked to find out you were falling on your sword like a dramatic bastard.’ Finn swipes the screen. ‘She told me to show them these. You see, Ava was Nevin’s girlfriend until Scottie got her out of there. And that’s what Neely was up to when he wasn’t on the pitch.’
Stark zooms in and recoils. She said he never hit her, so I’m praying it isn’t too bad.
Still, I’m glad that I don’t see what they’re seeing.
Because there wouldn’t be a fucking place for Nevin Neely to hide his sorry arse on this whole bloody planet if I saw the full extent of what he did to her.
He’d end up in the ground; I’d end up in The Big Hoose.
Coach Wallace picks up the phone and stares at the screen for a long time. When he looks up, his eyes are red. ‘This…was Nevin?’
‘Photos from the past few months,’ Finn says. His voice has lost the lightness.
I close my eyes. Bitter nausea rolls through me. She shouldn’t be reduced to evidence on a screen in a room full of strangers and people who don’t know the story. She’s so much more than what Nevin did to her.
‘She gave you permission?’ I wrench the question past the tight lock of my teeth.
‘No. She actually asked me to,’ Finn matches my gaze. ‘Was her idea. She told me to tell the truth.’
Stark pushes the phone away. ‘This is obviously disturbing and wrong. But it’s hearsay. And domestic matters are—’
‘Criminal matters,’ Brodie corrects from the threshold. ‘Scandalous matters, if I might add.’ He raises a suggestive eyebrow.
‘It’s still not proof that Neely provoked Kerr’s assault.’ Stark is clinging to his procedure like a life raft. ‘We have a business to run. We can’t have players punching each other because of personal entanglements. It sets a…problematic precedent.’
‘Ah. Precedent,’ Finn repeats the word as he stands up.
‘Let’s talk about precedents. Like the one where a club doesn’t act when one of their players is involved in domestic violence and instead sacks the lad who did the right thing?
Tsk, tsk, tsk. How does that look on the front page of the Herald? We can’t have that, can we?’
He nods to Brodie, who pulls the door open.
The corridor isn’t empty anymore. It’s a wall of lads.
James MacKenna. Connor Duff. The entire front row – twelve hundred pounds of prime Scottish rugby beef – shouldering the backs into the corners. Even the academy kids are there, eyes hard. A phalanx of muscle and intent. Their eyes aren’t on Stark. They’re on me.
Jamie steps forward. ‘If Kerr goes, we all go.’
Stark laughs and smooths his tie, trying to find his footing on a rug that’s being pulled out from under him. ‘You’re all under contract. A wildcat strike is a fundamental breach. We could sue the lot of you.’
‘Aye, you could,’ Brodie counters and moves forward until he looms over the table.
‘But here’s the thing: you can’t play a fixture with lawsuits.
Suspend Kerr, and you forfeit the season.
Play the rest of the calendar with the Development Squad.
See how many tickets you sell when you’re getting pumped by sixty points every weekend. ’
‘This is mutiny,’ Stark hisses.
The other board members look desperate to vanish to a Caribbean island. Or Orkney. Or Mars.
‘See it more as a…union,’ Finn says, his grin sharp enough to draw blood. ‘We protect our own. And Nevin? That cunt can fuck right off.’