Chapter 23 #2
‘Lennox, language!’ Coach swipes a thumb hard across his mouth to kill whatever expression sits there.
I stare at them. At Jamie, who I’ve screamed at for lazy tracking. At the props I’ve dragged off the floor when their lungs were burning. At Finn, my flatmate and best pal. At Brodie, who’s risking his captaincy, his precarious reputation – everything – only to stop me from going under.
I should tell them to leave. My instinct is to shove the line back and front the damage alone. But the words die on my tongue.
I’ve spent my life trying to be the concrete slab that holds the house up. I never thought anyone would bother to hold me up.
My ledger doesn’t add up. I’ve done nothing for half these lads beyond yelling at their defensive drift, and here they stand, torching their own contracts for me. The whole equation is wrong.
They’re here for me.
The weight of it fucking levels me, driving my arse back down into the chair.
Then, against all logic, I laugh.
Coach Wallace stands up and glares at Stark. ‘Well, Nigel? Do you want to rethink this?’
Stark looks at the phone and the army in the doorway.
He prices up the PR disaster, the refund requests, the empty stands.
Then he puts the cap back on his pen. ‘Pending a formal review of the Integrity and Conduct report regarding Mr Neely,’ Stark’s voice is tight, ‘the suspension of Mr Kerr is lifted. Provisionally.’
‘Provisionally,’ Finn mocks. ‘Fine. We’ll take it.’
Coach Wallace walks around the table to my chair, grabs my hand, and hauls me to my feet. ‘You stubborn prick.’ He pulls me into a hug that nearly cracks two of my ribs. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Wasn’t my story to tell,’ I rasp into his shoulder.
‘I should’ve seen it.’ Coach pulls back, clamping my arms. ‘I should have seen the rot.’ He looks at the door, at the team waiting for me. ‘Go on. Get out of here.’
Brodie slaps my back. Jamie nods. The lads part to let me through, touching my arm, my shoulder. Tethering me. We spill out of the building.
‘You owe me a pizza,’ Finn says. ‘And a very long, very detailed explanation.’
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘I do.’
We spill into the car park. The adrenaline dampens, leaving a sour taste on my tongue.
‘Oi, Kerr,’ Brodie says. ‘Next time you want to be a hero, give us a warning. I missed lunch with Charlie because of you.’
‘Piss off, MacRae. And…thank you.’
Then tyres crunch on gravel. A dark grey Range Rover Sport SV swings into the disabled bay, engine ticking. The laughter dies.
‘Oh, brilliant,’ Finn mutters. ‘The wanker cometh. Can I murder him? Just a little. As a treat.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘He’s mine.’
Nevin swings out of the driver’s seat, and a beige Chihuahua scrambles after him, claws scraping the tarmac.
The wee dug sports a tartan coat and a collar studded with what might be actual diamonds.
Nevin’s in sunglasses despite the flat, colourless sky.
Fitted tracksuit. The bruise I left on his jaw must have healed, or he’s used a copious amount of concealer.
He spots me in the group without my kit bag. He does the maths and gets the wrong result.
Sliding his sunglasses up onto his forehead, he struts over. ‘Leaving, Kerr? About time. You’ve been stealing a wage in that starting fifteen for years.’
I peel away from the pack and put myself in his way.
Nevin halts, his eyes narrowing as he processes the scene. He still doesn’t get it. He thinks they’re watching me leave.
‘Aw, see that,’ Nevin sneers. ‘Guard of honour for the loser. Now you can go play full-time nursemaid to that mental case you picked up. Did she cry when she found out you’re unemployed? She’s good at crying.’
Fury takes hold inside me. Not the hot, blinding flash I felt in his flat. Nothing like the red mist. It chills the blood in my veins and funnels the world to a single aim.
The Chihuahua darts at Finn’s trainers, tiny teeth sinking into the sole.
‘Ow! Wee bastard.’ Finn shakes his foot. The dog hangs on, growling. ‘Neely, call off your adorable hell spawn.’
‘Corleone! Here!’ Nevin seems almost apologetic as the dog doesn’t stop chewing on Finn’s shoes. ‘Corleone doesn’t take orders. I’ve not had him long.’
Finn pries the dog off and sets it down with exaggerated gentleness. ‘You named your dog after a fictional mob boss? That’s peak bro culture.’
‘I didn’t name him.’ Nevin picks up the wee dog and lifts him into his arms. ‘He’s a rescue.’
I stalk towards Nevin without rushing, and he retreats a pace. ‘Get out of my face, Kerr.’
I stop a foot away from him and let my height do the work. I let the mass of me, the density of over a decade of collisions, occupy the space he thinks belongs to him.
‘I said back off!’ He shoves me with the arm that doesn’t clutch the Chihuahua.
I don’t move or rock back on my heels. There’s no force behind his shove because there’s no substance to him. I study him, and all anger vanishes. He’s a boy. A mean, frightened boy who breaks things because he’s scared someone will notice how small and afraid he feels.
‘You think you’re a hard man, Neely.’ My voice is so quiet that only he can hear me. ‘But you’re nothing but a bully. Someone bullied you once, didn’t they? Someone made you feel powerless. And now you have to do it to everyone else to make yourself feel better.’
Nevin opens his mouth. ‘Fuck off. You don’t know me.’
‘I know what you are.’ I bear down on him, invading his personal space until he has to crane his neck. ‘She didn’t leave because she was broken. She left because she finally saw you. Not a monster. Just a sad little man who has to hit women to feel tall.’
‘I never hit—’
His face changes. Not the snarl I expected. His mouth goes slack, and his eyes widen. For half a breath, he’s not a bully. He’s a human staring at something he destroyed without understanding how it happened and what his role in it was.
My anger melts.
Then his sleazy act clicks back together. ‘She’ll crawl back, eventually.’
‘She won’t. And actually…’ I look him up and down, as if I’m inspecting a stain on the pavement and assessing whether or not it’s dog shit. ‘…you’re the one who’s done here.’
He lifts his hand. A reflex or threat. Doesn’t matter. ‘Go on. Fucking do it. I dare you. Come on. Give them another reason. Let’s fucking go!’
‘You’re holding a Chihuahua, Nevin. I’m not punching a man holding a wee dug. I love animals. But I despise arseholes.’
He looks over his dog’s tiny head past me at the men watching him with eyes like flint. He realises, finally, that he isn’t the wolf. He’s the rabbit. He lowers his hand and slumps down an inch.
‘Och, don’t piss your trousers, Nevin. I’m not gonna punch you again.’ I turn away with a shrug. ‘You’re not worth the bruises. Took three days for my knuckles to find their shape last time. What’s your thick head made of – cement?’
‘Oi! Neely!’ Coach Wallace barks across the tarmac. He’s standing at the double doors resembling an executioner – only with bottle-brush moustache. ‘Office. Now!’
Nevin scans us – the team that has just amputated him. Cut him clean off because he’s a sad man with ego and anger issues. A liar and a liability. He cradles his dog against his chest and strokes its ears. Then he hunches inward and trudges towards the building.
I don’t envy him.
‘Right.’ Brodie breaks the silence. ‘Lunch at the Sin & Tonic. Now. My shout.’
The lads cheer and surround me, pulling me towards the cars.
The victory is a mouthful of sand. Nevin’s history. My career is safe. Yes, I have my team. But the one person who matters isn’t here. And the silence on my phone is heavier than anything I’ve ever lifted.