Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JAMIE
Seven years ago
The windscreen wipers thud a frantic rhythm, hopelessly battling the relentless Highland rain. From my spot in the back seat, I watch droplets chase each other across the window, merging and splitting like tiny streams. Beyond them lies a grey smear of hills and trees, their familiar shapes distorted into something almost unrecognisable. It really is coming down heavily out there.
“You’ll have them eating out of your hand tonight, son,” Da says, his voice rumbling over the hiss of tyres on wet tarmac. He hunches over the steering wheel as we round a bend. “All that charm of yours, plus a bit of rugby chat? They’ll be throwing their wallets at you.”
“Aye, well, Coach reckons I need to improve my tackling if I want to make it to the next level.” I tug at my shirt collar. The thing feels like it’s strangling me.
“Tackling?” Da scoffs, shooting me a quick look in the rear-view mirror, his eyes bright with that unmistakable glint of pride. “Jamie, you’re not there to tackle. You’re there to sprint past every poor sod on the pitch and score tries like your life depends on it. And that just happens to be something you do fucking brilliantly.”
“Angus McIntyre!” Maw twists in her seat, her black velvet dress catching the glow of a passing car’s headlights. “Must you swear every time you praise him? Honestly, the boy’s ego is big enough without you throwing f-bombs at it.”
As we round another bend, the car jolts slightly. Da steadies us then leans forwards a little more, squinting at the road ahead. “He’s eighteen now, Mairi—a man! If he can survive being smashed into the mud by blokes twice his size every weekend, I think he can handle hearing an f-word or two from his da. Besides, I’ve seen old men at matches clutching their hats and muttering swear words they haven’t used since National Service all because of Jamie. The lad’s got so much raw talent it’d make any rugby fan curse out loud. He’s already better than some of the professionals out there, if you ask me.”
A flush creeps up my cheeks. “I’m not sure about that, Da.”
“ I am. That try in your last game against Moray? You dodged one of their players, sidestepped another, then took off like a rocket. Nobody stood a chance of catching you!”
“It wasn’t that impressive,” I mutter, even though inside my head I’m now replaying the try, and... okay, sure, I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, but it was pretty good.
“It was bloody impressive, son. Mark my words, in a few years you’ll be playing for Scotland. I can see the headline now: Jamie McIntyre storms past English defence at Murrayfield. Scotland crowned champions! ”
“Aye, right,” I say, but I can’t hold back a small grin. It’s impossible not to when Da’s so certain about things like this. Mind you, when a strong gust of wind batters the car, my smile falters and I grip the door handle, as if clutching it will somehow keep us anchored.
“This weather!” Maw says. “Are you sure you can see where you’re going okay, Angus?”
“Of course, Mairi.”
“Okay, well, just watch your speed.” Maw cranes her neck to give me a once-over in the back. “As for you, young man, even if you’re not leading Scotland to glory quite yet, I must say, you’re looking very handsome tonight.” She reaches back to fix my tie like I’m six years old again.
“Maw,” I groan, releasing the handle to swat her fussing hands away. “Like Da said, I’m eighteen now. I can sort my own tie, you know.”
“Och, you’d best get used to women fawning over you, son,” Da quips. “Once you’re scoring tries on TV, there’ll be a lot more of that, I reckon.”
I let out a small laugh but there’s a tightness in my chest, like a coiled spring ready to snap. It’s daft, really, pinning so much on tonight’s casino-night fundraiser at the rugby club. It’s just a bit of fun for charity, nothing to lose sleep over. Except... coaching staff for the Scotland under-20s team are going to be there, and that makes it a pretty big deal. Especially as there have been whispers lately. Nothing official, just vague rumours about “certain people” keeping an eye on me.
The rain hammers down harder, furious now, like the sky has decided to wring itself dry all at once. The wipers screech frantically as they fight a losing battle against the onslaught.
When another gust of wind hits us, Maw draws a sharp breath. “Maybe we should pull over?” Even over the roar of water on the roof, the worry in her voice is unmistakable.
Da doesn’t answer straight away. Instead he leans even further over the wheel, his shoulders bunching beneath his old tweed jacket. “The weather’s fierce,” he admits at last. “But we’re nearly there now. Just need to get past this stretch.”
I peer out of my window. The trees that whip past are nothing more than inky streaks against the raging night.
And then suddenly it happens: a sudden shift in the car’s movement. The tyres stop gripping properly. They slide, like they can’t find purchase on the slick surface below. My pulse spikes.
“Angus!” Maw says urgently.
“I’ve got it,” Da replies, though there’s a waver in his tone. He tries to correct our path but the car doesn’t respond like it should. It lurches and skids sideways with an awful inevitability.
“Jesus!” Maw shrieks.
The world outside spins in sickening flashes. My fingers dig into the door handle. We veer towards a hulking shadow—a tree—and then?—
A deafening crunch reverberates through my body as metal crumples like tin foil and my head slams forward into something hard.
I wake up thrashing, my hands clawing at a duvet twisted around my legs like a restraint, my body jerking as if still trapped in the crash. For a few seconds panic clouds everything—the darkness too thick, my chest too tight. I reach out blindly and frantically until I finally find the switch for my bedside lamp. Light spills across my room, washing over familiar shapes: my shelves crammed with geeky books; my perpetually messy desk; the gamer chair that probably needs replacing but feels like home.
Fuck. I’m safe. Alive.
Unlike—
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, hard enough to see stars behind closed lids, as though I may be able to block out that tree or the awful sound of metal folding in on itself. In daylight those moments stay locked away in some shadowy corner of my mind, one I can’t access, like my brain knows I’m not strong enough to face them. But in dreams like that one? They tear through me with a ferocity that leaves me gasping for air.
For some moments I just lie there, my chest heaving as I fight to slow my breathing, the sheet beneath me clinging uncomfortably to my sweat-soaked back. Eventually, with a groan, I force myself upright and swing my legs over the side of the bed. That’s when it hits—the sharp, stabbing ache in my left thigh.
“Fucking hell,” I hiss, rubbing at the spot like that’ll do anything. It’s been seven years since they shoved the titanium rod into my femur—seven years since that night —and although I’ve recovered well, the pain still comes back sometimes. I can understand it when I take a tumble—like when Bruce turned me and Maisie into human dominoes a couple of weeks back—but on occasions like this, when I haven’t done anything physical to trigger it? That’s the worst. “Psychosomatic pain”, my doctor called it. But knowing that it originates in my mind doesn’t make it any less real.
I drag shaky hands through sweat-damp hair then, bracing myself, get to my feet. I hobble over to a chest of drawers where I always keep a bottle of whisky stashed. Well, I didn’t get to swallow the drams at the distillery, did I, so I shouldn’t feel guilty about having a wee nightcap? Not that I usually need an excuse. Thus the bottle in my bedroom.
No glass required—I tip the whisky straight from the neck, letting the fiery liquid burn its way down. It’s not exactly smooth, but right now that roughness is just what I need: a distraction, a small comfort wrapped in heat.
I take a second swig for good measure then shuffle into my en suite bathroom, the tiles cool underfoot. When I click on the light, the brightness stings my eyes. I grip the edges of the sink and examine my reflection: shadowed eyes, hair sticking up in awkward tufts, skin pale except for blotches of heat blooming on my chest and neck, courtesy of the adrenaline still surging through me.
Twisting on the tap, I splash cold water over my face, the icy shock chasing away some of the memories and anchoring me back in the here and now. Then, peeling off my boxers, which are damp with sweat, I wet a cloth with warm water and wipe down my armpits and chest, then the lower regions too. There’s nothing quite like giving your balls a scrub at three in the morning to really hammer home that you’re winning at life, eh? Not exactly glamorous, but better than sitting around drenched in sweat and smelling like a bogborn. Obviously a shower would be better, but no, thanks. Not right now. Too much like rain.
Fucking rain.
Back in my room I pull on joggies and an old T-shirt then slump into my chair and flip open my laptop. Sleep, I know, is a lost cause. Even with the whisky warming my insides, my heart is still racing and my thoughts still spinning. I need... I need to not be me for a while.
I log in to Highland Legacy . SassyLassie won’t be online at this hour, and even if she were, she seems to be giving me the cold shoulder at the moment. That’s okay—I think a solo quest is exactly what I need right now.