Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
JAMIE
I stretch, rolling my shoulders and shaking out my arms, preparing for the caber toss—my first event of the day. The sun beats down on the field, and the Highland Games are in full swing around me. A few months ago I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing something like this. Gaming had been my escape, a way to feel strong without actually having to be strong. But things are different now. I’m different now. We’ll see how I get on.
I’m towards the end of the line of kilt-clad participants, which gives me plenty of time to overthink and watch the others go before me—their faces flushed with effort, the thud of the caber hitting the ground echoing across the field. It’s not about how far you can throw the massive log. It’s about getting it to flip perfectly and land straight, like twelve o’clock on a clock face. That’s what gets you the points. Sounds simple in theory. In practice, not so much.
As my turn inches closer, nerves tangle in my stomach. This is putting me out there in a way I haven’t done in years—a very public test of whether I measure up.
The crowd whoops and claps for a particularly impressive throw. I scan the faces for Maisie. Is she here? She’s a big part of why I’m doing this, after all. Not that chucking a tree end over end is going to change her mind about me. Life isn’t some cheesy film in which the hero flexes his muscles and the girl instantly melts into a puddle of desire.
Still, a guy can hope.
And then I spot her, standing with her phone outstretched, recording one of her wee selfie videos beside some hulking giant of a man who looks vaguely familiar. She’s laughing at something he’s said, completely oblivious to me standing here like an idiot with my caber-related nerves and misplaced daydreams.
Wait—no way.
Cammy Morrison.
Aw, hell. I used to play rugby with him. The career I once wanted so badly? That’s what he’s got now. He’s gone on to do everything I couldn’t. Since the crash I’ve tried to avoid rugby news as much as possible, but even I’ve heard about Cammy’s meteoric rise.
God, jealousy burns hot and fast. My brain helpfully supplies an image: an alternate timeline where everything was different, where my femur didn’t snap like a twig, where Da lived to see me play professionally, where Maw didn’t... well. Maybe then Maisie would’ve fallen at my feet. Maybe then everything would have been easy.
Even as envious thoughts spiral through my head at record speed, Cammy turns and notices me.
Shit.
I look away like some starstruck fanboy caught staring at their idol. Not embarrassing at all.
It’s been seven years since I turned my back on rugby, seven years since I cut all ties with that world after everything went wrong. It wasn’t just the injury—it was losing Da. Rugby was how he and I bonded, and without him...
Cammy probably doesn’t even recognise me. Why would he? He’s got bigger things to think about than some washed-up ex-teammate skulking around a field pretending he knows what he’s doing with a caber.
Right then, only five more guys ahead of me before it’s my turn. No big deal. Just me and a literal tree trunk in front of pretty much the entire town. The guy up now is a bloody beast. He looks like he could bench-press a car. Sure, I’ve been grafting away at the gym these past few months, but there’s just no comparison between me and him. What if I go to lift it and it doesn’t even budge?
It’s not exactly the kind of setting where you can lean over to one of the other guys in line and say, “I’m feeling a wee bit nervous. How about you?” Nope, it’s all gruff nods and testosterone around here. But alongside the nerves, there’s also this faint thrill thrumming in my chest. Yet another callback to my rugby years. That mix of dread and adrenaline before kickoff. The itch to do something impressive. To prove—to everyone else and myself—that I have what it takes.
A firm hand lands on my shoulder, startling me. I turn around and, shit, it’s Cammy.
“Jamie McIntyre! I thought it was you.” He pulls me into a bro hug even though I’ve not once spoken to this guy in seven years. Well, seems he remembers me after all. He claps me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth and maybe two or three internal organs. Thank God I’d been hitting the gym again. Otherwise, I’d be in the dirt trying to remember my own name.
“How the hell are you doing?” he asks, pulling back to look at me.
For a second I freeze. What’s there to say to someone who represents everything I once wanted? But then I find my voice. “Good to see you, Cammy.” And because that seems woefully insufficient: “Congrats on all your success.”
“Cheers.” He grins then shifts his weight slightly. “Listen, mate. I always felt bad about... you know, the accident. You were going to go all the way. Everyone knew it back then.”
Christ.
“And your parents,” Cammy adds after a beat. “Your da was such a great supporter of the club.”
“Thanks,” I reply, my voice coming out steadier than I expected. He just brought up the crash, my injury, and the death of my maw and da—all in just a few sentences—and... I’ve not fallen apart. I’m still looking him in the eye. “To be honest, it’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this. But aye, it feels good to push myself again.”
He playfully punches my bicep then takes a step back. “Good man! Listen, if you ever fancy coming along to watch us play, you let me know. I’ll sort out tickets.”
I find myself smiling despite everything—a real smile. “You know what? Aye, I’d like that.”
Shit. What’s happening to me? Any time the rugby comes on the TV, I immediately switch it off. But now I’m apparently considering going to see a game in person? Somehow, though, the idea sits okay with me. I’m not just brushing Cammy off—I think I really would quite like to do it.
Cammy leaves with a wave, and I shake myself. Crap, not long now until my turn. Time to get into the right frame of mind. These things are as much about mental focus as they are about physical strength.
I bounce on the balls of my feet, rolling my shoulders, trying to drown out the noise of the crowd and channel whatever adrenaline I’ve got left into something useful. But before I can properly settle myself, a familiar voice cuts through the air.
“I thought LochNLoad was overcompensating when he lugged around the Claymore of the Clan Chiefs. But a caber? That takes phallic symbolism to a whole new level.”
Maisie steps into view, in denim shorts that show off slim legs and a white button-up blouse knotted at her waist. It teases just enough skin to drive me quietly insane.
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “I bet you’ve been dying to make a joke about my wood, haven’t you? Well, just wait till you see me toss it.”
Smirking, she slides her phone from her pocket and taps its screen. “I look forward to it. Fancy being immortalised on social media?”
Shit. No pressure or anything. As if hurling this bloody tree wasn’t nerve-racking enough already.
But her attention stirs something else in me—a flicker of pride buried beneath the anxiety. If Maisie wants to film me for her followers, then I’ll make damn sure I give them something worth watching.
“Go ahead. Just make sure you get my good side.”
She rolls her eyes but lets out an amused snort. “Seriously, though... good luck.” There’s no teasing in her voice this time, only sincerity, and it grounds me.
“Thanks.”
And now there’s no more time to chat because it’s go-time.
The caber is heavier than it looks—and trust me, it looked bloody monstrous—but weeks of training pay off as I manage to hoist it vertical against my shoulder. My muscles scream their objections as I take one step forward... then another... then one more for good measure before launching the beast with everything I’ve got.
It tumbles end over end through the air before hitting the ground with a satisfyingly solid thud. It’s far from a perfect twelve o’clock—not good enough to win—but it’s a decent attempt. Respectable. I can hold my head high.
The crowd erupts into cheers and applause, a wave of noise washing over me. It might be my imagination, but it feels louder than it has been for anyone else—even the guys who did better. There’s something in the sound, something deeper than polite applause. Like the whole town remembers where I’ve been and can see exactly how far I’ve climbed to get here.
A wolf whistle cuts through it all. I glance around in time to see Maisie lowering a hand from her lips. She shoots me a wink—bold and cheeky, sending a crackling spark straight to my core.
Winning? Pah, who needs it when I’ve got Maisie Kerr whistling for me like I’m the only guy on this field worth noticing?
I signed up for two other events: the hammer throw and the stone put. I do pretty well in both of them—better than I expected, if I’m honest—although I don’t take home any wins. Still, there’s something deeply satisfying about the ache in my muscles and the hearty slaps on the back from locals. It’s a kind of respect that feels earned, raw and real in a way I haven’t experienced in years.
“You weren’t half bad out there,” Maisie says, appearing out of the crowd and passing me a water bottle. “Not bad for a bloke who used to think heavy lifting meant carrying his laptop upstairs.”
I take the bottle like it’s some sort of trophy—and let’s face it, it’s the closest thing to one I’ll be winning today. After a long swig, I press the cold plastic against my neck to cool off, although I reckon Maisie’s presence might be heating me up more than any feat of strength ever could.
Meeting her gaze, I see she’s got that look in her eye—the one that dances between teasing and something softer—and before I can stop myself, the words that have been circling my head slip out. “You know... part of me really wanted to win one of these events. For you.”
The words hang there between us. She tilts her head slightly, eyebrows lifting like she’s not sure whether to laugh or take me seriously. God help me if she laughs.
“Is that so?” she says eventually. “Well... you’ve still got one more chance to impress me.”
I know what she’s referring to. The hill race.
Most people think the Highland Games are all about raw strength, but they actually began with a simple race. Back in the eleventh century, King Malcolm III hosted an event to determine who would serve as his royal messenger. The fastest runner to reach the summit of Craig Choinnich and return won the coveted role. Here in Bannock, we honour these origins by ending each year’s Games with a race up and down Ben Garve.
I used to run that race every year—an uphill battle so punishing it makes you question every life choice, followed by a downhill sprint with adrenaline drowning out the sound of your lungs screaming for mercy. I won it when I was seventeen. And again at eighteen. Then life happened, and I never ran it again.
My smile falters, just slightly, but enough for Maisie’s sharp eyes to catch it.
Speed was once my greatest asset—the thing that made me special on the rugby pitch. Back then, nobody could catch me if I had open space in front of me. My legs were lightning bolts wrapped in muscle.
After the accident—after they placed that damn pin in my leg—nothing was ever the same. I knew that no matter how hard I worked at it, I could never be as good as I used to be. And if you can’t be as good as you were at your best, then what’s even the point?
Maisie doesn’t push me. She just waits quietly as if daring me to work through whatever excuse is forming in my head.
Then again, why put limits on myself? If these last few months—and these Games especially—have taught me anything, it’s that I’m stronger than I give myself credit for.
Sure, my training has been almost entirely focused on strength—cardio, not so much—but who cares? This isn’t about being perfect or winning some prize. This is about proving something, even if it’s only to myself.
Besides... maybe impressing Maisie one last time wouldn’t be so bad either.
“All right,” I say finally. “Why not?”
Her face lights up with triumph.
A large group of competitors gathers at the base of Ben Garve, a ripple of excitement and nerves running through the crowd. I stretch my leg, wincing slightly at the dull ache settling in after the strength events. It’s nothing serious—just enough to remind me that I’ve already pushed my body today. Beside me are my brothers, Ally and Lewis, both limbering up with an ease that makes me grit my teeth.
The three of us used to do this race every year as lads, sprinting uphill like we were invincible. Then came the accident, and I stopped. So did they—out of sympathy, although they never outright admitted it. Lewis muttered something about a knee niggle once, and Ally claimed work commitments got in the way, but I knew better. When I suggested fifteen minutes ago we all run it again for old time’s sake, they barely hesitated before agreeing.
The field is packed with maybe fifty or sixty runners—more men than women but still a decent mix. Some look like seasoned athletes ready to dominate the course, while others appear to have wandered in on a dare after one pint too many. It’s entirely possible. Unlike the strength events, which require advance sign-up before the Games, the hill race is open to anyone brave (or mad) enough to give it a go.
The atmosphere is buzzing, infectious. The crowd has turned out in force too, lining up to cheer us off and welcome back whoever returns first.
I spot Emily in the throng with wee Ru perched on her hip while Iona keeps Bruce calm on his lead. Aidan bounces Callie on his shoulder—Grace is off somewhere running a yoga taster session for those who’d rather stretch than sprint. Cat waves when she sees me looking and calls out, “Don’t fall on your face!” When I remind her it’s not too late for her to take part, she just smirks and says she looks too nice today to ruin it by getting sweaty.
The starting gun fires with a sharp crack, and suddenly there’s no more time for banter—we’re off.
Chaos erupts as everyone jostles for position on the uneven ground. Elbows bump; feet tangle; someone curses loudly as they nearly trip over a tuft of grass. But soon enough the pack begins to thin out, and I find myself near the front alongside Ally and Lewis. Not surprising—Lewis practically lives at the gym, all protein shakes and deadlifts, while Ally spends half his life scaling cliffs or rafting rivers like some sort of Highland action hero.
We charge past a group of sheep grazing on the hillside. They lift their heads, bewildered by the parade of kilted daredevils storming through their patch of tranquillity.
The climb gets steeper now—brutally steep—but I push forward. My breaths come hard and fast, and every stride burns in my thighs. But there’s something exhilarating about it too. The rhythm of my feet pounding against rocky earth. The wind whipping past my face. That raw, primal drive to go faster than everyone else.
It floods back—the freedom I used to feel when running flat out during a game of rugby. The sheer joy of knowing nobody could catch me if there was open space ahead. God, I’d forgotten how much I loved this.
Finally, blessedly, the summit comes into view. A steward stands at the top, and as I close the gap between us, he raises a smoke flare high. I dig deep—legs screaming, lungs shredded—and reach him first. He grins and lets off the flare. It hisses violently before erupting in the sky in a plume of orange smoke.
First one up! Despite everything—my leg, all those years spent doubting myself—I might actually win this.
The downhill is where things get risky. Momentum builds fast on these steep slopes, gravity pulling you forward whether you like it or not. It doesn’t take long before you’re less running than hurtling downwards at breakneck speed with only your legs—which are screaming bloody murder—to keep you upright.
I pass runners still climbing uphill. Their shouts of encouragement blur into white noise as my pulse hammers in my ears. This is incredible—like flying without wings or engines or parachutes.
And then disaster strikes.
My foot snags on something—a root or rock maybe—and before I can react, I’m pitching forward into empty air. I hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind clean out of me, pain exploding through my leg.
Shit.
For a second all I can do is lie there stunned while agony radiates from my leg up into my hip.
No, this isn’t how this was supposed to go. I wanted to charge across the line triumphant, arms raised like a bloody champion. I’ve no interest in some Cool Runnings underdog moment where everyone claps out of pity while I limp across the finish line.
Ally and Lewis streak past without stopping—not because they don’t care but because this is a competition. They’ll check on me later, I know that, but right now this is about the race. And that’s how it should be.
I force myself upright, a groan escaping my throat that quickly morphs into a growl of sheer determination. The pain in my leg pulses like a drumbeat, but I shove it to the back of my mind. No bloody way am I letting this stop me now.
I start running again, each step a battle against the screaming protests of my muscles. The gap between me and my brothers is significant, but I don’t care. I’m not done yet.
Up ahead, Lewis has edged past Ally as they close in on the finish line. My lungs are on fire, my injured leg feels like it’s about to give way at any second, but I dig deep. Deeper than I thought possible. I pass Ally first, sparing just enough breath to yell over my shoulder, “You’re looking great back there—like a majestic, panting tortoise!”
Ally’s bark of laughter follows me. “Torn between being pissed off and proud of you, ya wee shite!”
I’m closing in on Lewis now, his bulky frame powered by years of gym sessions and protein-fuelled stubbornness. The teasing practically rolls off my tongue before I can think better of it. “Oi, Lewis! Ally just said you curl like you’re scared to break a nail. You better stop running and sort him out!”
The gibe riles him up—enough, apparently, for him to reach out and grab a hold of my kilt as I pass him.
“Oi! Let go!”
I shouldn’t really be surprised—we still wrestle like we’re twelve, after all—but seriously? Grabbing my kilt mid-race? Who does that? Desperation fuels me now because there’s no winning this race with Lewis hanging onto me like an anchor.
Well . . . there is one way.
With grim resolve, I unfasten the left strap of the kilt—then the right. Gravity takes care of the rest.
The fabric falls away entirely, and so does Lewis’s grip as he stumbles back in shock. “What the—Jamie!”
I don’t stick around to hear the rest because I’m already pelting towards the finish line like a man possessed. The crowd erupts into cheers mingled with gasps and laughter as I cross the line first, punching the air triumphantly before reality catches up with me.
Shit.
Suddenly aware of just how much I’m exposing—and just how little there is left to people’s imagination—I use both hands to shield myself while grinning sheepishly at the crowd. My face burns hotter than a bonfire as Lewis barrels across the finish line next, throwing me my discarded kilt with a face almost as red as mine.
Ally comes in third and immediately clips the back of my head. “Would it have killed you to wear boxers today, you bloody eejit?”
“Wait, you aren’t trying to blame this on me, are you?” I protest, frantically fumbling to get decent again. “Lewis grabbed my kilt! Such poor sportsmanship. If anyone deserves a lecture, it’s him.”
“Oh aye?” Ally says. “And what about you? Flashing your bits to half the town like you’re auditioning for Magic Mike: The Highlands Edition ? Don’t you think that warrants a word or two?”
I steal a glance at the crowd. There are way too many wide grins and stifled giggles for my comfort. A few people even have their phones out. Great. Just great.
“Well, it got the job done, didn’t it?” I quip, feigning nonchalance. “I won.” Then I lift a hand to the onlookers in what I’d like to think is an apologetic wave but probably comes off more like an awkward salute. “Sorry if some of you got more than you bargained for! Blame him —” I jab a thumb over my shoulder at Lewis because deflection is clearly my best bet here. “He’s the one who grabbed my kilt!”
A fresh wave of laughter ripples through the crowd, and Lewis’s face flushes beetroot red.
Ally leans in close. “You do realise you’re never living this one down, right?”
“Oh. Think there’s any chance everyone will remember me as the comeback hero and not the guy who finished without his kilt?”
Ally smirks and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Aye, I’m sure the kilt thing will barely come up at all... aside from at every wedding, ceilidh, and funeral for the rest of your days.”
I groan. And yet, honestly? I can’t help but feel proud of myself for winning. Even if no one else remembers me as the comeback hero, that’s how I’ll remember today. And, I mean, really... it’s just a cock, isn’t it? Half the population has one. Sure, I’d rather not have waved mine at what feels like the entire bloody town, but all things considered? Worth it.
The crowd is still buzzing with sniggers and chatter. I shift awkwardly, scanning the sea of faces properly now. Old Hamish is doubled over, laughing so hard I’m genuinely worried he might need medical attention. Morag from the bakery is in fits, crying actual tears, her shoulders shaking as she attempts (without success) to pull herself together. Then there’s Cat, whose face has turned a shade of red usually reserved for stop signs or emergency buttons. Aidan, meanwhile, is grinning like he’s the one who won the race, like this entire moment exists solely to fuel his next decade of piss-taking.
But it’s not any of those people I’m looking for. Where is she?
Finally my gaze lands on her, and whatever trace of good humour I’ve managed to cling to nose-dives faster than I did on that bloody hill.
Everyone else is busy peeing themselves laughing, but Maisie is not amused. She’s off to the side, her phone aimed at her face, her lips moving a mile a minute. But this isn’t playful-banter Maisie; this is panicked-apologies Maisie. Hell, it might even be preparing-for-an-online-backlash Maisie.
Oh no.
Was she . . . livestreaming?
The ground might as well open up beneath me because fuck .
She shoves her phone into her pocket then locks onto me like a heat-seeking missile. Before I have time to fully process just how catastrophic this might be, she’s storming towards me.
“What,” she hisses through gritted teeth, “were you thinking ?”
“Hey,” I reply brightly as if sheer optimism can undo public humiliation on this scale. “I wanted to win—and I did! In case you missed it, I’m accepting congratulatory hugs. Fancy giving me one?” I hold my arms out in what I hope reads as cheeky charm but probably looks more like desperation.
Maisie stares at me, unblinking, daggers in her eyes sharp enough to cut granite. “Oh sure,” she snaps, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Let’s throw a celebratory party—pop some champagne! And while we’re at it, maybe brainstorm ways for you to explain why my followers just got an eyeful of your bits!”
I blink then lower my arms awkwardly back to my sides. “Er...”
She waves her phone in my face like it’s Exhibit A in a murder trial. “I was live when you decided to re-enact The Full Monty !”
The mounting fury in her voice draws attention from some of the nearby spectators. Their grins falter into looks of concern—or maybe just curiosity about whether she’s going to deck me here and now or do it later. Her ferocity really is a sight to behold. Maisie Kerr yelling at me isn’t exactly new territory, but I’ve never seen her quite this rattled before.
“Do you have any idea what people are saying in the comments?” she demands.
Still clinging desperately to my sense of humour, I offer, “Nice things, I hope?”
Her silence cuts even deeper than her glare did. When she finally speaks again, her voice is clipped, like every word is holding back an avalanche of rage. “Do you have any idea what kind of damage this could do? To me? To my account? If this mess gets me banned or ruins my reputation then—ugh!” She throws up her hands and, without another word, spins on her heel and storms off.
“Maisie, wait!”
But she doesn’t stop or even slow down. She disappears into the crowd with long, purposeful strides, as though putting as much distance as possible between us might erase the spectacle of my public humiliation—and hers by association.
And, just like that, my victory high crashes spectacularly back down to earth.
Shit.
This is definitely not how I pictured this going. Not even close.