Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Hamish
Vince's gym smells like burned rubber, bad decisions, and the post-New Year's reek of alcohol being sweated out of pores.
We are not in the polished, corporate scent of Andrew's place. This is a smaller warehouse space with concrete walls, exposed pipes, scuffed black mats, and enough plates to flatten a small car. No protein oat balls or eucalyptus towels.
Vince's voice cuts the air.
"Single-leg balance, McCormick. Left leg. You wobble, I toss beanbags at you like we're playing cornhole and your knee is the hole."
"Ye'll ne'er throw a damn thing," I tell him.
"Go on then. Entertain me." He folds his arms, tank top stretched over shoulders carved out of pure determination.
Bosu ball under my left foot, I feel my bad knee protest, but I hold steady. This is the knee Dr. Jelshi just showed me in exquisite high-res misery.
"A lot of scar tissue," he'd said, tapping the MRI. "There is a possible surgical path. But each time we go in, we change joint mechanics. There's risk. Once I start cutting..."
Translation: We can try to fix it and make it worse. Or we can do nothing and it still might go to hell. I want better options.
There are none.
I lift my right foot, all weight on the injured leg, arms out. First five seconds are fine. By eight, the tremble starts.
This is my life now. No roaring crowd. No ninety-minute problem to solve with my body in front of tens of thousands of screaming fans.
Just quiet fights with gravity, where my sweat smells like lost years on the pitch and regret.
Hanging onto hope is now an exercise in grim determination, which makes it harder, because hope blooms when you're certain there is a possible positive outcome.
Once you remove the certainty, it's just pleading with God.
"Eyes fixed on one spot," Vince snaps. "Not on the past. Not on your fear. Become one with the wall."
I lock onto a crack in the upper concrete and breathe. My quad shakes, then steadies. Twenty seconds.
"Down," he orders.
I step off and shake my leg out.
"Better," Vince says grudgingly. "You still look like Bambi on ice, but you're staying upright."
"I'm an athlete. No' a deer."
He snorts. "Again. Right leg. Impress me."
Right side is smooth, which just highlights how bad the left is. Nine to twelve months, Jelshi said, if I do surgery and everything goes right. No one is promising anything.
The only thing going right these days is Amy's healthy pregnancy. She's carrying my child.
My child.
Blood of my blood, bone of my bone, sperm of my—no, that's not quite right.
Three weeks since the pregnancy test flipped to Pregnant. Three weeks of my life rearranging itself while my knee refuses to cooperate.
Vince claps once.
"Enough. Sled."
He jerks his chin toward the prowler in the center lane, a low metal frame with plates stacked high, sitting there with all the subtlety of a freight train.
I grab my water bottle. My phone lights up.
It's Jody: NY athletic-wear campaign sniffing around. Numbers are sexy.
Of course they are. Str1kecast Sports wants me talking on camera. New York wants me flexing in compression shorts. Uncle James wants my family on the page for a resort.
Meanwhile my actual job, the one with grass and studs and sweat, is hanging by a shredded band of cartilage.
"Put your boyfriend away," Vince says. "Hands on the sled."
"It's Jody."
"He can't fix your knee. He can only help you buy your next sheep farm for your mother. Priorities."
"I already bought a sheep far — "
"PRIORITIES."
I set my palms on the low bars and lean in.
"Four lengths," Vince says. "Long strides. Don't cry. If you cry, I livestream it."
"I dinna cry," I mutter. "Ne'er on the pitch, ne'er in the gym."
I drive forward. The sled scrapes over rubber, every push sending pain up my left leg.
The door chime dings, not a macho sound but a cheery little note someone installed before Vince took over.
"About time," Vince mutters.
I hit the far wall, lungs on fire, and let the sled drop. Vince drags it back like it's a stuffed animal.
Andrew McCormick walks in first, wearing a faded sports T-shirt, trying and failing to pass for a normal guy. He has short, sandy hair and intense eyes. Although he owns his own chain of gyms, he comes to Vince's so his own managers can't creep round him.
Declan is right behind, darker and more stone-faced, all contained power and expensive joggers. Gerald trails them in a hoodie speckled with paint. His presentation is still full bodyguard, bald head and eyes that cut across the room like lasers.
The unofficial Fathers' Caucus.
"Lads," I say, catching my breath.
"We are not lads," Andrew replies. "We're hollowed-out husks of men, animated by coffee and Disney Junior."
"At least you left the house," Declan says. "That's progress."
"Suzanne told me to stop folding the same dish towel in a trance and go be useful somewhere else," Gerald says. "So here I am."
Vince points at them.
"You're all late, you're all soft, and one of you smells like peanut butter."
"Twins." Andrew sighs. "There was a fight over a one-pound holiday-size peanut butter cup shaped like an elf. I took the fastest way out by eating it."
“ALL of it?” Declan asks. His brother just gives him a glare.
"You brave leader, you," Vince says flatly.
"How's the knee?" Gerald claps my shoulder.
"Depends on when ye ask. Doctor says lots of scar tissue. Maybe another surgery, maybe not. Risk either way."
"He still thinks there's a chance?" Declan asks.
"A chance. No' a promise."
"Motivational hour is later," Vince says. "Right now, Hamish pushes the sled. You three try to remember what having balls feels like."
"I remember them, all right," Andrew winces. "You try roughhousing with twin boys. Those little bare feet are brutal."
"Sled, Hamish. Again."
I set my hands and push. They warm up beside me, stretching, making noises that sound like old furniture.
"So," Declan says casually, "how's Amy?"
"She's good," I tell him, huffing air. "Bit nervous. Tired. Ye ken."
"Define 'good,'" Andrew snorts.
"She's doing what she's supposed ta do. Prenatal vitamins. No wine. Constantly checking an app to see whether the baby's a poppy seed or a lentil."
"You're in the produce phase," Gerald chuckles.
"Wait until she shoots a watermelon out of her crotch in a broken elevator and you have to catch your own child," Declan says with the dissociated look of a man in a foxhole.
"We'll go ta the labor and delivery unit at the hospital like normal folk," I assure him.
I reach the end of the lane, drop the sled, and bend over, sucking air. Vince drags it back.
"Again," he says, and I groan.
Andrew steps closer, smirking.
"Also, you're glowing."
"Men dinna glow," I say, scowling.
"You do. You've had a weirdly smug smile for weeks. It's the 'we did it' smile."
I set my hands on the sled again.
"We're keepin' it quiet. No one is supposed ta ken yet beyond family. We're not tellin' anyone else till after week thirteen. No press, no randoms. No one."
"Understood," Declan says. "We can keep our mouths shut."
Gerald nods. "I'm not family, but I follow bro code."
"Ye're family, Gerald," I say. He gives me a curt nod.
"I'll try." Andrew grimaces.
"Do more than try."
"You're the weak link," Declan says to him. "When we escaped our wedding, you were the one who cracked. You told Marie we were going to Vegas."
"That woman could drag nuclear secrets out of a four-star general," Andrew protests. "She's CIA-worthy."
"Try harder this time," I demand.
Across the lane, Vince stands frozen.
"Week thirteen," he repeats slowly. "Family. Baby apps. Produce metaphors."
Och. That's right. I haven't told him yet. Our eyes lock.
"You got a bun in the oven?"
"More like a wee pastry, no bigger than ma thumbnail. A crumb. It's early and we're bein' careful."
"I manage your rehab," he says, outraged. "I'm in charge of the body that did the knocking up of the wife. I’m three degrees of separation away from the sperm.”
Declan shivers.
“That is relevant information,” Vince insists.
"What the hell does ma spunk hittin' her egg have ta do wi' ma knee?"
"How far along?" Vince glares.
"Pushing nine weeks."
"Any complications?" His expression shifts for half a heartbeat.
"No. She feels fine. No nausea. No nothing. Doctor says all is well."
The entire room goes dead quiet. Andrew stares at me. Declan freezes mid-stretch. Gerald's jaw drops.
I look at them. "What? I'd think ye'd all be happy fer us. Amy's fine. All is good."
"Fine?" Declan asks, as if it's a strange word he's never heard before.
"As in, fine. Her boobs are getting bigger and she's a bit tired, but nae much else has changed."
"Get out." There is total disbelief in Andrew's voice.
"What?"
"You have a pregnant wife with no morning sickness?" he demands. "Get the fuck out of here."
"I'm telling the truth! Ma knee is shredded, can I no' have one thing go right in ma life?"
"If Amy dodges the puking stage completely, you won the lottery," Declan says, and Gerald folds his arms.
"If Suzanne hears about this, she might never speak to Amy again."
"Amy keeps waitin' fer it to hit. And she goes ta bed around ten now. We canna even watch our shows."
"'We canna watch our shows,'" Andrew mimics, doing a god-awful Scottish impression that makes him sound like a drunk Texan with a lisp.
"Oh, no! We're television deprived. We have endless hours alone together every day and she's too tired to spend some of them in a quiet condo on the couch watching the telly.
Please rescue us from our sad little lives, devoid of all pleasure. "
"Feck off."
"Sometimes the morning sickness comes later," Gerald says. "Suzanne's second pregnancy was easier. Not easy, but easier."
"Tell that to Amanda," Andrew mutters. "Twins. She could smell my toothpaste from three city blocks away. Mint made her appendix twist."
"And then there's the cravings," Gerald prompts him, grinning.