Page 12 of Blindsided By You

There must be something in the water in Cluanie. We’ve produced more than our share of outstanding sports people, the man standing in front of me included. But it’s not because she hails from my hometown that I’m desperate to add Quinn Jamieson to my stable.

I’ve made a name for myself in a male-dominated sport, which means my first few private clients are all guys. However, women’s sport is on the rise and I want to be part of the new wave as weno longer play second fiddle to the men. To have this world class triathlete sign with me would be a victory not only professionally, but personally.

It’s heartening that she and I are the same age. Many thirty-four-year-old athletes are facing the cold hard reality of a body punished by sport and looking for an exit strategy. They’re forced to bow out gracefully and accept the narrowing of their world while younger rising stars, hungry for success, shove them aside. Quinn is at her peak and shows every sign it’s not just a spike with her career all downhill from here. She offers a small beacon of hope that maybe, just maybe, my best years aren’t all behind me, either.

“I suppose it’s a bit rich me telling you to take it easy.” He’s notorious for not calling in sick, even one time when Doc threatened to handcuff him to his bed. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t so damn like me,” he says with a wry curve of his mouth. But I know it’s not true. “Well, make sure you pace yourself.” Like he doesn’t know I only have one speed—and it’s full on. “I’m just off for my run, and then I’ll stop in at Grant’s office. Promised I’d go over a couple of things with him. Some ideas I’ve been mulling over.”

Poor Grant. How the man even gets a single spreadsheet finished, I don’t know. I assume he’s got a team of junior assistants who pick up the slack while he’s deep in conference with Dad. They must shudder when he steps in the door of Darby and Keene Accountants. My father forgets he’s not dealing with professional administrators who are paid to listen to his latest musings on the state of the game and rugby politics.

“Take care, Dad,” I say. “Early frost. Could be some ice on the pavements.”

He pulls his beanie down hard, stepping out into the clear sky, where the fog has peeled back. It’s going to be a beautiful day, although still too bright for my over-sensitive eyes. He breaks into a jog, his breath misting a little, and disappears with steady rhythmic footfalls across the concrete paved courtyard.

I lean forward at my desk, head cupped in my hands, fingers rotating across my temples in a delicate probing massage. I breathe in, right into the depths of my stomach, allowing the air to sweep through my body with soothing tendrils, and then out again, in a slow stream, seeking out the tiny bits of the miasma of migraine that linger. In—hold—out; and repeat.

The well-practised mantra helps me tap back into simply feeling normal. It’s bliss after the painful hours of early Sunday followed by the dull, heavily-sedated sleep that, while it is my saviour, comes with a price. It’s like having a hangover without the pleasant memory of the alcohol to compensate.

The door swings open and I raise my head, expecting to see Dad returning with some reminder or further sage words of advice. But it’s not. My witty comment about his over-protectiveness withers on my lips.

I blink, unsure if this is some fever dream, as bottled sunshine walks into my office clutching a tall takeaway coffee and a full-wattage smile. It’s my fangirl. What was her name? Taylor? No—Skylar. Her smile wavers a little in the face of my frown. I’m told I look downright intimidating when I’m thinking.

“Skylar,” I say, forcing a bright tone and hoping my face complies with the order to follow. “You’re here.”

OK, maybe normal isn’t quite in the building yet; but even normal me isn’t so good at welcoming small talk. I’ve lived in theworld of men so long, I’ve had too little practice in the warm fuzzies that oil the wheels of feminine conversation.

“I brought you a coffee,” she says, thrusting the cup at me. “Figured everyone needs a coffee on Monday morning.”

“You figured right. That’s exactly what I need. Thanks.”

I stretch out my hand in gratitude, folding my fingers around the waxy paper cup. Its warmth feels good, soothing against the residual tension of the headache I’m still holding in every part of my body—but not as good as the smell that drifts towards me.

Maybe I’m hallucinating. Maybe I’m not in the arse-end of Scotland. Maybe it’s not Monday morning. Maybe I’m not facing the spectre of my migraines coming back in their life-sapping ferocity. The aroma begs my mouth to taste, to confirm what I suspect is true.

“Where the hell did you find a toffee nut latte in Cluanie?” I say as the first sip of hot, sweet deliciousness passes across my tongue.

“It’s not what you know, but who you know,” she says with a wink.

“Maggie at the Co-op?” Her face falls just a millimetre knowing I’ve guessed her secret supplier, then lifts back to high beam. “I heard a rumour she was planning to expand the offerings.”

The town is growing with all the work-from-home people who’ve relocated from cities to smaller rural places. People like me. Smart locals like Maggie know there’s money to be made in feeding their caffeine addiction, the lifeline of a city worker.

“I hope it’s still OK,” she says. “You said, on Saturday night—“

“Of course it’s OK. I remembered. You want to work for me.”

“Not work, volunteer. A sort of internship?”

“Skylar, I’d love to have you, but on one condition. It’s a paid internship.” I won’t profit from this girl’s enthusiasm.

“That’s very generous,” she says, and I note she knows when to be gracious and accept a sincere offer without a fuss, showing unexpected maturity. “When can I start?” She’s trying to suppress her puppylike eagerness, and it’s heartwarming.

“You can start right now. See this folder. I need three copies of what’s inside, bound—that’s this machine here.” That will be the acid test. The damn binding machine hates me with a vengeance. If she can work out how to use it without it chewing the edges of freshly copied documents, spitting them out with ragged tooth-marks, then she’s a keeper.

“And then, this is a list of Twitter accounts. Jump on here,” I pull Twitter up on the iPad, “and screenshot any tweets that mention them from the last three days.”

“Got it, boss,” she says, offering me a salute and a grin.

I gather myself from my desk, trying to appear nonchalant as I reveal the full extent of my Monday morning slovenliness. Skylar tries to look equally unsurprised as she takes in the sight. Her new boss is wearing superhero pyjamas and slippers that look like twin bright pink Highland coos, one of which is going through a reggae phase. Meanwhile, my hair resembles something from The Walking Dead.

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