Page 13 of Blindsided By You

“I’ll be back in half an hour. Need to deal with this.” I point a finger at my lank hair.

In the shower, I melt under the soothing water. Rain from the large showerhead cascades over me, little rivers washing away the fog from my brain. Multiple jets massage my back and legs, while a fine mist drifts around my shoulders in a warm cloud.

I breathe a sigh of gratitude that the excesses of this house extend to the bathrooms. The vanity of a failed businessman, many featuresof this sumptuous home are wasted on us, but here in the shower, I’m glad of his need to do everything on an impressive scale.

The oversupply of space within these walls may also prove useful if Dad continues to invite big groups of people over, like the almost one hundred at Saturday night’s party. I blame that for the migraine. Too much peopling often beckons in my headaches. Although, besides the stress of facing them all, a few positives came out of the evening.

Skylar for one. I hate to admit it, but the rapid success of my new solo business venture is putting me under pressure. I’m used to having a team of assistants to step up when necessary. I’ve missed that. But perhaps not any more. If this girl has even half the potential I sense in her, she’s just what I need.

And itwasgood seeing some of the old familiar faces. Maybe not Kyle Stewart. That brought up memories of a version of myself I’d rather forget. But having a chat with Connor, still just a big-hearted teddy-bear, spoke of possible connections, of renewing friendships that my life lacks. And alongside the warmth at thinking of Connor comes another warmth, one that has a slightly disturbing edge to it and Geordie MacDonald’s face smack in the middle.

Although I didn’t talk to Geordie for long, the entire time, something hung in the air between us. While he still has the same sweet sunny nature, little boy Geordie has grown into an attractive man: body filled out, gangly limbs replaced—long muscular denim-clad legs, toned arms under the close-fit plaid shirt, strong golden-haired forearms—but the same wide blue eyes, unruly curls, and easy smile.

I shiver at the memory of his large, firm hands on my waist. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m having very hot, very sexualthoughts about my friend’s not-so-little-anymore brother. Could be the migraine.

Migraines will do that to me. My body innately knows that release offers relief. Ask Dr Google and he’ll tell you the same: orgasm can cause or cure migraine. In my case, it’s the latter. Sometimes, wavering between my meds in the left-hand bedside cabinet and the vibrator in the right, my hands seek out its black satin bag and opt for a natural remedy.

Much as I’d like to do that now, and let my fingers wander down to the little tingling bundle of nerves between my legs, I don’t. I fear the images that would undoubtedly accompany such pleasure. I can’t encourage thoughts of Geordie in that way. They already swirl too close for comfort, and I need time to process exactly why they’ve invaded my life before I even begin to consider the consequences of acting on them.

Chapter 7

GEORDIE

Tyingrugbybootsonis like a matey, back-slapping hug from an old friend. Even this pair, pretty much new, having only carried me through one practice, not yet christened with even a pre-season friendly match; they still feel good. It’s been too long. I’ve loved this game since I was a little nipper running around in the frost. There’s the brotherhood, of course. Most men like to run in a pack. Maybe it speaks to some long-buried tribalism; the blood of ancient clans pulsing in our veins, drawing us together. I know when I pull on my blue Cluanie R.F.C. jersey I feel part of something special and important—bigger than myself.

Beyond the team spirit that I thrive on, rugby was also a refuge for a kid who struggled with school. This game is something I’m truly good at. I’ll never run onto the pitch at Murrayfield in the navy national jersey, but I know I’m an asset to this club team. There’s a bitter irony that the learning disability which denied me a smooth passage through school and made parts of my life difficult may also have given me the spatial abilities to understand the game with an ease others lack.

I’ve heard people talk about the gift of dyslexia. Not sure I’d speak of it in quite such generous terms, but there’s a little bit of truth in it. While a dyslexic brain struggles to process some types of information, it eats up others.

For me, the moment I step onto the pitch, my brain transforms into a hungry gatherer of clues, relentlessly scanning the field, monitoring the location of other players, analysing the shifting patterns of bodies flowing across the space. It effortlessly anticipates where the next gap will open up. From body language alone, it predicts the movements of my teammates and opponents. It looks for the next tackle, the next kick, the next pass.

At tonight’s practice, as we prepare for a friendly tussle against our second division team, I’m already eager to unleash its capacity. I sense a tingle of electricity, the spark that will ignite when I step out of the change rooms and my brain fires into life. Even knowing it will have to endure an hour of sprints and endless sets of press-ups, boring drills and repetitive rehearsals of set pieces before we get into proper play, it’s ready.

“Raring to go as always, I see.” Nathan Wilder slings a sports bag on the bench beside me.

“Yeah, knocked off early. How’s that temperature unit going? No problems?”

“All good,” he says, as he strips off a shirt and tugs on his practice jersey. “Though it’s old. That electrical fault you fixed? Seems to me it was simply a sign of more to come. I’m going to have a word with the boss. Time to invest some more in the plant.”

“So you can get back to focusing on making the whisky, not worrying about the thing keeping its arse warm.”

“Exactly. In the meantime, I expect you may well need to become close friends with the damn thing and give it a nudge along.” He pauses to pull on his practice shorts. “Speaking of friends…” He raises his eyes from where he’s been adjusting the ties at his waist. “So, Mac, it seems you’re a bit of a dark horse, mate.” Nathan lifts one of his dark brows and offers a teasing smirk.

“Your point is?” I toss back the question, my brows tugging down in a mystified frown.

“Jenna Sharpe. All the talk of her on Saturday night and you didn’t say a whisper. Then next thing I glance out a window and spot the pair of you cosied up like old friends. Or is it more than old friends?”

I feel a full on rush of warmth from my neck to the roots of my hair. The secret heat invading my body every time I’ve dared to think about Jenna since seeing her again on Saturday is now displayed on my face for the world to see. Well, only Nathan, but I’m not even ready for him to know the truth of it. Too late. Betrayed by my face.

“My older sister’s friend,” I say. “Not mine.”

“Really? Not even a high school crush? No teenage beating off under the bedsheets thinking of her?”

“Fuck off, Wilder,” I scoff, while shuffling uncomfortably at his taunting.

He’s hit a little too close to home. I can’t deny Jenna’s been in my thoughts, but I’m not going to admit to her presence in the shower this morning being the perfect accompaniment to the frantic rhythm of my hand. Nathan’s become a good friend, but not so good that I’m ready to discuss the subject of having a wank while imagining my sister’s friend.

“Hell, she left Cluanie when I was twelve. I hadn’t even noticed girls back then.”

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