Page 2 of Blindsided By You

But now’s not the time, because, as if he possesses a sixth sense, Robbie’s gaze whips back to us and I jerk my eyes away from Jenna’s, focusing on the head of the guy jogging in front of me.

Besides, what’s the point, really? Women like Jenna don’t let guys like me near them. My sister makes no secret of the fact she’s holding out for Mr Big, not just Mr Right. A capable career woman wants to find her equal, some guy with a business degree and a suit, not a trade school graduate like me, who’s found his level working for a small town electrical company.

“Fuck, Geordie, watch what you’re doing, man.”

It’s too late. I crash into Nathan as I attempt to sidestep the pack, which has come to a halt in front of us. Jenna disappears back to the car park as Razor strides onto the field. His scowl cuts through my embarrassment.

“Time for a word, lads,” he growls.

Chapter 2

JENNA

Mybodyleapsatthe unexpected thunder of a fist on the bedroom door. My hand skews upwards, the perfect sweep of brow pencil with it.

“Shit.” I glare at the charcoal streak marring my forehead. A lopsided cartoon character stares back from the mirror, one brow raised in perpetual surprise. “Shit,” I repeat, yanking open my dresser drawer, fingers scrabbling for makeup remover.

A racket of voices, music, and laughter tumbles into my room as the door swings open without invitation. I bristle with indignation. There’s a perfectly good downstairs bathroom. Stray visitors shouldnotbe invading my space. This party was a bad idea. I told Dad we should have used the club rooms instead of letting people roam through our home. It doesn’t matter that I know a fair few of them—it’s too soon.

I tense, swivelling towards the intruder, a polite but firm protest ready on my lips. The words dissolve when my father, Robbie Sharpe, appears around the corner, his dark curls peppered with silver, hawk-like nose preceding him.

“Mind if I leave Andy up here with you?” Dad asks.

Amusement creases his face. The scruffy black dog tucked under his arm—all pointy ears and whiskers—mirrors my father’s expression. They could be twins, except for the pink tongue lolling between Andy Murray’s moustached lips and his excited panting. He writhes in Dad’s grasp, desperate to reach me.

Andy and I are sort of mates. Lucky he likes Dad and me, because the grumpy arsehole hates everyone else. Even then, I suspect pompous Andy only tolerates us because we feed and walk him. Not like he has much choice of servants these days. He was Mum’s dog, and she was his angel, his defender, his everything. Now she’s gone, and he’s stuck with us.

“Little bastard’s already nipped two people,” Dad says with thinly-veiled pride. The gleam in his eyes is no surprise.

Dad’s always considered dogs like Andy a poor example of the species. Not much use for anything except a household decoration. “Just a bloody meat-eater,” he’ll mutter whenever he spots one perched under a pub table. He’s always looked down on the owners of small dogs with disdain, Mum being the sole exception. Now that Andy has proven himself as a household protection device—albeit poorly calibrated—he might have finally secured his place in the family.

“Who did he get?” I ask, hoping it wasn’t one of the wives or girlfriends. With their slim ankles teetering in ridiculous heels, WAGS would be easy game for a snappy Scottie terrier.

“Kyle Stewart,” he says. “Dog’s pretty much on the mark there. Just as long as it doesn’t get infected and put him out for the pre-season friendlies. Cocky bastard, but we need him.”

I can understand Andy’s choice. I think if I had to choose a victim from a room full of people, Kyle would be high on my list of targets, too. With a reputation tarnished by memories of him sleeping his way through every girl in our form class—to my eternal shame, including me—I can’t imagine he’s sufficiently changed.

I breathe a silent thanks to Andy on behalf of myself and all the other deluded teenage girls who fell prey to his charms. Kyle is good-looking, witty—kind even, behind the arrogant veneer—but with the sex-drive of a tomcat. He’s one of those guys who makes you feel like the only girl in the world when he’s with you. But harsh experience taught me—and all the others—that rather than basking in the blazing heat while his attention was upon me, I really should have worried about what he was up to when it wasn’t.

“I’m impressed. Good boy, Andy,” I croon and the dog wriggles his whole body with pleasure.

“Then, for some reason, he took a dislike to Geordie MacDonald.”

“No,” I say horrified. “Not Geordie?” How could anyone take a dislike to Geordie? Apart from a glimpse of him at practice the other night, I haven’t seen my best friend Rachel’s younger brother for years, but I still think of him as the sunny kid who trailed along behind us all over town.

Sure, we were mean to him, as befitted his lowly status—after all, he was six years younger—just to shake him off. But like Teflon, he deflected it all, blinded by his adoration of his sister. And while it was rather annoying when he spied on us down at the loch-side reserve, watching us kissing boys and smoking, he was easy to forgive. Without a sibling of my own, I suppose I had a high tolerance for my surrogate kid brother.

I can’t imagine fully-grown Geordie to be any less likeable than ten-year-old Geordie. That bloody dog definitely needs reprogramming.

“I take it all back, Andy. You’re a little shit. Bad, Andy,” I scold. His enthusiastic squirming makes it clear he has zero comprehension of the word ‘bad’. Mum’s overly-indulgent dog-parenting is precisely how we ended up here.

“Och, it’s all good,” Dad says. “No blood.”

Just as well—we don’t have Doc and a string of team medics at our beck and call these days. This isn’t a professional rugby outfit, just a small-town club with limited resources and a handful of enthusiastic volunteers.

“Give him here,” I say, reluctant to be Andy’s minder, but opening my arms anyway. Sometimes you’ve got to take one for the team. Literally.

I press the thrashing beast to my chest. His wiry coat—perfectly matching his bristly personality—feels like cuddling a kitchen broom. He struggles free, launching himself towards the bed. I sigh as he dances across my pristine white cover, leaving dirty smudges. After celebrating his conquest of the bed, Andy rotates in ever-decreasing circles before finally settling on my pillow.

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