Page 23 of Blindsided By You

In his own inherent goodness, Geordie recognises the goodness in me and it’s addictive. A nice guy like him actually likes a girl like me. A nice guy like him wants to spend time with me. It’s the first time I’ve felt that way in years, and I want more.

Which is why, as we head for the bus, I seek him out. I’m desperate he doesn’t abandon me for his mate Nathan, the friendly Kiwi bloke, or Brodie with whom he goes way back.

“Wanna listen to some music on the next leg?” I offer, hoping to encourage him back into our shared seat. “Downloaded the new Stellar Riot album yesterday. Haven’t played it yet.” His eyes light up and I hope it’s more than the prospect of the music. I want to believe he’s pleased I’ve given him permission to join me. “If you don’t mind sharing.” I dangle my earbuds. An uncharacteristic shyness grips me. Please let him say yes.

“Thanks,” he says. My breath rushes out. “Didn’t know it was out. You know I drove my American roommates mad with the last one on endless repeat,” he adds with a grin. “I mean, come on, they deserved to hear a decent British band.”

We like the same music. It feels like the universe just scrawled another big tick beside Geordie’s name on the list of guys that have caught my interest lately. Never mind that it’s theonlyname on the list.

I slide into the seat, enjoying the feel of his large body tucking in beside me, and the brush of those long fingers as he accepts the ear bud. Soon we share twin smiles of delight at the pulsating music feeding directly into our heads. The y-shaped wire tying us together coaxes my smile even wider. It mirrors the invisible bond I feel growing stronger as the miles roll by.

At the hotel, I reluctantly hand Geordie over to his brother from another motherland, Nathan Wilder. It makes sense these two would pair up—the laid-back Kiwi boy shares Geordie’s easy-going approach to life and ever-present grin. They’ll make a formidable pairing on the field as they manage the almost living, breathing beast that is a rucking rugby pack between them. They’ll be perfect roommates tonight, too.

This pre-season social trip is a good chance to test hotel room combinations for the odd away game. Dad’s already paired up with the Club President Grant Darby, who was waiting for us, after driving down yesterday for a work meeting. They’ve disappeared into the bar and I leave them to it, while I herd the guys to their rooms.

Getting the right match ups is important. Although I haven’t spent the time with these players I’d normally have with a proteam—and working out compatible roommates wasn’t my job at the Highlanders—I know what’s needed. A bit of local knowledge has come in handy, and I think I’ve set up sleeping arrangements that will keep the peace.

If it weren’t for the embarrassment of making the request, I’m sure Geordie and Nathan would have come to me, like two small boys on school camp, asking to room together.

Connor, as captain—and quite frankly, the most sensible one of the lot of them—is a natural choice to keep an eye on young Brandon. Not that I’m worried the guy will get drunk and do the dirty on Skylar. He seems a good kid, and he’s besotted with her. It’s a useful situation, really—Skylar binding him to Cluanie—because he’s the team’s secret weapon. Until we reveal him at our first pre-season friendly next weekend. A fullback with a deadly accurate boot and I’d bet a hundred pounds he’ll be the first points-scorer of the season.

Fleet-footed Brodie, and quiet Fraser Sinclair—who apparently transforms into a beast when he ties on his boots—are another natural pairing. Along with Connor, they’ll ground the team with their elder statesman status, having played for Cluanie since they were five-year-olds.

Kyle Stewart saunters past, an arm clapped around the shoulder of another younger player. For his roommate, I picked someone steady, despite his age, and I’m trusting Dad’s judgment on this one. He swears Kyle is a reformed character from the teenage boy I knew. Not enough to trust him near me, of course, but according to Dad, his time in the army in the hellhole of Afghanistan, and then a stint in close personal protection, has shaped Kyle into a new man.

That’s just as well on two counts. Firstly, it wouldn’t do for Cluanie if he tarnished the friendly, helpful reputation of the localcoppers with his antics. Second, the younger men in the team thrive on good mentors.

Dad’s nuanced understanding of the dynamics of team culture comes from keen observation and subtle manoeuvring of people on and off the field. That’s what makes his teams into champions. He’s rarely wrong about his players, and I’d hate Kyle to stuff this up. Having Razor Sharpe show faith in a man is a precious gift, one I hope Kyle doesn’t throw back in his face.

A helpful porter hovers, eying my compact bag with surprise. I’ve learned how to travel light.

“Thanks, I’ll be fine,” I say as he reaches for it. “Front bar, four o’clock,” I call to the guys assembled in a scrum by the elevator. I’ll dish out tickets there before we set off en masse towards the hallowed ground of Murrayfield. It’s a bit of a walk, but the brisk air will be a welcome refresher on the way back tonight.

“Got it, m’am.” Kyle snaps off a sharp salute with a grin.

The others laughingly mimic him, and I can’t help but smirk back. They’re good guys, these men of Cluanie, perhaps even Kyle.

I turn and head for the opposite bank of elevators that will take me to my lonely room in the left wing. In my other life, I’d be in that huddle, my room close enough to the team in case I was needed. There’s been more than one night I’ve sat in a hotel room, clothes dragged on in a hurry, a veneer of professionalism pulled over a still sleep-weary body. It’s incredible how the threat to a player’s reputation, or the team’s, can ignite the brain to suggest solutions, even if it’s two a.m.

Tonight, there’ll be none of that. I’m just the travel agent. I drag my little carry-on case behind me across the marble foyer, the clatterof plastic wheels my only companion, while the group of men opposite trade happy banter.

Tonight I’ll sleep uninterrupted. A simple fact that emphasises how much my life has changed. Jenna Sharpe, the professional, isn’t needed by this team, my talents in wrangling the media redundant.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up alone. Another simple fact that shows in some ways nothing has changed at all. There’s no one here who needs Jenna Sharpe, the woman, either.

Chapter 11

JENNA

Istandonthecarpeted steps at the side entrance of the cosy bar area, arms extended, doing a fair imitation of Edward Scissorhands. In each hand, I clutch a fan of tickets for tonight’s match. If Dad had got his act together and outlined the full details of this team-bonding scheme a bit earlier, I could have purchased a nice neat block of seats right on the halfway line. Instead, we’ve been left with the rats and mice, two here and three there—the only ones I could get and still seat all of us in our preferred area of the main stand.

Pairing everyone up for the hotel rooms was simple. But sorting twenty-five people into a crazy patchwork quilt seating plan seemed a logistical nightmare that I really didn’t need to face. Dad agreed, saying that, in fact, a random seat assignment would work well. Rather than placing the guys in their usual social groupings, this lucky dip might forge new connections between players.

I have to admit it’s a good idea, and the guys seem open to it. I haven’t heard any grumbling. The novelty appeals. Of course it would. I’ve learned that often, by treating men like the eager little boys that still lurk beneath their adult bravado, I can get them onsidewith whatever is needed. What kid doesn’t like a lucky dip? They press forward, snatching them from my hands and then wave them around, trying to work out with whom they’ll spend the next few hours, amongst their raucous laughter and winding each other up.

Earlier, I picked out two tickets for side-by-side seats, and set them aside for Dad and Grant. So once the rest of the team has taken theirs, I’m left with just one—mine. I hope it matches with Geordie, but I’m not trusting the universe to send him my way. After all, she’s been fairly generous with him so far.

I also hope it’s anyone but Kyle. I may be judging him unfairly, but I’m pretty sure I won’t enjoy the thrill of the match as much with his presence at my side. I’m quite adult enough to cope with guys from my past popping up in my life (Adam excepted), but I haven’t quite moved on from the small rush of shame that nipped at me when I first saw Kyle at the party.

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