Page 24 of Blindsided By You

I cringe at the memory of us, aged seventeen, having messy, awkward sex in his bedroom while his parents watched television downstairs—two fumbling teenagers experimenting with interesting possibilities for mutual pleasure from their blooming bodies. I don’t think I’ve forgiven him for how quickly he found another girl to join him under the patchwork bedspread his granny made him. Yes, I’d rather not spend two hours elbow to elbow with Kyle.

Brandon Smith saunters towards me with a smile. His kind eyes, blue-grey and soulful, remind me of a younger Geordie—another thoroughly decent young man. Although protective of Skylar, he respects her, showing sensitivity to her needs with a maturity most guys his age lack. She’s a lucky girl to have met a nice lad like him so young, and to know he’s prepared to stick around Cluanie for her. He waves his ticket at me.

“Looks like I get to sit with the boss lady,” he says, with a wink, then drops his head a little shyly, as if unsure he should really joke with me like that.

I loop my arm through his and laugh reassuringly. This kid is cute.

“Looks like you do. And it also means I’ll be able to tell Skylar, hand on heart, that I personally kept you out of trouble. I’m not sure I could stick with ‘what happens on tour, stays on tour’ where she’s concerned,” I warn.

He actually giggles, which only endears him to me even more. As Skylar is dog-sitting Andy for us—not many possible candidates for that job—the least I can do is boyfriend-sit for her. We stroll from the bar, prepared for a big night.

Inside the stadium, the air crackles with anticipation. It’s early in the year for an international test match, and although the evening is cool, at least it’s not threatening snow like the last time I sat in these seats. Fortified with cartons of steaming hot chips and cold cups of beer, Brandon locates our row and I follow him in. While not seated next to Geordie, he’s one row back and a few along, perhaps offering the chance of conversation.

We are reasonably early for the game, but even so, our seats are the only ones not yet filled in the row. The seated spectators all stand, smile, offer greetings and politely allow Brandon and me to pass. Except for one, and I inwardly groan as I realise the mansitting staunch and unmoving is my neighbour for the next couple of hours. I struggle past him into my seat.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Jenna. Good night for it, eh?”

This is the normal social expectation at the game; while you’re not aiming to become instant best friends, there’s always a small connection established, acknowledging our shared reason for being here. The wiry older man grunts what might be a word, or could simply be a huff of disdain. He barely takes his eyes off the pre-match entertainment.

On the pitch, three kilted drummers in leather jerkins wield drumsticks like Viking axes, the vibration of each beat resonating through the stadium. Two pipers stride from side to side, lungs blasting into their wailing instruments. Their pounding fusion of traditional Scottish music and hard rock is invigorating. However, I sense the man isn’t so much transfixed by the sound, but intent on ignoring me. His wife leans around him.

“I’m Nora and this is my husband Duncan,” she says, with a timid smile.

I smile back, trying to offer her encouragement, or perhaps courage. After all, I only have to sit with the man for the duration of the game. She’s got to go home with him afterwards.

For someone who is about to witness what will no doubt be a spectacular contest, he seems in a foul mood. He snaps at his wife when, after glancing at our food, she suggests they get some, berating her for not thinking of it before they sat down.

She meekly trundles off anyway and returns laden. None of it pleases him. The chips are too hot, the burger cold, and when he enquires as to the cost, he growls about ‘daylight robbery’.

I feel the bright edge of my excitement for the game slowly wearing off with every utterance from his snarling mouth. I pray for the match to start, hoping it will divert his attention from everything he perceives is wrong with the situation—a truly long list of mostly minor irritations magnified through the angry lens with which he views the world.

I try to keep upbeat, talking with Brandon but scared to invoke the wrath of this bear with a sore butt next to me by calling over him to Geordie, who’s only a few along to my left. Just as the pre-game entertainment ends, signalling the teams are due to appear from the players’ tunnel soon, it gets worse.

Directly behind us is a father with three young boys. They are beyond excited at the game. From their chatter, I’ve heard this is the first time they’ve been to a big match. While they’re all wiggle bums, the oldest really cannot sit still. He reminds me of my friend Carla’s son, Noah, a spirited and thoroughly delightful little boy who wears his ADHD diagnosis for all to see. He’s like a perpetual motion machine, and this child is the same.

The gap between one row and the next is narrow, and the child’s bouncing body and jiggling legs frequently collide with the seats in front. Mr Grumpy is bearing the brunt of this. His face contorts as colour rises in his cheeks and eventually he can take no more. He turns to the father, who’s been doing his best to calm the kid. The dad has offered to swap seats with his son, or change him for one of his brothers, but the boy is reluctant; he insists he’s got the best view, and he’s not giving it up without a fight. Wisely, his father hasn’t looked for one, but now Mr Grumpy is bringing it, anyway.

“Do something about your bloody kid, or I’ll come up there and do it for you,” he spits. “I didn’t pay a hundred and fifty pounds to put up with that all night.”

The father looks stunned; the boys scared. We all wait, unsure. And then, from the corner of my eye, I see Geordie rise to his feet.No, no, no Geordie.This man is a ball of tightly wound anger, totally disproportionate to the situation. I’m not sure how Duncan expects anyone to resolve it, but he doesn’t appear in any mood to accept apeacemaker. Not even Geordie’s special brand of sunshine seems an antidote for the black cloud hanging over angry Duncan.

Geordie steps past Nora, leaning in close to the man and I wince, noting he’s within punching range—this guy looks like he wouldn’t hesitate to hit someone. Their conversation is muted by the blare of speakers drifting upwards from the field. However, I see the man’s shoulders almost instantly relax, and he’s soon nodding as Geordie gestures back along the row to where he’s just come from. He arrives back at his seat exchanging quick words to a concerned-looking Fraser Sinclair, who is following the events with interest. Mild-mannered Fraser is aggressive on the field, but I doubt he’d have the mongrel to bring to a fight; and let’s face it, neither of these guys are the type to get into a punch-up at the rugby, or hit an older man, even if he is an obnoxious dickhead, and even if he took a swing first. Fraser just nods and gathers his beer.

Within minutes, the problem is resolved, and I am in a daze at my good fortune. Duncan and Nora are in Geordie and Fraser’s seats, and Geordie and Fraser are in theirs. The game is about to begin and I get to share it with him.

“Good chips,” he says, cramming one he’s stolen from my punnet into his mouth with a grin.

“Hey,” I say. “Leave some for me. That’s my dinner.”

“No, it’s not. I’ll buy you dinner at half-time, OK? Hot-dogs or if you’re really lucky I might even stretch to a burger.”

“Thanks for sorting out that horrible man,” I say. With this one small action, he’s saved the night.

“Aw, well,” he says. “Felt sorry for the kid. That was me at that age. Couldn’t sit still for a moment. Drove everyone nuts.”

“Yeah, you kind of did,” I laugh. He wasan active child.

A swallow works down his throat. “Lots of dyslexic kids have other challenges too. I was one of them.”

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