Page 25 of Blindsided By You

Dyslexic. I’d never heard that before about him, but it explains a lot. I know from Rachel how Geordie struggled his way through school. The stark contrast between his failing grades and her own exemplary record provoked tension in the family.

“But,” he says a little too brightly, “overactive kids sometimes grow into half decent rugby players. Besides,” he says, diverting the conversation, “the guy was acting like an arsehole, but he’s got his reasons.”

I raise a brow, curious about what could possibly justify such bad behaviour.

“See his hand.” I follow Geordie’s gaze. I hadn’t noticed the small plastic tube taped to the top of his hand. It’s the catheter of an IV line embedded there. “His wife filled me in as we swapped seats. He’s just come from the hospital. Demanded she break him out. Didn’t want to miss the game. Apparently, the doctors aren’t sure what’s wrong yet. Running tests. So he’s scared. It doesn’t excuse his behaviour, but I get it.”

I get it too. I nod, and turn my eyes back to the field, where movement below us and a roar from the crowd announce the players.

I catch my breath, senses overloading—not from the game, but from him. I’ve watched countless matches, but I’ve never experienced this intense tingling in my veins. It’s nothing to do with the game. I admit it to myself. I’m hopelessly attracted to my best friend’s little brother, and he’s right here, his warm, shiny presence wrapping around me as the sun goes down on Murrayfield and the temperature plummets.

It’s as if the whole ugly situation of earlier never happened. I’m convinced the universe is on my side. Seeing my need to soak up as much of this man as possible, she has engineered the opportunity to do so in a most unexpected way. I’m definitely not complaining. I’d endure a hundred Mr Grumpys for a snippet of time with one Geordie.

Even through our heavy jackets, I’m aware of the heat of his shoulder against mine. I imagine my hands running along the curve of it, tracing his neck, plunging my hands into that nest of curls that peek out of his shirt.

I drag my attention back to the field, joining the enthusiastic applause for our team. The men amble into line, ready for the anthem. A young woman steps onto the podium. The skirts of her tartan dress, a stylish modern version of a traditional costume ripple in the slight breeze. The familiar first bars of “Flower of Scotland” drift from the speakers, and with a smile and a slight toss of her mane of red hair, she begins. Her voice is high and as pure as a breath of Highland air. The crowd joins in and in my chest a tug of pride mingles with the melancholy this song inspires in every Scot. We sing in memory of our ancestors defeated in battle while below a group of young men gather to engage in a fortunately more benign tussle with a less formidable opponent than a red-coated English army.

Geordie and I blend our voices with the crowd. His is deep and tuneful and I smile, although the prickle of emotion from this song always prompts tears. I’m captivated by the sight of him, the light of the floodlights glinting off his hair like a halo. There is something beautiful and magical about Geordie that keeps drawing my eyes towards him.

A camera pans around the stadium, capturing the singing crowd. I trail its progress on the big screen opposite. It zooms in on a row and suddenly we realise it’s us. We lean in close, laughing and offering an exuberant wave to the world. We look so good together, his blonde curls brushing my dark hair. Just for a moment, I’m disappointed the American kiss-cam isn’t a thing here. Right now, I’d happily kiss Geordie MacDonald on international television for the whole damn world to see.

Chapter 12

GEORDIE

I’mlitupwitha blaze of energy as we thread our way back through the streets towards the hotel. It takes all my control to amble along normally with the group, Jenna at my side. As she stretches a hand to point at the Saltire flying proudly above Edinburgh castle, in defiance of the Scottish loss, loose strands of dark hair under her Scotland beanie brush my neck. God, my hands long to feel their way into its shiny depths. Her cheeks are flushed pink with the cold and I’d happily offer my mouth to warm those rosy bowed lips.

Everything inside me hums with the need to break into some sort of victory dance, or leap around like an unruly golden retriever, simply because for now she’s all mine.

The small detail that our team took a hiding at the hands of the All Blacks pales beside the rest of the evening’s events. I spent two hours tucked in close to Jenna, our breaths mingling in clouds; our voices, one moment screaming encouragement in unison at a runaway Scottish try, the next united in some enthusiastic booing when the dodgy French referee dished out an unfair yellow card to our team captain.

We joked around with the kids behind us, who think I’m the best person they’ve ever met for bringing them back hotdogs at half time. Even grumpy old Duncan and his wife joined in a bit of banter. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun, or felt so happy, or sensed the total rightness of a situation. I hope she sensed it too.

If her constant upward curve of lips, the sparkle in her eyes, and her hand casually buried deep in my jacket pocket—its warm pressure a welcome sensation against my hip as we stroll back through the streets—are any evidence, she may well have.

However, my light-hearted mood falters just short of the hotel. Two young women catch sight of Jenna, and make a beeline for her, waving wildly, their faces lit in wide smiles.

“Jenna! Oh my god, it’s so good to see you.” The woman with a cascade of blonde hair beneath a Highlanders beanie clasps Jenna to her, although I notice Jenna return the hug half-heartedly.

“It’s good to see you too, Amber.”

“You remember my friend, Tilly?”

“Yes, from the opening night of that new club in Argyle Street.” Jenna offers a polite smile to the other woman.

“God, that feels like a lifetime ago,” Amber gushes. “So, I just have to tell you how much we all miss you. Really,” she sighs with a roll of her eyes, “Jamie Sanderson was so not ready to step into your shoes. Roll on November I say.”

She squeezes Jenna’s hand as my heart plummets at the reminder—in three months Jenna will be gone from Cluanie and gone from my life. Unless something makes her change her mind, she’ll be back in Glasgow, back at the Highlanders. I’d like to think that something could be a someone—me, but I’m not foolish enough to believe I alone could compete with the future she’s built for herselfthere. Still, the thought of letting her walk away without even trying leaves a hollowness I can’t bear. Maybe I’m not enough reason to stay, but I might be enough reason to wonder what she’d be leaving behind. And for now, that sliver of possibility is all I have to hold on to.

Back at the hotel, we merge into the crowded bar. Surrounded by my friends, I’m knocking back the final drops of my first warming slug of alcohol when I realise Jenna is gone. One moment she’s laughing with Connor on my right, while Brodie corners me to whinge about the disallowed try right on half-time. The next, when I turn back, having tossed in my own share of dissatisfaction at the TMO’s decision, Jenna has disappeared.

Back in the big group, she’s slipped away from me, and my doubts return. That’s me, Geordie MacDonald, great for a bit of fun, but not for a serious relationship. Fine for a brief fling, but not someone you’d attach your life to. Insane as it seems, I think we’d have a chance, she and I, a life together, a good life, if only we could somehow take that first step.

There must be a couple of hundred of us in this room, shoulder to shoulder, doing what Scots do best in defeat: relive the battle in blow-by-blow detail, bolster each other’s hopes that next time victory will be ours, and drink.

In the bar pre-match, and during the game, a cool lager matched my thirst. Now there is no question of choosing anything other than a dram of whisky. My face is flushed with the warm buzz as I finish my second and I’m tempted to reject the idea of a third. While deliberating over the wisdom of more alcohol, I scan the room, pretending it’s just a casual surveillance of the crowd.

Of course I’m looking for her. There’s no sign of Jenna in the crush, and I worry if she’s OK in this group of men. Most appear harmless enough, but there’s always one or two who you wouldn’t want near your wife or girlfriend—or the woman you’re crazy about. Although I have this strange urge to protect her nagging at me, I know it’s stupid. Jenna can hold her own in any crowd. She doesn’t need me to save her. Not that it stops me wanting to.

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