Page 3 of Blindsided By You

I groan. He’s not only nippy; he’s also a whiffy wee beast. I’ll be drifting off to sleep with his reek in my nostrils. Might be a good night to load up on the alcohol—for sedation purposes, of course. Though I won’t complain if it also blurs the painful edges of this first proper public appearance since Mum died. Sure, I’ve scurried in and out of the local shops, had a drink at the pub with my friend Rachel when she was here a couple of weeks ago, but I haven’t faced a crowd since the day of Mum’s funeral, six months ago. After we laid her torest in the small kirkyard of St Andrew’s, most of the town followed us back here for the wake. Now there’s a different sort of gathering below, but I still don’t want to face it.

“You OK love?”

I treasure Dad’s crackled voice—gentle with me, scathing with undisciplined players. He reads me just as he reads them. That’s his coaching superpower: drilling straight into a person’s heart. Rugby players never see it coming, but it’s how he transforms the merely talented into the spectacular.

“Yeah, Dad. All good,” I try to lie. “I won’t be long. Just putting on the war paint.”

His deep, gruff laugh massages my ears; a sound I’ve heard too little lately.

“You don’t need it for that lot downstairs. No one to impress there. They all know you.”

That’s precisely why Idoneed the mask of makeup. Too many of them know me too well. I need to go out there with the same aura of confidence I used in my past life against wily reporters, intent on confirming the dirt they’ve dredged up on a player—because if I let it slip, it’s not some wayward rugby jock exposed. It’ll be me, raw with the truth: I neglected this place, these people, and worst of all, I abandoned my mum. A choice I can never undo.

Noisy chatter from the crowd taking over my home drifts upstairs. I can’t suppress a smile as the chorus of male voices stirs warm nostalgia. I dab makeup into the faint creases bracketing my mouth. I’ve lost count of the rugby team parties in my life, but I still remember the first.

I was five. Mum bathed me early that night, tucked me in with her usual goodnight kiss to my long, witchy hair, but left without our bedtime story.

Lying in the soft glow of my Spiderman night light, I tracked each arrival. Car doors slamming, heavy footsteps on the path, knuckles tapping or fists pounding the front door. Then raucous laughter, hearty greetings, back-slapping and blokey banter. Through it all, my parents the constant backdrop: Dad’s raspy voice cutting across the chatter, my mother’s indulgent chuckles as young men invaded her house.

Sleep was impossible. How could any child doze off amid booming voices and clinking glasses, all pulsing to the beat of rock music? Snuggled under my plush blanket, I could think only of sausage rolls, their warm, crisp pastry aroma having filled the house all day. And those perfect little pies—dark peppery mince nestled beneath flaky layers. As Dad’s team devoured the feast downstairs, my rumbling stomach reminded me of my five o’clock dinner, served early so I wouldn’t be underfoot.

The door creaked open. A large hand clutching a plate appeared, followed by the cheeky face of our neighbour’s son, Dean. A gawky teen with a curly mop of too-long hair and pitted skin—he would later become the local club’s star winger. But then, he was just the friendly kid next door who sometimes kicked a ball with a rugby-obsessed little girl, showing kindness to the lonely only child from the other half of the semi-detached.

“Sssh,” he said, finger to his lips. “Present from your dad.” My eyes widened at the mountain of food. He nudged Spidey aside and slid the heaped plate onto my bedside table. “I’ll collect it later. Best your mum doesn’t know, eh?” he added with a conspiratorial grin.

Even then, Dad and I had our connection—partners in a world Mum never fully entered. Behind these sweet memories from his early coaching days, lurks an insurmountable sadness. Mum’s gentle, stabilising presence is gone. Death stole her unwavering support for Dad’s legendary career—and for mine, when I followed him into professional rugby with my PR skills. She championed us both unhesitatingly, even when our work took us far from her—her presence distilled into phone calls and FaceTime.

My bedroom door glides open again. It’s vastly different from my childhood bedroom’s, this one all modern lacquer and gleaming brass. As Dad peers around the corner, my nostalgic musings sharpen the changes in his face: fifty-eight years of battling laughter lines and frowns, now overtaken by grief’s deep furrows.

Big softie that he is, he steps inside the room, placing a water bowl and a plate of kibble on my bathroom tiles.

“Thought he might need this,” he says gruffly.

“Thanks Dad,” I say as he slips back out. I glare at Arsehole Andy sprawled on my pillow. Definitely not the pleasant and gracious ambassador for Scotland that his namesake is, but it seems I’m stuck with him.

I return to fixing my face. I’m dreading this party, but I can’t let Dad down. My hand trembles as I attempt eyeliner. Thank god for long lashes that don’t require a steady mascara brush. With no time for a jaunt to Edinburgh, I’d risked having a lash tint and brow wax at the little local beauty salon. An entrepreneurial young woman named Daisy has set up shop in the main street. She’s done a remarkable job for only twenty-five pounds. Perhaps I’ll offer to help promote her place. Selfish, really, since I need her business to survive.

Neat black flicks in place, I reach for a narrow vial. I untwist the lid, and roll the small ball across each thumb before pressing them to my temples. The aromatic herbal oil soothes instantly, the gentle massage casting a protective spell against the possibility of a migraine. Ironic that after conquering the debilitating headaches of my youth through years in a high-pressure career, they should resurface the moment I’m free of it.

Normally, I’d avoid the heavy incense wafting from the town’s new-age shop, but wandering in there by chance last week worked in my favour. My hands had gravitated toward the herbal headache remedy. I bought the vial on impulse—I’ll try anything to avoid old Doctor Metcalfe’s anti-inflammatory injections in the butt. I make a mental note to thank Rain, the hippie-looking owner who recommended it. Unexpected wisdom lurks behind her wild grey mane and enigmatic smile.

I grab a bright red lipstick—far more jaunty than I feel—and paint on courage, coaxing my lips into a confident smile. Not yet ready to brave the noise below, I sit for a moment. I study myself in the mirror, silently summoning the strong, competent woman I see reflected there to step forward and face the evening.

Chapter 3

GEORDIE

Theroomheaveswithbodies, the air already thick with banter and the smell of beer. I swipe a bottle of Tennent’s lager from a tub of ice on the table and head to the corner where Connor, our captain, has settled his bulky frame into an available armchair. Kyle leans against it, his face already flushed with alcohol.

No judgement there. I intend to catch him up. Thatisthe point of tonight’s party: a chance to get pissed, talk shit and have a bit of a blowout before the start of the season. For sure, we’re only a small-town club team, but where local honour is at stake, we take the game seriously enough to pull back on the booze for a few months. That and the fact our new coach is known to be unforgiving of pissheads. None of us want to catch a taste of his displeasure, nor do we want to let down a guy who’s put his reputation on the line for us.

I’m the baby of this group. But that’s the strange thing about growing up in a small town; the normal lines between those of different form classes and sports teams become blurred. Holding on to some immoveable age-determined class system doesn’t serve youwell when you need a team of fifteen players and there’s only so many to go around. So despite six years between me as one of the youngest and the elder stalwarts of the team, like Kyle and Connor, there’s always been an easy camaraderie between us. I’ve missed it.

“Well, if it isn’t Geordie fucking MacDonald,” Kyle says, looping his free arm around my shoulder. I’ve forgotten just how lanky he is until standing here beside him. Handy for a copper to be tall, intimidating—and also since he plays at lock in the team; with his height in the lineout we’re always at an advantage. “Fuck, it’s good to see you. About fucking time. How long have you been back? At least a month and not once have you dropped by the station to see your old buddy Kyle. You slack bastard. Still a fucking useless prick, like always.”

“Good to see you too, man,” I say, unable to suppress a grin. “I can see you’ve managed to retain your extensive vocabulary while I was gone.”

“Fucking oath,” he fires back, his arrogant smirk splitting his face.

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