Page 4 of Blindsided By You

Kyle’s stint in the army equipped him with many skills, including the ability to embellish every sentence with at least one offensive word. I wonder how he managed to rein it in after leaving the military to take up a role as a government minister’s personal protection officer. Hopefully, he still can, since now, at the age of thirty-four, he’s embarked on his third career, joining the police and returning to his hometown. From all accounts, he’s thriving in the job. Being a big fish in a small pond suits Kyle’s need to be the centre of attention.

“Missed you at first practice the other night,” I say. As a local copper, Kyle’s job gets him a free pass the rest of us dare not hope for.

“Yeah, work,” he sighs. “Some dumb fucks rolled their car up on the road to Buchanan House. That’s my excuse. What’s yours for not calling by?”

“Yeah, I know.” He’s right. I’ve been slack. “I should have caught up sooner. But I didn’t expect to walk into a shit storm when I got home. Things were pretty wild, but I think it’s sorted.”

Mum’s heart attack blindsided us all. She’s always been the backbone of our family. A nurse by trade, the nurturer. Dad was totally lost, thrust into the role of caregiver. Way out of his comfort zone—the small-town lawyer more at home with legal briefs than shower benches and walking frames. Not that I’m exactly suited to it either, but arriving home the day after they discharged Mum, I could offer some welcome practical and moral support.

While it looks good on the outside—Mum’s gang of friends all think I’m the model son—the family drama wasn’t the reason for my return, just convenient timing. I bask in their approval. It’s a rare feeling to be considered anything other than the bad penny who turns up from time to time. Believe me, while it lasts, I’m not letting on that I came back simply because I’d had a guts full of life on an oil rig.

The money was brilliant, but that was about it. After my first six-month contract with an Aberdeen outfit, I thought swapping the brutal iciness of the North Sea for tropical heat down in Asia might be a smart move. For a few years, it sort of was, but that last stint on the rig in the Timor Sea finished me off. While it left me with a well-stashed bank account, it also made me finally realise how unsuited I am to that life, drifting around the world from one contract to the next.

Not that I’m sure how well fitted I am for this one, either. Being a guy of twenty-eight living at home with his parents isn’t exactly what I dreamed of. Nor is using my electrical engineering skills to coax unruly farm machinery back to life or keep the plant up at the distillery running smoothly.

Still, at least here I’ve got my mates. Stomping around a rugby field with the guys you’ve known since you were a little kid has a nostalgic appeal. Christ, I’m getting sentimental in my old age.

“Hey, look at this, mate.” Kyle leans down and pulls up the hem of his jeans, revealing an evil-looking row of teeth marks. “See what that fucking dog did to me? Little bastard. If it hadn’t been for Razor hot on his tail, he would have got a kick up the arse.”

“Don’t feel special,” I say. “Bastard got me too. Just lucky I had these on,” I say, lifting the edge of my own jeans to reveal my favourite tan leather boots.

“Yeah, if I’d known strolling around in a cowboy outfit would save me, I might have rounded up one for myself.” Kyle takes another long swig of his beer.

I accept him giving me stick good-naturedly. So what if I gravitated to the same off-duty uniform as my American workmates on the last rig? Reaching for any combination of the jeans, plaid shirts, and boots that fill my wardrobe neatly solves the problem of what to wear for a guy who doesn’t want to give too much thought to decisions like that. I draw the line at double denim and Stetson hats, but this outfit is comfortable—and provided an unexpected armour against the small black canine guided-missile who thought he might try out his jaws on my ankle as I came in the door.

“Well boys, I never thought I’d see the day.” Kyle grins around the circle of men. “Razor Sharpe lining up to chase our sorry arses around a paddock.”

We’re all a bit star-struck, to be honest. Not every day a local hero turns his back on the national stage to land in a small town like this one.

“Still remember watching him run out of the tunnel that first time at Murrayfield.” Fraser Sinclair turns back from where he’s been admiring the wall of framed awards. “God, I must have only been about four or five. We were all lined up in front of the telly, too scared to even breathe out of turn in case we interrupted the game. Dad was beside himself that a guy fromhisclass at school was wearing the navy jersey. He’s a bloody legend, that bloke,” he adds with an awestruck nod towards the man himself.

Despite his pretty face, Fraser comes from a long legacy of what they refer to around here as ‘hard men’. The tough guys, the enforcers on the rugby field. Softly spoken and mild-mannered, you’d never guess how he morphs into the bloody Incredible Hulk when he ambles out through the players’ shute. Good old Robbie ‘Razor’ Sharpe, our coach, is a man of that ilk. Or was.

“Yeah, might have been only three caps, but the way my father tells it, you’d swear it was a hundred,” Brodie grins, while surveying the platters on the table with a critical eye. He works as a chef in the posh restaurant up at Buchanan House, and you can tell he loves it, but not so much that he’d put it second to rugby. Somehow he’s scored himself a deal where he doesn’t work Wednesdays and Saturdays in footy season. He must be some fucking chef to dictate his terms like that.

“So how come Razor didn’t go further?” Nathan asks, while scooping up a giant handful of crisps, the only thing that looks like regular food at this party.

“Head-high tackle,” Brodie says. “Fractured skull. You see that hearing aid he wears? Not old age. So yeah, he had no choice—had to come off the field for good. Even then, they knew one too many concussions could fuck you over. But he loved the game too much. Coaching drew him in.”

“I feel for the guy,” Fraser says, “but you still can’t help but wonder if in the end Scottish rugby was the better for it. Five championships back to back. You can’t argue with that.” He points to the trophy cabinet in the corner with its gleaming silverware.

“Maybe the man upstairs saw he had a higher calling,” Kyle quips. “First as coach of the Highlanders, followed by the illustrious position at Cluanie R.F.C. where he’s about to lead the team to their first divisional win in seven years.”

“Yeah, guess he saw the light—like you, mate,” Brodie quips. “Centre of the universe, this is. Why the hell would you want to be anywhere else?”

There’s a hidden question in Brodie’s winding up Kyle. No one expected he of all people would come back here to sleepy hollow Cluanie. After his war hero medal, and then a citation from the Queen for heading off an attempt on the life of the government minister he shadowed for two years, investigating shoplifters and issuing speeding tickets doesn’t offer much opportunity for the limelight. But Kyle brushes it off with a grin.

“Saw the interview,” Kyle says, with a nice deflection. “Seems the man had a hankering for grassroots rugby. Back to the heartland. More challenge in whipping a group of motley bastards like us intoform, than simply marshalling the talents of rugby gods like Webster and co.”

“Wonder what his secret is?” Fraser says. “God knows, he’s going to need something if this team has any shot at the trophy.”

“He makes no secret of it.” Connor looks up from where he’s been quietly picking at the label of the bottle in his hand. Our team captain is the strong, silent type. When he talks, people listen. Connor Murray is one of those guys who commands respect just by being who he is. A natural leader. “Razor has this theory,” he says. Winning is about team culture. Team culture is about love. You know, building those bonds between people. So out on that field, you’re not individuals. You’re a unit. Like a family. And you will do whatever it takes for that family.”

“Well, you know I’ve always loved you guys,” Kyle scoffs. He slaps one arm across my shoulder, the other over Brodie’s, and we laugh alongside him, but I can see the guys are all intrigued by the thought.

“Maybe there’s something in it,” Nathan says. “Certainly worked for Graham Henry.” There’s a touch of awe in his voice as he speaks of his own country’s rugby elder statesman. “Read his book, and I’m sure I saw the ‘l’ word somewhere. Can’t argue when it comes from an All Blacks coach with eighty-eight test wins and a Rugby World Cup.”

“Yeah well, you might be right, Kiwi boy,” Kyle says, looking thoughtful. “So, who are you backing next weekend?”

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