Page 5 of Blindsided By You

“Scotland,” Nathan answers without hesitation.

“Traitor,” Brodie, grins.

Nathan flips him a finger and grins back. “Arsehole. Let’s face it—it’s a no-win situation with you bastards. If I go for Scotland,I’m a traitor. If I say New Zealand, you’ll accuse me of disloyalty to the country that took me in.”

“Or maybe win-win,” Fraser offers. “A bob each way. Back whoever is ahead.”

“You offering to put up some money?” Nathan quirks a teasing brow.

He’s a good bloke, this New Zealander. Beyond exercising my skills as an electrician, we’ve spent a lot of time together these past weeks, sinking a few pints. God knows it’s been a relief to escape my father’s judgmental glare for a few hours in the evenings.

“So look at this,” Fraser says with a resigned smile, nodding towards the noisier half of the large lounge where tinkling female laughter tumbles from the group of our paired-up teammates.

Robbie Sharpe is winning over the wives and girlfriends with his wit and charm, while their partners look on indulgently. That’s another thing he’s made a name for in his professional coaching days—involving the players’ families, making them seem like an extension of the team. Happy families equals happy players equals happy team—and happy teams are winners.

“The haves and the have-nots,” Fraser says. “Us being the have-nots. Not a wife or girlfriend among us.”

“Unless exes count,” Nathan says with a bitter laugh.

“You were married, mate?” Fraser probes gently, already tuned in to the air of hurt surrounding Nathan’s words.

“Yeah,” Nathan says. “Eight years and a child later, and she walks out on me. At least one good thing came out of it.” He pulls out his phone, and there on the lock screen is the smiling wee kid, dark-haired and the spitting image of the guy holding it out, with the same sunshine smile Nathan’s had on his dial every time I’vemet him, except for just now with talk of his ex. “It was worth every excruciating minute of it for her.” And it’s just like someone turned the lights back on as that easy Kiwi grin spreads across his face.

“Doesn’t look like we’ll be doing anything to rectify that problem tonight at least,” Brodie observes. Of course, there isn’t an unattached woman in sight. “Unless someone is brave enough to hit on old Robbie’s daughter. I presume she’ll put in an appearance.”

After seeing her at the practice ground on Wednesday, with those beautiful eyes and the hint of a smile—a smile I’ve been pretending was just for me—seeing Jenna tonight is as much of an attraction as the food and booze and a chance to hang out with my mates.

“Yeah?” Nathan says, with a hopeful brightening of his face. Like me, he’s in the middle of a very long woman-drought. “Know anything about her?”

Kyle leans back with arms folded as if he’s been waiting for this exact opening. I hold back. I know more about Jenna Sharpe than most of them—but it’s not the Jenna she is now. She was one of my sister’s closest friends, although careers have driven them along different paths since leaving Cluanie. With six years between us, both she and Rachel always adopted the expected public disdain for younger brothers. It’s all back in the haze of childhood now, but again, that memory of Jenna often being kinder to me than my sister, even in front of other people, jumps forward. I’m totally ignorant about this grown-up Jenna Sharpe, but from the look on Kyle’s face, I know that’s about to be corrected.

“She was in my year at school.” He drains his beer, obviously enjoying a chance to hold the floor.

I don’t like the way Kyle says that, a disturbing smugness about him that suggests more. I don’t want to know. I like Kyle, but hisreputation with women goes way back, and it’s not pretty. I really don’t want to think about the possibility that Jenna, or my sister—I inwardly shudder at the thought—feature on Kyle’s lengthy list of conquests.

“Went off to uni and never came back,” he continues. “A few years after she graduated, she went to work for her father’s team. Followed him back here when her mum got sick—and then, of course, passed away. Pretty sad, eh?”

Everyone is aware of Razor’s highly-publicised loss. After all, that’s what triggered him to chuck it all in and choose life back here in Cluanie, rather than take on the challenge of leading his Highlanders team to a record-breaking sixth consecutive championship win.

“You’ve been stalking this Jenna, have you Kyle?” asks Brodie, stuffing what looks like a fancy sausage roll into his mouth.

“No,” he says. “You forget—I do detective work for a living, mate. Didn’t see any harm in doing a little background checking. Find out more about what we’ve all signed up for.”

“Ahh, I see background checking. Not checking her out?” Fraser needles at him.

“Yeah, OK, you caught me.” Kyle raises his hands in surrender. “And why wouldn’t I check out the new girl in town a little? Although from what I’ve heard, it will be a brave man who goes there.” He smiles enigmatically as we hang on his words.

“Come on, spill,” Brodie says.

“Well, there was a bit of an incident. Seems the one time in his life that old Razor lost his cool in public was over his daughter. After-match function, one of his players apparently got a bit handsy with young Jenna and found himself slammed up against a wallwith hands locked around his throat. Someone just happened to film it—as they do—and it was all over the internet for a few hours till the PR people made it go away. But if you know where to look, you can still find it. Believe me mate, do not go there.”

I take the warning. My outgoing nature has got me in exactly that sort of shit before. Stop on impulse for a friendly chat with a pretty girl and next minute you’ve got an angry father throttling you—or brother, boyfriend, husband—I’ve met them all over the years and it’s no fun. I’m a good talker, but you can’t always talk your way out of that. Plus, I don’t want to shit in my own nest.

Being back with these guys, playing together again, is just the antidote I need for the untethered life I’ve led, and a way of easing into acceptance that I’m back here in my hometown. The place, I said, in my boyish bravado, I’d never come back to. No, there must be less complicated women to get involved with, even here in this little hole, without risking the wrath of Razor and losing my place on the team, if not my life.

Besides, this is Jenna, and my sister would definitely have something to say about that. I’m not sure my sister’s friend is a safe territory to venture into, even now when the age difference between us is no longer relevant. There’s history there that also makes this woman off-limits.

And then, as if on cue, a hush falls across the crowd. The muted yellow lamplight seems to brighten as we jerk our heads up from our conversation. Every eye in the room turns in one direction. Jenna Sharpe stands at the top of the stairs, paused like a princess about to make an entrance at the ball. Except she’s not wearing a ball gown, and I doubt she could look any sexier if she did.

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