Page 55 of Blindsided By You

I still feel the old guilt at leaving her there, inhabiting the same house as the bastard. It’s misplaced, as I know she’s the one person in the world who he genuinely likes, and any small dissatisfaction with her is only surface level and fleeting. Still packing up my things inthe space of an hour and leaving town, even if it is only seven miles, felt like a betrayal.

Jenna’s old man is bound to get suspicious if she stops coming home at night. Someone is going to see her driving this way every evening, or ducking up the road to MacFarlane’s on random afternoons. Anyone who does is guaranteed to tell tales. Cluanie, like all small towns, loves to gossip, and who’s sleeping with who is a topic that always grabs their attention.

“I can wait,” I lie. “If anyone can come up with a good cover story, it’s you. After all, that’s how you make your living, right?”

She levers herself upright, sitting with those beautiful legs arched. My eyes rove across them. The ankles that minutes ago I had resting on my shoulders while I drove into her. The shapely calf muscles, taut and toned like an athlete. The curve of her thigh. I can still feel the smooth skin under my palm.

She hesitates for a moment—just long enough for hope to flicker—before she shreds it.

“Geordie, I don’t think it’s a good idea. To stay over. Sure, we’re sleeping together. It’s fun. But waking up together…” She pauses, her face a mask, her smile not tipping up at the corners like usual. “Somehow it suggests this…” She waves a hand between us. “...is more than it is.”

“And what do you think ‘this’ is?” I add air quotes, a stupid gesture matching my stupid question. I know the answer and I know it’s only going to slam my heart like going down in one of Fraser Sinclair’s bruising tackles to be dumped on unforgiving early-season ground.

“A bit of casual fun. Friends with benefits if you want to put a label on it. Isn’t that what we agreed? Unless you’ve changed your mind? And believe me, if you have, that’s fine. No damage done.”

Of course I’ve fucking changed my mind. The damage is already done. The first time I’ve fallen for a woman, not only is she my sister’s friend, and my coach’s daughter, she wants to keep me out in the fucking friend zone. Even if it is definitely the fucking kind.

I dip my chin in reluctant agreement, trying to keep my features neutral. I want to take Jenna by the shoulders and shake her, yell at her, make her look me in the eye and tell me that she doesn’t feel it too, that there’s more between us when we come together than two bodies desperate for some mutual pleasure. There are two people for whom this could be so much more—and for one, it already is.

But if I can’t even get Jenna to stay the night, what chance have I got of making her stay in Cluanie? In November, she will walk away from the town—and me—heading back to her glamourous job with the Highlanders, back to the excitement of the Glasgow nightlife, back to her old friends. How can ordinary old Geordie MacDonald compete with that?

Chapter 29

GEORDIE

I’lladmitit,I’vemessed around a bit with drugs here and there in my younger days. What kid wouldn’t, given how freely available they are in some of the places I’ve travelled? It’s legal in others, so why not? Nothing big, just a little marijuana, and honestly, it wasn’t anything to get excited about.

The buzz is nothing compared to what I feel as I jog onto the field before a match, even one like this that doesn’t count for much—a pre-season friendly with the lads from Ardnish. We’re playing in different competitions, so this Saturday’s game is just a chance for us to try out some combinations and a few plays.

Today, however, I’m on an even bigger pre-match high, because Jenna is here.

There’s a larger than expected turnout of locals—probably more to check out the new coach than the team—but it’s a casual affair, people flanking the field so close they risk being taken out by a player crashing over the sidelines. Small town club rugby, grassroots rugby—heartland rugby, as old Razorcalls it.

Amongst them, right on the halfway mark, Jenna stands out. It’s not the bright Cluanie blue supporters jersey—she’s swimming in a sea of those—but a set of gorgeous hips outlined in a figure-hugging pair of jeans, and neon pink trainers that shine like a beacon. Of course I’d find her, anyway.

Jenna has a magnetic pull that somehow always draws me in her direction. I even sense when she’s about to show up, like last night at the Railway, as Nathan, Connor, and I settled in for a quiet beer after work. It’s busy on Friday nights, a stream of people in and out, so you ignore the comings and goings; but this one time when the door swung open, something made me turn to look and there she was.

It’s hard to have a casual conversation with Jenna in a public place, knowing that within an hour she’s going to be in my bed, but I did my best. It’s easier with Nathan and Connor around. They’re in on the secret, so we don’t have to be as guarded with our words, but damn it, I wanted to do more than talk.

The seating arrangement pissed me off, with Jenna ending up in the booth next to Connor. At least that way, I got to look into her eyes—a conversation without words flashing between us. But I’d have loved nothing better than to pull her in alongside me, or hold her hand across the table, maybe plant a kiss on those pretty lips; find some way to let the world know she’s mine. Not that she really is.

I need to remind myself of Jenna’s terms: she’s only mine within the confines of my bedroom, our arrangement nothing more than a series of satisfying hook-ups. We do this while it’s fun, and when it’s not, we stop. Much as I hated it, that’s what I agreed to. In the past, I’ve been good at keeping to those sorts of rules; in fact, I’ve often laid them down myself. This time it’s different.

Usually I’d be glad to see a girl collecting her things and hustling out of my room, but last night when Jenna insisted on leaving in a hurry, I wished she’d stay. For a moment there, I thought she would. Cuddled up to me, talking together, I wondered if, like me, she’s wanting more from this relationship, but the next minute she’s grabbing her stuff and gone.

I push aside thoughts of Jenna and return my focus to the game—well, not entirely. Her presence on the sideline makes me want to play better than ever today.Although easy-going off the field, the competitiveness that roars in my brain the moment I tie on my boots is amplified to a deafening roar, knowing her eyes are on me.

The whole team is pretty fired up. No one wants to let down the new coach or sully his reputation. We’ll give it all we’ve got. Especially with a reporter from Tryline UK, an online rugby magazine scrutinising us. He’s doing a feature on Coach’s transition from a champion team of professional players to a bunch of small-town lads from a two-bit club out in the sticks. His focus is on Razor, with a keen eye on young Smith—a gem hidden out here in the rough—but there’s extra pressure on all of us. Don’t want the rugby world thinking Coach has backed a squad of numpties.

The rugby gods are on our side, as Connor steps up to take the toss. We win and he instantly grabs the opportunity to play into the wind first. It’s blowing a hoolie, so we’ll make sure we face it while we’re fresh and make the tired Ardnish boys work extra hard in the second half.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Our team is rampant over the visitors from the first whistle, running in five tries in the first half alone. We follow up with two more in the second, including one byyours truly. Seventy-five minutes in, Darby sells a nice dummy off the back of a scrum deep down in the Ardnish half, and then the ball’s in my hands. As I pound down the length of the field to the encouraging screams of the local crowd, I’m sure I can hear Jenna’s voice above them all.

I leap to my feet triumphantly, ball tucked under my arm, not a defender even level with me yet. I immediately look to our twenty-two, where I know she’s been standing. In the moment before my teammates descend on me with whoops of congratulations, Jenna’s delighted eyes and wide smile meet mine and I’ve never felt so proud to lay a ball over the try line.

When the final whistle blows a few minutes later, I can’t take credit for the eventual win. It’s a team victory, of course. Our high level of fitness left the other team gasping from the start. Although no one could ignore Brandon Smith’s deadly accurate boot. His cheeky drop goal and a flamboyant try of his own showed exactly why he could turn professional tomorrow. With his dependability under the high ball and twenty-four points on the board, he’s an easy choice for man of the match.

However, we all know the real man of the match is our coach. Robbie Sharpe’s clever thinking, the innovative approach to set pieces, the carefully constructed combinations of players, and strategic substitutions; all combine to make us unstoppable. All spurred on by his growling instructions—bellowed from the sideline in old-school fashion rather than through a headpiece sitting in a box like he would have done with the Highlanders.

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