Page 63 of Blindsided By You

“OK,” I say, grabbing a mug and pushing a button on the coffee machine. The familiar hiss and gurgle is steadying. At the Highlanders, ‘situation’ was code for a player’s mistake that needed damage control. What the hell could possibly be a ‘situation’ with an amateur small-town rugby team? I’m both concerned and intrigued. “What’s going on?”

Dad sighs. “Got a call on my way home from the club rooms to say young Brandon Smith had a bit of a fender bender. Took out half the wall of St Andrew’s kirkyard.”

“Oh my god, is he all right?” My first concern is for Skylar—she’d be devastated if anything happened to her boyfriend.

“Not a mark on him—he was in his dad’s big four-wheel-drive.”

“How did that happen? It’s right in the middle of town. How can you veer off the road and hit a wall? Surely he wasn’t drunk…”

I know the older players only pay lip service to Dad’s alcohol ban, but Brandon takes it seriously—as much from dedication to his future career as any fear of his grumpy coach.

“No, nothing like that,” Dad says. He cradles his mug between weathered hands. “He’s a good lad. Sticks to the rules. He was texting that lassie of his. I know he’s daft about her, but it was stupid. Bloody dangerous too. Took his eyes off the road and went up the kerb.”

“So you want me to go and smooth things over with Reverend Sutherland?” I offer. “I can do that.”

That shouldn’t be too difficult. We got to know Elizabeth Sutherland well in those last days before Mum passed. My mother wasn’toverly religious, but Elizabeth was more friend than pastor when Mum came home from the hospice.

“That would be a good start, but there’s a bigger problem.” Dad sighs and slides a piece of paper across the worktop towards me. “Take a look at this.”

It’s a printout of an email—from Jimmy Calder. Seeing his name, I thump down my coffee and snatch the paper. I crossed swords with the Tryline UK reporter when I was at the Highlanders. I never liked him then. He was always too friendly, his casual smile an insincere facade. He couldn’t hide the predatory gleam in his eyes. I prefer journos who are honest in their intentions even if they’re about to write something bad. At least you know where you stand.

I like Calder even less now, as I scan the email. I lean my head in my hand, kicking myself for not insisting on being involved with his visit to Cluanie. When Dad told me about the piece, it seemed a harmless bit of colour amongst all the analysis of players and matches that dominates the online magazine. The spark in Dad’s eyes as he realised his decision to leave the professional circuit hadn’t made him invisible to the rugby world had warmed my heart. And why worry? Dad is media savvy, not easy prey for someone bent on unearthing scandal, and besides, there was no point in trying to find dirt at Cluanie R.F.C.

Or so I thought. The two questions on the paper prove me wrong:

What is your response to the suggestion there is a culture where over-consumption of alcohol is the norm in amateur rugby clubs?

What is your perception of the role of local clubs in promoting healthy lifestyles and responsible behaviour amongst the young men and women in their teams?

“What the hell is this?” I slam the paper down, teeth clenched. I know what these questions imply.

“Our bad luck. That slimy bastard Calder happens to be staying with Helen Ross.”

“At the B&B next to the church.” Where he had a front-row seat for Brandon’s unfortunate off-field display last night.

“Perfect bloody timing.”

Shit. I’ve dealt with way worse in my time—defended Dad in his role as Highlanders’ coach, fronted up for players who’ve deliberately caused trouble—but here in my hometown it feels intensely personal.

“Don’t worry Dad,” I say, putting on my cool professional smile, even though behind it I’m fuming. To take Brandon’s unfortunate accident and twist it in a way deliberately designed to cast a slur on this small club is the sort of cheap shot I should have anticipated from Jimmy Calder. “Leave it with me.”

Dad’s heard those words many times, and he knows I’ve got this.

“Thanks, love,” he says, laying his big hand over mine. “I can always count on you when the shit hits the fan.”

Warm pride blooms in my chest. Even though I know Dad’s always appreciated me coming through for him and the players, it feels good to hear him say it again. While I love my new clients, my work is mostly proactive. I admit I’ve missed the adrenaline rush of a problem like this landing on my desk. While Jimmy Calder’s attention is unwelcome, it’s the perfect opportunity to keep my skills sharp for when I return to the Highlanders in November. So, although this wasn’t how I expected to start my Sunday, I leap into action.

Two hours later, I’m standing outside St Andrew’s kirkyard. The drone of a hymn drifts from the church, the singing rising and falling like waves on the loch shore, overlaying a low rumble of male voices outside. The men pause as Angus Cameron, the team’s hooker, calls them to attention.

“Lads, see these chalk marks I’ve made?” He holds up a rough stone with a straggling white ‘4’ on it. “That’s what you need to mind, OK?”

Angus continues to order his teammates with quiet authority, as they trundle wheelbarrows loaded with stones to stack them in neat piles according to his instructions.

“Cap!” he bawls at a stunned Connor, who pauses, stone in one hand. He’s usually in charge. Not today. Angus glares and Connor scans the lines of stones and rethinks its placement.

When I’d made the call to gather the team here, I’d thought they would simply tidy things up, not embark on a full restoration—but I hadn’t expected to have the services of a fully qualified stonemason at our disposal. Apparently, Angus’s father, a master mason, has been nagging the parish council for ages to do something about the wall before it fell down of its own accord. Now, helped along by Brandon’s unorthodox demolition method, some rugby club funds, and a volunteer workforce, they’ll have it restored for free.

I busy myself setting up the drinks station. The plastic table wobbles on the uneven grass as I arrange the water bottles. At the Co-op, Maggie donated three boxes of them, as well as gave the cluba big discount on the mountain of snack foods in my shopping trolley—her contribution to this morning’s community effort.

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