Page 67 of Blindsided By You

I feel the flush creep up my neck, her words catapulting me straight back to the heat and desire between us only minutes before. This time, I chance a look, so she can see the promise in my eyes.

“And that’s a debt I intend to pay. With interest.” It comes out almost a low growl, my throat thick with need and, damn it, an erection straining against my jeans. At least crowded in amongst the punters waiting to be served, with all their eyes on the bar staff, no one will notice what’s happening in my pants.

Jenna gives me a smug smile and steps into the gap that’s opened in front of her.

“A glass of the white, please Skylar,” she says as if nothing has happened.

Chapter 35

GEORDIE

Theairinthechange room crackles with anticipation. Even though Coach is subjecting us to one of his barrages, half instructions and half threats, smiles lie just beneath the surface on every face. The men around me try to look serious and attentive. But I know, like me, they all want to break into a grin, whoop, and punch the air at the thought of the match ahead of us. It’s the first match of the season against our most imposing opponents in the County competition and bitter rivals: Duncraig. A home game, too. We’re totally amped knowing victory can be ours. It’ll be hard fought, but they’re the wins we crave.

This is the day we’ve worked our arses off for. It’s why we’ve subjected ourselves to six weeks of this old bastard’s cutting criticism; why we pathetically did anything and everything he asked for a few words of his rare, understated praise.

It’s why we’ve slogged for hours in Forsyth’s gym, battling weights to build muscle. It’s the reason we’ve pounded the streets of Cluanie, run untold laps of Craig Ross Park and busted our guts making the steep climb up Bourke’s Hill, not just once but three or fourtimes at full speed, so we can go the full eighty minutes and leave the field with gas still in the tank.

In a few minutes, fifteen of us will jog onto the field of Cluanie R.F.C., proudly wearing our blue and white hooped jerseys. The weight of the club’s long history rests on our shoulders. At the same time, we bear the hopes of the hometown crowd who’ve turned out in droves to support us.

We’d be fools to think the renewed local enthusiasm lies solely with the lineup, though I’d challenge anyone to find a more dedicated group of players in a first division team. Even the least passionate fan amongst them has to know the whispers of future glory that lie in wait for our fullback, young Smith.

He could have it all right now if he wasn’t so in love with Jenna’s pretty little assistant, Skylar. In all honesty, we should be telling the kid to put love aside and grab one of those pro contracts, but none of us, including Coach, has said it to him. Why look a gift horse in the mouth?

Still, at just nineteen, the offers will keep coming his way, but love, that’s not something that falls in front of you every day. I can’t help but think he’s the smartest of the lot of us, putting what really matters ahead of rugby. Remembering it’s just a game. If Skylar loves him back as much as it seems she does, she’ll be there for him long after the contracts. She’ll be at his side when he’s no longer fast, when his body can’t take the punishment, and when injuries force him to call time on the game.

Somewhere out there in the grandstand is also a woman who, like Skylar, has anchored me to a place I never expected to stay, never imagined might become home again. Jenna’s out there waiting for us—and especially me—to take the field. Less than a month, and thethrill of immersing myself in one of the few things I’m really good at, is second to the knowledge that at the end of the eighty minutes, I’ll get to see her, even if we have to act like we’re just friends under the scrutiny of the world.

In here, even through the thick concrete block walls of the change room, we can hear the buzz of the crowd. When I poked my head out earlier, thirty minutes before the game, the grandstand was already packed. People were streaming into the open terraces surrounding the field, but it’s not us they’ve come to see, rather what someone has made of us.

Robbie Sharpe is the reason they’ve turned out in numbers. Everyone is curious what a professional rugby coach can do with a bunch of local lads. We won’t let him down. We’ll show them that, despite the club’s poor form for the last seven years, Cluanie is back and a force to be reckoned with. Every man in the team has his eyes on the prize, the County Cup fixed in our sights, and we’re going to do this for Coach and for us.

Right this moment, me and the rest of the forward pack are relaxing. Having hammered the forwards with his final advice, Coach’s attention is no longer upon us. Now he lends his glare to reinforce the messages his assistant and backs coach, Stephen Foster, is delivering in his quiet, efficient style. They’re chalk and cheese these two men, but somehow they fit together, and the team is shaping up well under their direction.

My mind strays back to Jenna. I swear I can still smell her on my skin, the lingering fragrance a good-luck charm for the game. She’s out there in the stand, waiting, watching for me. It’s exhilarating to think that in the crowd, I’ve got one person who’s not only there for the team as a unit, but for me.

I’ve never had that. As a kid and into my teens, I walked myself to practices; same on game days. I think I can count on one hand how many times my parents came to watch me play. Mum often slept through Saturdays. She always preferred night shifts, and with her generous nature, regularly volunteered for the hard to fill Friday night ones, allowing the younger nurses a chance to party with their friends.

As for my father, his absence expressed his quiet disdain for my choice of sport. Dad considers rugby a game for the lower classes, thuggish and untidy. He might have settled for me playing football, the beautiful game being more to his taste. I probably would have done OK at it—field sports play to my strengths—but he’d never understand my attraction to contact sports, the raw physicality of it occupying every part of my brain and body. It’s the one place where I feel like all the parts of me combine in harmony, without the jarring edges of some lack in my makeup spoiling it.

Except now there’s another place—when I’m with Jenna. I can imagine her like I saw her when I poked my head out the door, sandwiched between Grant and Laura Darby, in her club hoodie of bright blue, and a stripy scarf. Blue’s not her colour, she says, except on game day, but as far as I’m concerned, every colour is Jenna’s colour.

Or none. An image invades my mind; her lying fully naked in my bed, stretching her shapely golden limbs in satisfaction, her smile smug in the aftermath of our lovemaking, her dark eyes suggesting that she’s still aroused, and ready for more.

A sharp elbow from the right stabs at my ribs.

“Oi mate, listen up.” Fraser tips his chin towards where Coach has taken the floor again.

His dark eyes scan the room, meeting each of ours briefly with that penetrating look that suggests he knows what you’re thinking. It’s unnerving at best and fucking frightening when you’re the guy who’s been thinking filthy thoughts about his daughter in his presence.

I swallow, hard, nervousness tightening in my throat, pregame tension, mixed with fear that my little hookups with Jenna will get back to him. I shove that away, because, if he knew, I wouldn’t be standing here with the team ready to take the field, but permanently benched. Robbie Sharpe likes to win, but I suspect he’d risk tossing the game in a heartbeat if he decided to fulfil his threats where Jenna’s concerned.

Coach clears his throat, pausing a moment to check he has every man’s attention before he begins.

“Lads, it’s been a long time since I stood in this room sending a Cluanie team onto the field against a truly formidable foe. It means a lot to me that the club would trust me with their reputation.” A smile splits his leathery features.

I hear a snort from Brodie, who’s standing at my shoulder, a few chuckles, and I can’t help but crack a grin, too. We all know Cluanie’s reputation has suffered these past few years, for many reasons.

There’s a lack of young talent since, like me, many leave town as soon as they can get out of high school and few return. Brandon Smith is an oddity; a teenager with a freakish ability on the field and a reason to stay. Usually, those who are left are solid enough players, but nothing special; not special enough to win the County Cup.

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