Page 68 of Blindsided By You

Coach has also had a bit of a windfall with several older players like me, all of us with a bit of flare, who’ve gone against the tide of men leaving town. He’s filled five positions with those of us who’veunexpectedly arrived back in Cluanie between the end of last season and the beginning of this one.

Who’d have predicted that Kyle Stewart would trade his government close protection job for being a small town copper? Or that Brodie would find a place to wield his legendary culinary skills within striking distance of his old home town?

What a windfall, when Fraser, who’s spent most of his working life as a sound tech with a London film company, should be headhunted by the growing film studio that sprung up in some old warehouses on the edge of Duncraig a couple of years ago. It’s the big bucks on offer that has lured Fraser back this way, not the chance to play in his old position of inside centre, but he’s loving every minute.

Coach got lucky when Nathan arrived on his doorstep, too. Raised in a rugby mad nation, Wilder is a talented flanker, who thrives on the challenge of emulating his hero and the man whose number he wears on his back, the All Black great, Richie McCaw.

Right now, however, we’re totally focused on the great man standing before us, one who has put his faith in us, while whipping our arses into shape. I’ve never felt as prepared as I do today.

“Because,” Razor drawls. “This right here—clubs like ours, teams like this, men like you—are the heart of rugby. Not the flashy players with their big contracts and big egos. This right here is the rugby heartland, and I’m just as proud to send you onto the field today as any team I’ve coached.”

I swear Coach’s eyes are a little misty, and I’m not the only one who’s noticed.

“Next, he’ll probably tell us he loves us,” Nathan hisses in my ear.

“Nah, he’ll save that for when we win.” The words slide out a whisper from the side of my mouth. Like a schoolboy, I don’t want to get caught talking when I should be listening.

I’m right. Coach doesn’t tell us he loves us, any trace of emotion evaporating as he barks his final instruction.

“So you’d better not let me down. Get your arses out the door and don’t fuck up.”

I’m determined not to, not with Robbie Sharpe’s eyes on me. Not for my most important match in front of my hometown crowd in ten years. Not when Jenna is sitting in the stand watching me.

I jog along the corridor that passes for a tunnel, surrounded by the clatter of sprigs in an untidy rhythm, as anticipation, nervousness, and absolute fucking joy combine in a whirling mass inside my stomach and spill over to fill my chest.

Chapter 36

JENNA

Iridethesuperchargedair in the grandstand like a wave, the anticipation of the match carrying me along with it. A few hundred Cluanie spectators surround me. I’m one small droplet in a sea of bright blue jerseys, with hats pulled low, striped scarves wound tight against the chill breeze the Duncraig opposition has brought with them from their Highland town.

“Pitch is looking grand. Malcolm Lewis got that lick o’ paint on the front of the clubrooms, too. The place is looking proper tidy.” Grant Darby wears a satisfied smile as he surveys the grounds below us.

Seated between him and Laura, we have seats of honour befitting the club president, his wife, and the coach’s daughter—right on the halfway line. We’re safe in a block of hometown fans, but pockets of Duncraig green show a strong turnout of supporters for the visiting team. It’s will be a hard-fought contest today, but I know our guys are ready.

A myriad of scents float on the wind: Grant’s spicy aftershave, Laura’s floral perfume, the greasiness of fried food from the caravanat the rear of the stand, the tang of grass as match officials pace the sidelines, the ever-present whiff of smoke from a fire. Someone’s at home by their hearth in Cluanie, but it seems most of the town is here, ready to watch the local lads, our rugby team, a source of fierce pride for this community.

The murmur of the crowd rises, like a buzz of angry bees, as they catch a glimpse of blue and white. There’s movement in the building opposite. The first of our team emerges from the small hallway that passes for a players’ shute, and beneath my feet the floor of the stand vibrates, the deafening thump of stamping feet. Mine instinctively join in the rhythm, drumming a welcome.

A river of enthusiastic applause flows across the grounds, punctuated by shouts of encouragement for our lads. Chanting voices echo back from spectators clustered on the embankments at the goal ends of the field.

“Let’s go, Cluanie.”

“Come on lads, let’s sock it to ‘em.”

Someone waves a warning for the Duncraig team, a banner with ‘BEWARE BRANDON’S BOOT’ hand painted across it. Two teenagers hold aloft another: ‘GO HARD CLUANIE HEARTLAND LADS’. I want to race down and grab it off them to take home as a trophy. Dad will be chuffed to see his ‘heartland’ label catching on with the locals.

At last Geordie emerges, Nathan on his heels, and Connor bringing up the rear, the captain herding his charges to ensure they’re all where they should be.

My eyes track Geordie as he strolls onto the pitch, hair neat, jersey pristine, a glow of pure joy on his face. There’s an intimacy here in these small grounds, the players so close you canread every expression, their excitement and anticipation written large for all to see. My heart clenches as he swings his head my way, and I lock eyes with him. He smiles up at the full grandstand, but I know it’s a smile only for me.

I reluctantly left Geordie’s early last night so he could be well rested for today. It’s getting harder and harder to drag myself away from his bed, my protests about Dad finding out sounding more feeble to my ears. Geordie is wearing me down with assurances that he’s not afraid of my father. He says he’ll deal with the fallout, whatever that may be. But my father’s not one to make idle threats, and he’s still adamant that I’m off-limits to players, so him uncovering the truth can’t possibly end well for Geordie.

As I watch him jog onto the field below, flanked by the men who are brothers to him, his face already shining with the pure joy this game brings, I have a fierce need to protect him from losing this however I can. Even if it means denying what I most want. Even if the secrecy of our relationship frustrates him.

“The lads are looking fit as fiddles. Your Dad’s done a braw job with them.” Grant surveys the men ambling across the field with a critical eye.

They fall into a loose formation, their blue and white hooped jerseys bold against the brilliant green of carefully tended grass. Connor releases the ball tucked under his arm and tosses it to Brandon, who flicks it off to Calvin. The ball continues its progress around the team, snapping back and forth between players in precise passes.

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