Page 85 of Blindsided By You

But he’ll be there, taking the field on finals’ day, and I’ll be the loyal girlfriend cheering from the sidelines. It’s strange how things change. Just months ago, the thought of everyone in town knowing we were together filled me with sickening dread. The weight of otherpeople’s expectations—including Geordie’s—dragged me down like stones in my pockets. Now, instead of pressure, I feel pride.

Just the other day, standing in Gail’s Bakery amid the warm smell of fresh scones, I overheard two old biddies gossiping. “She’s going round with the MacDonald laddie, didn’t ye know,” one said, not bothering to lower her voice a single notch. They’re brazen in the way they talk about you in front of you around here. An unexpected wave of happiness engulfed my heart while I tried to keep my mouth from flipping up in a smug smile. Who would have thought being the subject of Cluanie gossip would ever make me feel like that?

Watching Geordie run out onto the field against Duncraig on Saturday will be special. Finally, I can openly cheer not just for the team I love, but for this man I love.

Tonight’s practice, although also special, will be hard. For the first time since the accident, all six of them who have endured so much will be together on their beloved rugby pitch, drawing strength from each other. The completeness of the team only highlights what’s missing. The man in the number fifteen jersey is gone. For this season, even though they’ve pulled in another guy at fullback, no player will wear Brandon’s number.

I turn my attention back to the car, crouched low like a big cat ready to pounce.

“That doesn’t answer my question. What’s with the car, Geordie?” I circle around to the front, where he stands proudly.

“It’s mine,” he says with a grin that makes him look like a kid who’s just been handed the keys to a sweet shop. “Pretty isn’t she—not as pretty as you, though.”

“Flatterer.”

“Meet my new second favourite girl.” He runs his hand along the bonnet with unmistakable affection.

I roll my eyes. “Yourgirl?“ I walk around the car, studying the aggressive lines and muscular stance. “How anyone could consider this beast to be female is beyond me.”

“I’ve always wanted one of these. Figured after the shit year I’ve had, it might be time to splurge.”

I study the unfamiliar badge on the front. “I’m not completely sure what I’m looking at. American, right?” He nods. He’s going to look the part getting out of that in his cowboy boots.

“You’d better enlighten me,” I say, preparing for the enthusiastic deluge of facts and figures about top speeds and torque, brake-horsepower and cubic capacity to pour from his mouth. Geordie loves his cars. For a man who struggles with reading, he has his nose buried in car magazines an awful lot and he’s not just looking at the pictures.

“Ford Mustang Shelby GT500.”

“Expensive?”

He shrugs, scuffing one boot against the gravel.

“A little. It’s not a Ferrari. Didn’t want to blow my entire bank balance on a car.” His eyes narrow. “But damned if I’m spending the rest of my life driving around in one of Sparky’s work vans.”

“It’s nice,” I say, running a hand over the sleek grey metallic paint. Twin stripes slash across the broad bonnet and flick right up over the top, giving it an air of barely contained speed.

“These make it go faster?” I grin at him.

“Wanna find out?” His eyes sparkle with mischief as he pulls open the passenger door.

“I can see some speeding tickets in your future,” I say, but I’m already sliding into the cocoon of leather, breathing in that distinctive new car smell. The door closes with a solid thunk that speaks of American muscle. I settle deeper into the seat, preparing myself for take-off.

Geordie takes the long way, showing off the car’s frightening acceleration. By the time the V8‘s rumble announces our arrival at the rugby grounds, I’ve spent most of the ride pinned to my seat. It’s impossible to be subtle. Before we’ve even parked, guys are spilling out of the change room, some half-dressed despite the biting cold, drawn like moths to the engine’s bass notes.

Fraser Sinclair’s the first to reach us, his eyes gleaming with undisguised envy as Geordie cuts the engine.

“You bloody dark horse, MacDonald. What did you do? Rob the fucking bank?” He circles the car, running his hand along the sleek bodywork. “How many horses under the bonnet?”

“760,” Geordie says, climbing out, drinking in their reactions.

“Supercharged?”

Geordie pops the bonnet and Fraser leans in for a closer look at the engine. I could probably answer the question myself after hearing Geordie recite the specs for the last twenty minutes, but I let him have his moment as he nods, the biggest grin splitting his face.

“Nice.” Brodie whistles low, breath visible in the cold air. “Never thought I’d see one of these beauties in Cluanie.”

“Going to guzzle some gas,” Connor says, crouching down to inspect the four burbling circular exhaust pipes on the rear.

“Ah well, there’s always a price to pay for something good,” Geordie says. “She’s worth every penny.” Geordie’s talking about thecar, but he’s looking at me, his mouth tipping up in a knowing smile that makes my chest warm despite the chill.

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