Page 69 of Blindsided
“Everybody, this is my grandad, Fergus Logan. My father, James Logan, my mother, Jean, and my wee sister, Tilly.”
We all shake hands, and I watch Mac as he stands back and lets everyone make their pleasantries. Fergus makes a big show of all the men wearing the tartan kilts, inspecting the work like he’s a tailor himself. Nerves niggle in my belly because with my luck, one wrong stitch could be some sort of Scottish smite.
“Christ, this is good tailoring,” Fergus says, grabbing the pleats on Roan’s kilt and elbowing his son, James, to have a look. “Look at this wee detail. We need to have ours redone, son.” Fergus then turns his inspection to me, eyeing my dress with great interest. “And who is this tartan-wearing lassie?”
“This is my…lady friend…Freya,” Mac says, appearing between us with a nervous look on his face. “She made all the kilts and…her dress. She’s very talented.”
Mac frowns as if he’s not sure he said the right thing, but his grandad doesn’t seem to notice as I catch a hint of a smile beneath his giant mustache. “Are you Scottish, lass?”
“Cornish, I’m afraid.”
Fergus blanches. “How did you get past Hadrian’s wall? It’s meant to keep folks like you out of our country.”
I fight back my smile and school my expression to be serious. “Didn’t you hear? Hadrian’s wall is actually just a giant dog kennel used to keep the wild Scot’s like you inside.”
There are a few seconds of awkward silence before Fergus bursts out laughing. “Where on earth did you find this one, Macky?”
Mac smiles proudly at me. “I wish I knew.”
Fergus wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Lassie, I’m going to call you Red because you’re fiery just like my late wife. Are you sure you don’t have any Scottish in your blood somewhere?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No, I’m not sure actually. You Scots are a fertile breed, so it’s quite possible a stray dog snuck in somewhere in my lineage.”
Fergus laughs again. “Scots are a fertile breed at that.”
“I like your handbag there,” I state, pointing down to the furry, round waist bag strapped around Fergus’s waist.
“Red, this here is called a sporran.”
I wink playfully at him. “And here I thought it was just a hairy muff.”
“Goodness, she’s a cheeky lass!” Fergus states, turning us to face his grandson. “If she can drink whisky, too, we might have to keep this one around, Macky!”
Mac’s velvety green eyes flicker back and forth with a mixture of surprise, disbelief, and dare I say, pride? It’s the type of look I could spend hours dissecting and a lifetime staring into.
Our attentions are once again disturbed when a horn blows, indicating the beginning of the next event, which apparently is whisky-tasting. Mac directs us all over to the tents that are full of various whisky makers, and everyone spreads out to begin sampling.
I decide that Mac should have some time alone with his family and step away to join Sloan and Leslie when a strong hand grabs onto mine. “Come with us.”
I frown up at Mac. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure I want to continue watching you bewitch my grandad,” he says with a smirk. “I’ve only ever seen him laugh with a woman like that around my gran.”
My nose scrunches. “I worried the hairy muff thing was going a bit too far.”
Mac’s shoulders shake with laughter. “There’s no such thing as too far with the Logans.”
Suddenly, I whack Mac on the arm. “Why didn’t you tell me that your grandfather had a caterpillar mustache and looks like Jack Bartlett fromHeartland?”
Mac smiles broadly. “Because I wanted to see this look on your face. You look as though you’ve just wee’d.”
“That’s because I have.” I grab Mac’s arm and drag him back towards his family while murmuring out loud, “God, I hope he gives me a life lesson just like Grandpa Jack!”
The group of us make quick work of tasting a lot of whisky in a very short amount of time. There’s loads of football chatter going on between Mac, James, and Fergus. They seem very keen to discuss Mac’s upcoming contract negotiations and their expectations for Bethnal Green F.C.’s season. It’s evident they’re all very invested in Mac’s career and wanting him to succeed. His grandfather especially.
I watch in fascination because so much of what they are discussing are things I’ve never heard Mac breathe a word about. And just watching his face as he listens to his grandad makes me feel the amount of pressure he puts on himself to please them. It’s…heavy. It’s funny how I’ve become best friends with a footballer, and the one thing we never talk about is football.
By our third tasting, I get the sense that Mac is football-talked out, so I decide to change subjects and share with them the time Mac and I were coupled as dance partners together. I have them all in stitches when I tell them about the number of times Mac stomped on my feet and how he had to carry me out of the dance club in order to take me home.
