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I respawn all the way back at Torlannach Tavern. Sighing, I type out a simple message.
LochNLoad
WTF, Sass?!
Naturally, she doesn’t reply because why would she? Tonight she’s not doing chatting—or healing spells, apparently. And she’s not sticking around either. A notification pops up in the top-left corner of my screen: SassyLassie has logged off.
I rip off my headphones and toss them down on my desk, muttering a string of curses under my breath. Outside, the relentless rain continues its assault on my window.
My gaze shifts to the Highland Legacy figurine perched on my shelf, the one with the uncanny resemblance to SassyLassie. I narrow my eyes at it and grumble, “What had your knickers in a twist tonight?”
But then, closing my eyes, I press my fingers to my temples and take a deep breath. As frustrating as that was, I hope everything is okay with Sass.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JAMIE
Seven years ago
The windscreen wipers thud a frantic rhythm, hopelessly battling the relentless Highland rain. From my spot in the back seat, I watch droplets chase each other across the window, merging and splitting like tiny streams. Beyond them lies a grey smear of hills and trees, their familiar shapes distorted into something almost unrecognisable. It really is coming down heavily out there.
“You’ll have them eating out of your hand tonight, son,” Da says, his voice rumbling over the hiss of tyres on wet tarmac. He hunches over the steering wheel as we round a bend. “All that charm of yours, plus a bit of rugby chat? They’ll be throwing their wallets at you.”
“Aye, well, Coach reckons I need to improve my tackling if I want to make it to the next level.” I tug at my shirt collar. The thing feels like it’s strangling me.
“Tackling?” Da scoffs, shooting me a quick look in the rear-view mirror, his eyes bright with that unmistakable glint of pride. “Jamie, you’re not there to tackle. You’re there to sprint past every poor sod on the pitch and score tries like your life depends on it. And that just happens to be something you do fucking brilliantly.”
“Angus McIntyre!” Maw twists in her seat, her black velvet dress catching the glow of a passing car’s headlights. “Must you swear every time you praise him? Honestly, the boy’s ego is big enough without you throwing f-bombs at it.”
As we round another bend, the car jolts slightly. Da steadies us then leans forwards a little more, squinting at the road ahead. “He’s eighteen now, Mairi—a man! If he can survive being smashed into the mud by blokes twice his size every weekend, I think he can handle hearing an f-word or two from his da. Besides, I’ve seen old men at matches clutching their hats and muttering swear words they haven’t used since National Service all because of Jamie. The lad’s got so much raw talent it’d make any rugby fan curse out loud. He’s already better than some of the professionals out there, if you ask me.”
A flush creeps up my cheeks. “I’m not sure about that, Da.”
“I am. That try in your last game against Moray? You dodged one of their players, sidestepped another, then took off like a rocket. Nobody stood a chance of catching you!”
“It wasn’t that impressive,” I mutter, even though inside my head I’m now replaying the try, and . . . okay, sure, I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, but it was pretty good.
“It was bloody impressive, son. Mark my words, in a few years you’ll be playing for Scotland. I can see the headline now: Jamie McIntyre storms past English defence at Murrayfield. Scotland crowned champions!”
“Aye, right,” I say, but I can’t hold back a small grin. It’s impossible not to when Da’s so certain about things like this. Mind you, when a strong gust of wind batters the car, my smile falters and I grip the door handle, as if clutching it will somehow keep us anchored.
“This weather!” Maw says. “Are you sure you can see where you’re going okay, Angus?”
“Of course, Mairi.”
“Okay, well, just watch your speed.” Maw cranes her neck to give me a once-over in the back. “As for you, young man, even if you’re not leading Scotland to glory quite yet, I must say, you’re looking very handsome tonight.” She reaches back to fix my tie like I’m six years old again.
“Maw,” I groan, releasing the handle to swat her fussing hands away. “Like Da said, I’m eighteen now. I can sort my own tie, you know.”
“Och, you’d best get used to women fawning over you, son,” Da quips. “Once you’re scoring tries on TV, there’ll be a lot more of that, I reckon.”
I let out a small laugh but there’s a tightness in my chest, like a coiled spring ready to snap. It’s daft, really, pinning so much on tonight’s casino-night fundraiser at the rugby club. It’s just a bit of fun for charity, nothing to lose sleep over. Except . . . coaching staff for the Scotland under-20s team are going to be there, and that makes it a pretty big deal. Especially as there have been whispers lately. Nothing official, just vague rumours about “certain people” keeping an eye on me.
The rain hammers down harder, furious now, like the sky has decided to wring itself dry all at once. The wipers screech frantically as they fight a losing battle against the onslaught.
When another gust of wind hits us, Maw draws a sharp breath. “Maybe we should pull over?” Even over the roar of water on the roof, the worry in her voice is unmistakable.
Da doesn’t answer straight away. Instead he leans even further over the wheel, his shoulders bunching beneath his old tweed jacket. “The weather’s fierce,” he admits at last. “But we’re nearly there now. Just need to get past this stretch.”
