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“I thought LochNLoad was overcompensating when he lugged around the Claymore of the Clan Chiefs. But a caber? That takes phallic symbolism to a whole new level.”
Maisie steps into view, in denim shorts that show off slim legs and a white button-up blouse knotted at her waist. It teases just enough skin to drive me quietly insane.
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “I bet you’ve been dying to make a joke about my wood, haven’t you? Well, just wait till you see me toss it.”
Smirking, she slides her phone from her pocket and taps its screen. “I look forward to it. Fancy being immortalised on social media?”
Shit. No pressure or anything. As if hurling this bloody tree wasn’t nerve-racking enough already.
But her attention stirs something else in me—a flicker of pride buried beneath the anxiety. If Maisie wants to film me for her followers, then I’ll make damn sure I give them something worth watching.
“Go ahead. Just make sure you get my good side.”
She rolls her eyes but lets out an amused snort. “Seriously, though . . . good luck.” There’s no teasing in her voice this time, only sincerity, and it grounds me.
“Thanks.”
And now there’s no more time to chat because it’s go-time.
The caber is heavier than it looks—and trust me, it looked bloody monstrous—but weeks of training pay off as I manage to hoist it vertical against my shoulder. My muscles scream their objections as I take one step forward . . . then another . . . then one more for good measure before launching the beast with everything I’ve got.
It tumbles end over end through the air before hitting the ground with a satisfyingly solid thud. It’s far from a perfect twelve o’clock—not good enough to win—but it’s a decent attempt. Respectable. I can hold my head high.
The crowd erupts into cheers and applause, a wave of noise washing over me. It might be my imagination, but it feels louder than it has been for anyone else—even the guys who did better. There’s something in the sound, something deeper than polite applause. Like the whole town remembers where I’ve been and can see exactly how far I’ve climbed to get here.
A wolf whistle cuts through it all. I glance around in time to see Maisie lowering a hand from her lips. She shoots me a wink—bold and cheeky, sending a crackling spark straight to my core.
Winning? Pah, who needs it when I’ve got Maisie Kerr whistling for me like I’m the only guy on this field worth noticing?
I signed up for two other events: the hammer throw and the stone put. I do pretty well in both of them—better than I expected, if I’m honest—although I don’t take home any wins. Still, there’s something deeply satisfying about the ache in my muscles and the hearty slaps on the back from locals. It’s a kind of respect that feels earned, raw and real in a way I haven’t experienced in years.
“You weren’t half bad out there,” Maisie says, appearing out of the crowd and passing me a water bottle. “Not bad for a bloke who used to think heavy lifting meant carrying his laptop upstairs.”
I take the bottle like it’s some sort of trophy—and let’s face it, it’s the closest thing to one I’ll be winning today. After a long swig, I press the cold plastic against my neck to cool off, although I reckon Maisie’s presence might be heating me up more than any feat of strength ever could.
Meeting her gaze, I see she’s got that look in her eye—the one that dances between teasing and something softer—and before I can stop myself, the words that have been circling my head slip out. “You know . . . part of me really wanted to win one of these events. For you.”
The words hang there between us. She tilts her head slightly, eyebrows lifting like she’s not sure whether to laugh or take me seriously. God help me if she laughs.
“Is that so?” she says eventually. “Well . . . you’ve still got one more chance to impress me.”
I know what she’s referring to. The hill race.
Most people think the Highland Games are all about raw strength, but they actually began with a simple race. Back in the eleventh century, King Malcolm III hosted an event to determine who would serve as his royal messenger. The fastest runner to reach the summit of Craig Choinnich and return won the coveted role. Here in Bannock, we honour these origins by ending each year’s Games with a race up and down Ben Garve.
I used to run that race every year—an uphill battle so punishing it makes you question every life choice, followed by a downhill sprint with adrenaline drowning out the sound of your lungs screaming for mercy. I won it when I was seventeen. And again at eighteen. Then life happened, and I never ran it again.
My smile falters, just slightly, but enough for Maisie’s sharp eyes to catch it.
Speed was once my greatest asset—the thing that made me special on the rugby pitch. Back then, nobody could catch me if I had open space in front of me. My legs were lightning bolts wrapped in muscle.
After the accident—after they placed that damn pin in my leg—nothing was ever the same. I knew that no matter how hard I worked at it, I could never be as good as I used to be. And if you can’t be as good as you were at your best, then what’s even the point?
Maisie doesn’t push me. She just waits quietly as if daring me to work through whatever excuse is forming in my head.
Then again, why put limits on myself? If these last few months—and these Games especially—have taught me anything, it’s that I’m stronger than I give myself credit for.
Sure, my training has been almost entirely focused on strength—cardio, not so much—but who cares? This isn’t about being perfect or winning some prize. This is about proving something, even if it’s only to myself.
