Page 43 of The Highland Game

Maybe just write “Needs Improvement” on each of them and call it a day?

Cat

I wish! Trying to pass my probationary year here.

God, it’d be such a relief to tell them both everything. But how would that conversation go?

Hey! Funny story. I’ve been secretly playing this online game with Jamie to spy on his plans for the snug. He has no clue it’s me! I suppose you could say I’m trying to sabotage the Bannock Hotel? Aye, I’m aware how much the place means to you both. Oopsie!

Hmm, what else? Oh aye, I kind of touched Jamie’s . By mistake, I promise! Although . . . before it happened, I HAD literally been thinking about doing it. Make of that what you will. LOL!

Anyway, just wanted to keep you both in the loop!

God, when did things spiral this far out of control? After I found out Jamie was LochNLoad, I fully intended to tell him I was SassyLassie. I really did. I tracked him down on Ben Garve, but then Bruce tangled us in his lead and tugged us over, and after that Jamie’s mode completely changed, and he stalked off before I could tell him. So then I thought, fine, I’ll do it in the game instead. But that’s when he casually announced his grand plan to “poach” some customers from “the competition” (a.k.a. me and Da).

At the time, keeping quiet for just a wee bit longer seemed harmless enough—a way to get the inside scoop. Not once did I think my choice might lead to unintentional penis petting, abandonment in a biblical downpour, or the staging of a virtual murder. I’m in too deep to come clean now.

So instead I send an image of a Highland cow in oversized sunglasses with the caption: You’ve got this!

Total cop-out.

I finish off mopping the floor then head down to the cellar to do a stock check. Clipboard in hand, I count bottles and kegs, my pen scratching against the paper as I tick off items on the list. If it were up to me, we’d use a digital system, but Da is a firm believer in “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it”. And what Da says goes.

When I reach the section where we keep Golden Stag Lager—a local craft beer that practically sells itself—I stop short. Two kegs left. Two. That won’t get us through Friday night, let alone the weekend.

Great.

I trudge back upstairs and find Da hunched over a mess of papers at his desk. The office, as always, smells faintly of lemon cleaner and stale coffee.

“Da, when is the Golden Stag delivery due?”

He lifts his head and frowns slightly. “It should’ve . . .” Trailing off, he glances down at the cluttered desk as if the answer might be hiding there somewhere. “Wait, didn’t it come in on Monday?”

“Nope.” I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms. “We’re down to two kegs.”

“That can’t be right.” He rifles through a precarious stack of invoices and receipts. Flipping one over, he squints at it then grabs another slip from the pile. Finally he lets out a low groan and slumps back in his chair. “Aw, shite.”

“What?”

He tugs a sticky note free from the chaos on his desk—a crumpled square with scrawled reminders—and holds it up between two fingers like damning evidence. “Looks like I meant to place the order last week but forgot.”

I chew my bottom lip. “Da . . .”

“It’s these tablets the doctor put me on,” he says gruffly. “They make my brain all fuzzy.”

“It’s okay, Da. I’ll sort it.”

“No.” He straightens stiffly. “I’ll phone them right now.” He reaches for the landline on his desk.

I nod and leave the office, shutting the door quietly behind me.

He won’t admit it but he’s struggling, I know he is. First the stiffness in his movements, now forgetfulness? Keeping this place running is taking its toll on him but he refuses to step back, as though sheer willpower alone can make up for what’s slipping through the cracks. And maybe it could, once upon a time, but not anymore.

I let out a slow breath and glance around the empty pub. It’s on me to keep things steady, isn’t it? To pick up the slack where I can and stop mistakes like this one from happening again. Because we can’t afford more mistakes, not when Jamie is hovering about with whatever scheme he’s cooking up to poach our customers.

Sitting myself down at a table, I pull out my phone. Am I proud of being neck-deep in virtual espionage against Jamie? No, of course not. But since I’ve already waded this far into the muck, I might as well see it through. As much as I hate the secrecy of it all, knowing what Jamie’s planning could give me an edge when it comes to protecting the Pheasant. Knowledge is power, right? And not knowing—sitting here stewing in uncertainty—is torture. At least with answers, I can come up with a plan of my own. First step: apologising to LochNLoad for yesterday’s mid-battle betrayal. This is not going to be fun.

SassyLassie