Page 51 of The Highland Game
A few minutes later, I grab the mic and step out from behind the bar. “All right, everyone, it’s time to begin. Tonight’s special edition is all about Bannock: its history, its charm, and why we’re all so proud to call this place home.”
A ripple of cheers and applause sweeps through the packed pub. The sound fills me with pride—and just a tiny bit of relief.
“Let’s get started with round one: Famous Faces of Bannock Past.” I tap a laptop key, and the first slide appears on the TV above me: an old grainy photo of a young topless muscular man in boxing gloves and shorts, his hands raised, poised to strike.
“Question one: which Bannock-born athlete went on to have a successful boxing career in the US?”
The room bursts into activity: hushed discussions ripple through each table; pens scratch against paper. I can’t help but grin at the energy in the room. This is exactly what the Pheasant is all about. Tradition and community.
Jamie better not ruin that.
I’m just announcing the scores for the first round when Jamie himself walks into the pub. The infuriating bastard props himself against the bar, all easy arrogance, and shoots me a smirk that screams trouble.
To make matters worse, he looks good. Annoyingly so, like he’s made a genuine effort for once. His hair—usually ruffled from running his hands through it while gaming—is actually styled. Even his stubble looks deliberate tonight rather than lazy. His black shirt is smart—sharp, even—and fits him very well. The sleeves are rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms, and it’s tucked neatly into chinos. More specifically, into those chinos—the penis-petting ones.
“Er . . .” My voice comes out strained through the mic, and I hastily clear my throat. Get back on track, Maisie. Don’t let him distract you. “There’s everything still to play for, but right now in first place we have . . . the Boob Lovers!”
A moment of stunned silence falls over the pub. And then, like a dam breaking, laughter bursts out—booming, gleeful, unstoppable. I glance down at the score cards. Oh shit. My cheeks flame instantly.
“I mean, the Book Lovers!” I blurt into the mic. “The BOOK Lovers!”
The laughter only grows louder, and I swear someone at the back wheezes. Brilliant. Just brilliant.
My eyes, against my better judgement, find Jamie’s. His trademark smirk has spread into a full-blown grin that practically screams, I am never letting you live that down.
Damn him. This only happened because I got flustered when he walked in. What is he even doing here anyway? Surely he knows how inappropriate it is that he turned up? He must have come purely to throw me off my game. That’s the only reason I can think of.
“Right,” I say into the microphone. “That was quite the . . . well, titillating mistake, wasn’t it? Let’s swiftly move on before I make an even bigger boob of myself.”
More laughter, and just like that, I’ve regained control of the situation. You don’t get through as many pub quizzes as I have without learning how to control a crowd.
“So, once again, well done to the Book Lovers—some of whom, no doubt, are also rather fond of boobs—for taking an early lead. Before the next round, I have a short bonus question for you, which is about . . .” I reach for my laptop while simultaneously gesturing grandly to the TV. “The Pheasant! Everyone’s favourite place to relax and have a wee drink with friends.” I shoot Jamie a smug smile. “Pencils at the ready, please! Your bonus question is: when was the Pheasant established? This one is multiple choice, and your options are: 1775, 1825, 1875, or 1915.”
Heads huddle together and whispers fly back and forth. And then Jamie—who isn’t even on a team—joins in. He confidently asserts to a table near him, “It’s 1825. Says so on the foundation stone outside. Although these days that’s hidden by that ugly say no to the beer garden poster, of course.”
His voice is loud enough that several other tables hear him too. Which spoils the whole format of the quiz. He’s trying to get under my skin, and it’s working.
“Some eejit over here has spoiled that question with his foghorn voice,” I say into the mic. “If anyone didn’t hear, the answer was 1825. At least no one will be finishing the quiz with zero points, eh? Anyway, if you’ll excuse me for just one minute, I’m going to have a word with the eejit in question—outside.”
Glaring at Jamie, I point to the door. With a cocky grin, he follows me out onto Main Street. It’s still light out, and the air is cool but pleasant. It’s a perfect May evening, but for me it might as well be raining fire.
“So,” Jamie says, casually leaning against the wall of the pub, “is this really about my loud voice? Or were you just wanting to gossip about the dreamy looks Elspeth and your da were giving each other? Because I thought Iona would be your go-to choice for that conversation, but if you’d rather chat with me about it, all right, let’s do it.”
I roll my eyes. “Ugh, what are you even talking about? Actually, don’t answer that question—I’ve no interest in your teasing tonight. The one thing I do want to know is: what are you doing here?”
He stretches his arms overhead as though he hasn’t a care in the world then lets them fall loosely to his sides. “What do you think? Having fun at a community quiz. Isn’t that obvious? It’s a really nice idea, by the way.”
I scowl at him. “I know you’re only here to put me off my game.”
“Really? Oh dear. What gives you that impression?” That infuriating smirk plays on his lips, teasing and confident, as if he knows exactly how much he’s needling me.
“How come you’re looking so smug anyway?” I cross my arms. “Shouldn’t you be nervous? I’ve done everything I can to push back against your proposal. I think it’s very unlikely the beer garden will be signed off tomorrow.”
“Oh, do you now?”
“Aye.”
“Well, that’s interesting.” He pushes off from the wall and takes a step closer to me. “Because I don’t think that’s the way things are going to go. In fact, I’d bet good money they’ll go the opposite way.”
