Page 88 of The Highland Game

“I’d like to believe you can hear me,” I say, “but . . . I’m not sure you can.” My throat tightens. “Either way, there are some things I want to get off my chest.”

I draw in a shaky breath that feels like it’s scraping through my lungs. “I . . . don’t think I’ve really been living my life since I lost you. Not properly. If anything, I’ve been hiding from it—dragging myself from one day to the next but never really moving forwards. What happened—losing you—hasn’t been easy for any of us. Ally, though, is doing all right for himself these days. You’d be pleased, Da—he finally went and set up his outdoor-activities business with Aidan. Needed Emily to give him a good shove in the right direction, but he got there.

“And Lewis . . . well, he’s with Iona now. Took them long enough, didn’t it? He’s doing a good job of keeping your legacy alive—the hotel looks better than ever. If you could see it, you’d both be so proud of him.

“Cat’s also doing well. She’s an English teacher—in Wick, if you can believe it. Aye, we never thought she’d last a day somewhere quieter than Bannock, but she’s up there holding her own with a classroom full of teenagers. She’s talking about moving back here soon, though. It’d be good if she did—all four of us together again.”

I pause for a moment and shift on the bench. Water squelches beneath me and seeps into my jeans until they cling uncomfortably tight against my thighs. The chill sends goosebumps racing up my arms, but I don’t move just yet.

“As for me?” My laugh is low and humourless. “Well . . . where do I even start? For years after losing you both, it was like . . . like I just froze everything inside me so nothing could hurt as bad as that again. Gave up rugby—it wasn’t really an option after the crash—but instead of finding something else worth doing with my life? Nah, couldn’t be bothered.” My voice falters a little. “Ally started his business; Lewis worked on the hotel; Cat found her path teaching kids—and what did I do? Sat in the snug and, as often as I could get away with it, played games on my laptop and ignored the world outside.”

My hands clench into fists against my legs as guilt trickles through me like icy rainwater. “That’s not what you’d have wanted for me, I know that. But lately . . . things have shifted. Putting together this beer garden gave me a purpose I hadn’t felt in years. And seeing folk enjoy themselves here? Families laughing together over pints and burgers? You’d have loved it, I’m sure of it. And, aye, I know it’s not much to look at right now, but seriously, you should have seen it on opening day.” A small smile tugs at my mouth.

“I’ve even started going to the gym again. It’s weird—it feels good. For so long after I had to give up rugby . . .” The smile falters and a lump rises in my throat, making the words harder to push out. “God, Da, I know how much you wanted me to play for Scotland someday. And I wanted it too. But after the accident, it was like . . . I don’t know, like everything inside me just ground to a halt.”

I rub my hands together, warming them against the bite of the night air. “Instead of focusing on myself—on what was real—I threw myself into gaming. It was easier, I suppose. Fun too. Levelling up a character? Completing quests? That felt manageable in a way real life didn’t. And gaming isn’t bad—don’t get me wrong—it’s brilliant, actually. And it’s because of Highland Legacy that I got to know Maisie well, even though she and I have lived just a few minutes away from each other our whole lives. But that’s . . . that’s a story for another day.

“Anyway, I’ve been mulling over the idea of doing something more hands-on—something that takes me back to the rush of you cheering me on from the sidelines, back when rugby was my whole world.” I can still picture Maw jumping up and down whenever I scored a try, and Da bellowing encouragement even when we were losing by a mile.

“Don’t worry, I’m not daft enough to try diving back into contact sports—not with this pin in my leg—but there must be something else out there for me.”

The faint buzz of my phone cuts through my thoughts. Reluctantly I dig it out from my pocket and squint at the screen.

Kyle

About the Highland Games—just wanted to say I’m happy to help run the tent. We can take shifts so we both get some time to enjoy the day.

A wry chuckle escapes me, and I slip my phone back into my pocket. I’ll reply later when I’m out of this rain.

“Well, I’m not normally one for superstition, and—sure—that was probably just a coincidence. And yet . . . I’m going to interpret it as a wee nudge from you two. If you were here, I can imagine you encouraging me to sign up for one or two events at the Games and seeing how I get on. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

I push myself up from the bench and onto unsteady legs. “Anyway, time to go in, I think. I better get out of these wet things. This was nice, though—I can see why the others do it. I think I’ll try it again sometime, maybe even when I’m sober. Anyway . . . night, Maw. Night, Da.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

MAISIE

Bagpipes wail over the warm buzz of conversation and laughter, occasionally drowned out by roars of cheering and enthusiastic clapping. Today is our annual Highland Games, which means a usually quiet field outside town has been transformed into a sea of sunhats and tartan-clad chaos. Just about everyone from Bannock is here, alongside visitors from neighbouring villages and a number of folk from further afield too. It’s nice to think that I’ve had a hand—albeit a small one—in attracting visitors to come.

Throughout the day people have stopped by the Pheasant’s beer tent to tell me they’re here because of my videos. I’m hardly claiming to be the next big influencer, but it’s happened more times than I have fingers, so we’re talking double digit numbers.

Not that I can take all the credit. Sure, I did a wee video hyping up the Games, but let’s be honest, with weather like this—blue skies and sunshine that feels almost Mediterranean—it wasn’t exactly a tough sell. Still, three strangers have asked me for selfies so far (three!), and one woman told me that my hair looks exactly like it does in my videos. The attention has been flattering, but also slightly weird. There’s something about hearing comments face to face that hits differently than reading them on an app.

Da and I have rigged up a stall in front of our tent, and from it we’re churning out drinks like nobody’s business. Plastic cups foam over with ales, lagers, and the odd cider as we pass them over to thirsty customers. Some folk duck into the tent for a quick break from the sun, but most wander off with their drinks, either heading back to spectate or else flopping onto the grass to bask in the kind of sunshine that feels almost too good to be true.

Business really has been booming—so much so that I had to ditch my earlier plan of making cocktails because they were slowing everything down too much. It’s all about keeping customers happy and queues moving faster. And that’s fine! We adapted—that’s what a good business does.

From where we’re stationed, our view of the events isn’t exactly stellar. I can just about glimpse the tug-of-war if I stand on tiptoes and crane my neck—although all I really see is sweaty legs straining like their lives depend on it. Later, though, Da and I have an extra staff member swinging by to help us out. When she arrives, I’ll sneak off for a proper wander and film a bit of footage for tonight’s promised video. A surprising number of my followers who couldn’t be here made me swear I’d give them a wee glimpse of what they’re missing. And who am I to deny them?

With the sun shining and the money rolling in, it’s almost a perfect day. There’s just one problem, and that comes in the form of the competing beer tent just a stone’s throw away, literally opposite me and Da. Outside it is Jamie, operating at a stall like ours, and he’s doing brisk business too. But he isn’t just serving drinks. Oh no, he’s got theatrics going on over there. The “exclusive collaboration” with the Glen Garve Distillery he keeps banging on about? Please. And of course, he would put on a kilt for today, wouldn’t he? And he had to go and look bloody sexy in it too, especially with that white polo shirt clinging to his chest like it’s been tailored just for him. Ugh.

His presence wouldn’t bother me so much if he wasn’t making it his life’s mission to poach every customer who so much as glances in his direction. Right now Morag from the bakery is hovering between the two tents, clearly torn, like she’s facing an impossible dilemma. My queue has died down for the moment—just enough to wipe my brow or have a sip of water—but instead of enjoying the rare reprieve, I decide to strike before Jamie can.

“Morag!” I call cheerfully. “What can I get you?”

Jamie doesn’t miss a beat. “Over here, Morag! I’ve got some incredible whiskies today, exclusively available at this tent! Don’t miss your chance—they’re flying out! Come on over!”

Morag throws her arms up dramatically. “I just want a drink! This is supposed to be a fun community event, not World War Three.”