Page 91 of The Highland Game

I stretch, rolling my shoulders and shaking out my arms, preparing for the caber toss—my first event of the day. The sun beats down on the field, and the Highland Games are in full swing around me. A few months ago I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing something like this. Gaming had been my escape, a way to feel strong without actually having to be strong. But things are different now. I’m different now. We’ll see how I get on.

I’m towards the end of the line of kilt-clad participants, which gives me plenty of time to overthink and watch the others go before me—their faces flushed with effort, the thud of the caber hitting the ground echoing across the field. It’s not about how far you can throw the massive log. It’s about getting it to flip perfectly and land straight, like twelve o’clock on a clock face. That’s what gets you the points. Sounds simple in theory. In practice, not so much.

As my turn inches closer, nerves tangle in my stomach. This is putting me out there in a way I haven’t done in years—a very public test of whether I measure up.

The crowd whoops and claps for a particularly impressive throw. I scan the faces for Maisie. Is she here? She’s a big part of why I’m doing this, after all. Not that chucking a tree end over end is going to change her mind about me. Life isn’t some cheesy film in which the hero flexes his muscles and the girl instantly melts into a puddle of desire.

Still, a guy can hope.

And then I spot her, standing with her phone outstretched, recording one of her wee selfie videos beside some hulking giant of a man who looks vaguely familiar. She’s laughing at something he’s said, completely oblivious to me standing here like an idiot with my caber-related nerves and misplaced daydreams.

Wait—no way.

Cammy Morrison.

Aw, hell. I used to play rugby with him. The career I once wanted so badly? That’s what he’s got now. He’s gone on to do everything I couldn’t. Since the crash I’ve tried to avoid rugby news as much as possible, but even I’ve heard about Cammy’s meteoric rise.

God, jealousy burns hot and fast. My brain helpfully supplies an image: an alternate timeline where everything was different, where my femur didn’t snap like a twig, where Da lived to see me play professionally, where Maw didn’t . . . well. Maybe then Maisie would’ve fallen at my feet. Maybe then everything would have been easy.

Even as envious thoughts spiral through my head at record speed, Cammy turns and notices me.

Shit.

I look away like some starstruck fanboy caught staring at their idol. Not embarrassing at all.

It’s been seven years since I turned my back on rugby, seven years since I cut all ties with that world after everything went wrong. It wasn’t just the injury—it was losing Da. Rugby was how he and I bonded, and without him . . .

Cammy probably doesn’t even recognise me. Why would he? He’s got bigger things to think about than some washed-up ex-teammate skulking around a field pretending he knows what he’s doing with a caber.

Right then, only five more guys ahead of me before it’s my turn. No big deal. Just me and a literal tree trunk in front of pretty much the entire town. The guy up now is a bloody beast. He looks like he could bench-press a car. Sure, I’ve been grafting away at the gym these past few months, but there’s just no comparison between me and him. What if I go to lift it and it doesn’t even budge?

It’s not exactly the kind of setting where you can lean over to one of the other guys in line and say, “I’m feeling a wee bit nervous. How about you?” Nope, it’s all gruff nods and testosterone around here. But alongside the nerves, there’s also this faint thrill thrumming in my chest. Yet another callback to my rugby years. That mix of dread and adrenaline before kickoff. The itch to do something impressive. To prove—to everyone else and myself—that I have what it takes.

A firm hand lands on my shoulder, startling me. I turn around and, shit, it’s Cammy.

“Jamie McIntyre! I thought it was you.” He pulls me into a bro hug even though I’ve not once spoken to this guy in seven years. Well, seems he remembers me after all. He claps me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth and maybe two or three internal organs. Thank God I’d been hitting the gym again. Otherwise, I’d be in the dirt trying to remember my own name.

“How the hell are you doing?” he asks, pulling back to look at me.

For a second I freeze. What’s there to say to someone who represents everything I once wanted? But then I find my voice. “Good to see you, Cammy.” And because that seems woefully insufficient: “Congrats on all your success.”

“Cheers.” He grins then shifts his weight slightly. “Listen, mate. I always felt bad about . . . you know, the accident. You were going to go all the way. Everyone knew it back then.”

Christ.

“And your parents,” Cammy adds after a beat. “Your da was such a great supporter of the club.”

“Thanks,” I reply, my voice coming out steadier than I expected. He just brought up the crash, my injury, and the death of my maw and da—all in just a few sentences—and . . . I’ve not fallen apart. I’m still looking him in the eye. “To be honest, it’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this. But aye, it feels good to push myself again.”

He playfully punches my bicep then takes a step back. “Good man! Listen, if you ever fancy coming along to watch us play, you let me know. I’ll sort out tickets.”

I find myself smiling despite everything—a real smile. “You know what? Aye, I’d like that.”

Shit. What’s happening to me? Any time the rugby comes on the TV, I immediately switch it off. But now I’m apparently considering going to see a game in person? Somehow, though, the idea sits okay with me. I’m not just brushing Cammy off—I think I really would quite like to do it.

Cammy leaves with a wave, and I shake myself. Crap, not long now until my turn. Time to get into the right frame of mind. These things are as much about mental focus as they are about physical strength.

I bounce on the balls of my feet, rolling my shoulders, trying to drown out the noise of the crowd and channel whatever adrenaline I’ve got left into something useful. But before I can properly settle myself, a familiar voice cuts through the air.