Page 94 of The Highland Game

I shouldn’t really be surprised—we still wrestle like we’re twelve, after all—but seriously? Grabbing my kilt mid-race? Who does that? Desperation fuels me now because there’s no winning this race with Lewis hanging onto me like an anchor.

Well . . . there is one way.

With grim resolve, I unfasten the left strap of the kilt—then the right. Gravity takes care of the rest.

The fabric falls away entirely, and so does Lewis’s grip as he stumbles back in shock. “What the—Jamie!”

I don’t stick around to hear the rest because I’m already pelting towards the finish line like a man possessed. The crowd erupts into cheers mingled with gasps and laughter as I cross the line first, punching the air triumphantly before reality catches up with me.

Shit.

Suddenly aware of just how much I’m exposing—and just how little there is left to people’s imagination—I use both hands to shield myself while grinning sheepishly at the crowd. My face burns hotter than a bonfire as Lewis barrels across the finish line next, throwing me my discarded kilt with a face almost as red as mine.

Ally comes in third and immediately clips the back of my head. “Would it have killed you to wear boxers today, you bloody eejit?”

“Wait, you aren’t trying to blame this on me, are you?” I protest, frantically fumbling to get decent again. “Lewis grabbed my kilt! Such poor sportsmanship. If anyone deserves a lecture, it’s him.”

“Oh aye?” Ally says. “And what about you? Flashing your bits to half the town like you’re auditioning for Magic Mike: The Highlands Edition? Don’t you think that warrants a word or two?”

I steal a glance at the crowd. There are way too many wide grins and stifled giggles for my comfort. A few people even have their phones out. Great. Just great.

“Well, it got the job done, didn’t it?” I quip, feigning nonchalance. “I won.” Then I lift a hand to the onlookers in what I’d like to think is an apologetic wave but probably comes off more like an awkward salute. “Sorry if some of you got more than you bargained for! Blame him—” I jab a thumb over my shoulder at Lewis because deflection is clearly my best bet here. “He’s the one who grabbed my kilt!”

A fresh wave of laughter ripples through the crowd, and Lewis’s face flushes beetroot red.

Ally leans in close. “You do realise you’re never living this one down, right?”

“Oh. Think there’s any chance everyone will remember me as the comeback hero and not the guy who finished without his kilt?”

Ally smirks and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Aye, I’m sure the kilt thing will barely come up at all . . . aside from at every wedding, ceilidh, and funeral for the rest of your days.”

I groan. And yet, honestly? I can’t help but feel proud of myself for winning. Even if no one else remembers me as the comeback hero, that’s how I’ll remember today. And, I mean, really . . . it’s just a cock, isn’t it? Half the population has one. Sure, I’d rather not have waved mine at what feels like the entire bloody town, but all things considered? Worth it.

The crowd is still buzzing with sniggers and chatter. I shift awkwardly, scanning the sea of faces properly now. Old Hamish is doubled over, laughing so hard I’m genuinely worried he might need medical attention. Morag from the bakery is in fits, crying actual tears, her shoulders shaking as she attempts (without success) to pull herself together. Then there’s Cat, whose face has turned a shade of red usually reserved for stop signs or emergency buttons. Aidan, meanwhile, is grinning like he’s the one who won the race, like this entire moment exists solely to fuel his next decade of piss-taking.

But it’s not any of those people I’m looking for. Where is she?

Finally my gaze lands on her, and whatever trace of good humour I’ve managed to cling to nose-dives faster than I did on that bloody hill.

Everyone else is busy peeing themselves laughing, but Maisie is not amused. She’s off to the side, her phone aimed at her face, her lips moving a mile a minute. But this isn’t playful-banter Maisie; this is panicked-apologies Maisie. Hell, it might even be preparing-for-an-online-backlash Maisie.

Oh no.

Was she . . . livestreaming?

The ground might as well open up beneath me because fuck.

She shoves her phone into her pocket then locks onto me like a heat-seeking missile. Before I have time to fully process just how catastrophic this might be, she’s storming towards me.

“What,” she hisses through gritted teeth, “were you thinking?”

“Hey,” I reply brightly as if sheer optimism can undo public humiliation on this scale. “I wanted to win—and I did! In case you missed it, I’m accepting congratulatory hugs. Fancy giving me one?” I hold my arms out in what I hope reads as cheeky charm but probably looks more like desperation.

Maisie stares at me, unblinking, daggers in her eyes sharp enough to cut granite. “Oh sure,” she snaps, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Let’s throw a celebratory party—pop some champagne! And while we’re at it, maybe brainstorm ways for you to explain why my followers just got an eyeful of your bits!”

I blink then lower my arms awkwardly back to my sides. “Er . . .”

She waves her phone in my face like it’s Exhibit A in a murder trial. “I was live when you decided to re-enact The Full Monty!”