Page 95 of The Highland Game

The mounting fury in her voice draws attention from some of the nearby spectators. Their grins falter into looks of concern—or maybe just curiosity about whether she’s going to deck me here and now or do it later. Her ferocity really is a sight to behold. Maisie Kerr yelling at me isn’t exactly new territory, but I’ve never seen her quite this rattled before.

“Do you have any idea what people are saying in the comments?” she demands.

Still clinging desperately to my sense of humour, I offer, “Nice things, I hope?”

Her silence cuts even deeper than her glare did. When she finally speaks again, her voice is clipped, like every word is holding back an avalanche of rage. “Do you have any idea what kind of damage this could do? To me? To my account? If this mess gets me banned or ruins my reputation then—ugh!” She throws up her hands and, without another word, spins on her heel and storms off.

“Maisie, wait!”

But she doesn’t stop or even slow down. She disappears into the crowd with long, purposeful strides, as though putting as much distance as possible between us might erase the spectacle of my public humiliation—and hers by association.

And, just like that, my victory high crashes spectacularly back down to earth.

Shit.

This is definitely not how I pictured this going. Not even close.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

MAISIE

I haul the last crate of empty glasses out of the beer tent and dump it into the back of the van with a wee bit more force than necessary. My hands are steady as I tidy up after the Games, but my brain is a riot—spinning and tumbling through every worst-case scenario I can dream up. What if Jamie’s full-frontal race finish ruins everything? My followers, my profile, all the plans I’ve made for future content—it could all come crashing down.

Near me, Da works efficiently in his usual no-nonsense way, folding up tables and stacking chairs into neat piles. I’ve reminded him on multiple occasions to take a break whenever he needs one, but he claims he’s all right. We mostly work in silence, the tension from our earlier clash hanging unspoken between us.

The clean-up is repetitive and methodical—the kind of task that should soothe me—but my nerves are frayed too thin for that. I still can’t believe Jamie crossed the finish line stark naked for all the world to see. And by “the world,” I mean my world: my followers, who now probably think I’m running some kind of OnlyFans-lite account for accidental-nudity enthusiasts. The sound of laughter from another part of the field floats past—other stallholders tidying up, buzzing with gossip and no doubt replaying the day’s events. I can only imagine what they’re saying about Jamie’s grand finale.

The one small mercy is that Kyle and other staff from the distillery have taken charge of cleaning up Jamie’s tent. Emily is there too—more to supervise than to lend a hand, given her bump. She’s cast a few glances my way, clearly trying to catch my eye, but I’ve made a point of looking anywhere but at her. I’m sure she’s figured out by now that I’m not ready to go over the whole fiasco just yet.

What hurts the most is how perfect it had all been up until that moment. Jamie charging up the hill, his kilt swishing with every powerful stride, his calves flexing as if sculpted by some divine hand. He reminded me of a Highland warrior—of LochNLoad. And he was running for me—no, for us. But instead of a triumphant ending, we got . . . well, more of Jamie than anyone asked for.

Once our beer tent stands empty, it’s time to dismantle it. Da gestures to the nearest peg. “Start with those.”

I kneel and wrestle it loose from the ground. The tension of being at odds with both my father and Jamie is gnawing at me, so I say, “About what I said earlier . . .”

“It needed saying.” Da doesn’t look at me but instead focuses on loosening a peg of his own. “I’ve been too damned stubborn for too damned long. You were right to call me out on it.”

A lump rises in my throat but I swallow it back then grip another peg. “I love you, Da. You know that, right? If I’ve been stressed lately, it’s only because I care—about you and about keeping the Pheasant going strong.”

He keeps his head down but nods once, a small gesture of understanding. “Aye, I know. And you’re right—we need to face things head-on rather than me burying my head in the sand like some daft old fool. Which is why we’ll sit down soon and figure it all out. Together.”

The heaviness in my chest shifts—not gone, but lighter by just enough that I can breathe again. That’s one problem chipped away, at least.

Straightening, I glance at Da—his hair flecked with silver, his hands calloused from years of work—and my throat tightens again, this time for entirely different reasons. I step closer and squeeze his arm gently. “Thanks, Da.”

Not everything is fixed—not even close—but it’s a start.

We work in companionable silence after that, peeling away the canvas bit by bit until only the bare skeleton of the tent remains. As we’re folding the canvas up, Elspeth appears. She exchanges a few words with Emily across the way before heading in our direction with her usual no-nonsense stride.

“I’m not going to bring up what happened at the race!” she announces pre-emptively, glancing my way. “I’ll leave that for you young folk to sort among yourselves. But, Bryce, do you have a few minutes for a chat?”

“Aye,” Da says. “It’s the perfect moment for a wee break.”

Oh, is it now? It’s funny how any time I suggested he have a rest, he didn’t want to hear it, but now that Elspeth brings it up, it’s a brilliant idea.

I can’t help but remember Jamie’s claim at my Bannock-themed pub quiz that Da and Elspeth were flirting. At the time I’d assumed it was one of his usual wind-ups, but maybe he was on to something. Still, I’ve got more than enough on my plate at the moment without adding their potential love lives. That’s a mystery for Future Me to dig into. For now, a quick break sounds like just what I need, especially since it’ll give me an excuse to check in on social media. I’ve been putting that off—I wasn’t exactly in the right headspace earlier—but the tidy-up work has helped.

Da and I agree to continue in ten, then I wander off to a quiet spot near the edge of the field. Sitting on the grass, I pull out my phone, take a deep breath, then check in on my profile. I think I have some idea of what I’m about to face, but it turns out it’s even worse than I expected. A lot worse.