Page 96 of The Highland Game

Oh no. Oh bloody hell.

Apparently, after the livestream ended, the video automatically uploaded to my timeline for people to rewatch. I didn’t know it did that! Today was my very first time going live—I’m still learning how it all works.

My stomach lurches as I stare wide-eyed at the stats. The number of views is astronomical—the highest I’ve seen since my very first video, about the stone circle. And there’s been an explosion of new followers since earlier today.

Normally, I’d be thrilled by this kind of attention, but not for this. What exactly do these new followers think they’ve signed up to watch?

And then there are the comments. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Bracing myself, I scroll through them.

The laughing emojis alone could probably fill a novel. Then come the jokes—terrible, shameless jokes that somehow still manage to coax a reluctant laugh from me:

Well, that’s one way to cross the finish line!

Now we know where the Loch Ness Monster has been hiding!

Came for the race, stayed for the unexpected show!

Is this what they mean by ‘Free Willy’?

A Scottish underwear company has even chimed in uninvited, tagging the post with some clever bit of marketing about why their boxer briefs are an essential investment for Highland Games competitors everywhere. Honestly? Fair play to their social media manager—that was quick work.

I scroll faster, expecting outrage or complaints buried somewhere in the flood of hysterics, but . . . there’s nothing. Not one hint of public fury or even a sniff of controversy. No accusations of indecency or cries to cancel me—or Jamie, for that matter. If anything, everyone seems delighted by how ridiculous and utterly human it all was. They’re laughing with him, not at him, and everyone seems to understand that my broadcasting of the moment was entirely accidental.

This revelation puts a dent in my panic—not enough to completely calm me, but enough for me to start believing that I might just survive this.

There’s only one sensible thing left to do: delete the video before anyone else has time to share it—or worse, download it for posterity.

My finger hovers over the delete button . . . and stops.

Is it bad if . . . maybe . . . just quickly . . . I give it a watch? It’s not like I properly registered what was going on at the time—I was too busy careening headfirst into sheer panic. And now that everyone else has seen it anyway . . .

I tap play before my brain can talk me out of it.

The video starts innocently enough—crowds cheering as competitors hurtle down the hill. Jamie, Lewis, and Ally lead the pack. But then Lewis is grabbing Jamie’s kilt, Jamie is loosening it, and . . .

Oh God. His bits. The flapping is almost hypnotic, and yet he charges on, utterly undeterred.

A snort escapes me before I can stop it, followed by another, and soon I’m laughing so hard my ribs ache. Because honestly? It’s absurdly funny watching someone so committed that they barrel through social norms with reckless abandon. There’s something utterly ridiculous yet weirdly admirable about it—about him.

And suddenly I see it: Jamie being exactly who he is in this moment—bold to the point of reckless, too stubborn to quit even when he probably should have, and somehow managing to laugh at the chaos of it all without breaking stride. Only Jamie could make utter humiliation look this damn charming.

And, what’s more, he did it! He won the bloody race, against all odds and after everything he’s endured.

Thinking back to how I acted afterwards, shame washes over me. He held out his arms to me for a congratulatory hug, but I didn’t give it to him. Instead I snapped at him, wiping the proud grin right off his face. It was his moment, but I made it all about me and my stupid social media account. Why couldn’t I just have laughed along with everyone else? Thrown my arms around him and told him how bloody incredible he is?

God, I’m such an idiot.

My finger once again hovers over the delete button. Part of me doesn’t want to press it, not because of what’s in the video but because of what it represents: Jamie being so unapologetically Jamie. That maddening streak in him that drives me up the wall but also makes me ache with something I’m not quite ready to name yet.

But this clip shouldn’t live on the internet for all eternity, and Jamie deserves a bit of his modesty back. I hit delete then lay my phone down on the grass beside me.

I should really head back soon and help Da finish tidying up, but later today I have got my work cut out. First: damage control. My followers might think the whole fiasco was comedy gold—and fair enough, it was—but I’ll need to post a new video to get things back on track. I don’t want anyone expecting more of that type of content from me.

Second, and far more importantly, I owe Jamie an apology. Because if the man is willing to win a race for me—with his bits out, no less—then maybe it’s time I stop focusing on why we wouldn’t work and start thinking about why we could.

Aye, his beer garden rubs me the wrong way. But am I really going to let a business grudge keep me from someone who might just be my shot at happiness?

No. Not anymore.