Chapter 11: Morning After
The first thing she was aware of was warmth. A solid, breathing warmth along her back, an arm heavy and possessive across her ribs. Morning light, the colour of weak tea, seeped through the uneven glass of the cottage window, painting the wooden ceiling in rippling, liquid lines. Roz lay perfectly still, listening to the slow, deep pull of Ally’s breath against her ear, feeling the steady thump of his heart through her shoulder blades.
Her body felt unfamiliar. Not sore, exactly, but aware. A pleasant, humming ache in muscles she didn’t know she had, a sensitivity of skin that remembered the scrape of stubble, the press of calloused hands. She smiled into the pillow.
His arm tightened, a subconscious pull. “You’re thinking too loud,” his voice was a sleep-roughened rumble directly into her spine.
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“Liar.” He nuzzled the nape of her neck, his lips warm. “Your brain is whirring. I can hear it. Stop it.”
She shifted, turning in his arms to face him. In the soft grey light, he looked younger. The fierce concentration of the pitch, the polished charm of the media circuit, all of it was stripped away in sleep. His dark hair was mussed, a faint crease from the pillow lining his cheek. His eyes, now open and watching her, held a calm, unguarded softness that made her chest feel tight.
“Hi,” she whispered.
“Hi yourself.” He brushed a thumb over her lower lip. “No regrets?”
The question was light, but she heard the slight edge underneath. She answered by kissing him, slow and deep, until he made a low sound in his throat and rolled her gently onto her back. The kiss tasted of sleep and them. It deepened, turned languid and explorative. His hand slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, and she arched into the touch, the embers from the night before flaring instantly back to life.
Later, tangled in the sheets and the quiet, she traced the lines of his body with a painter’s curiosity. Her fingers lingered on the actual scar on his ribs, then travelled down to the one on his knee—the repaired ACL, the subject of her gold leaf. The skin was raised, a pale, intricate map of trauma and science.
“It’s still a better piece on you than on the canvas,” she murmured.
He chuckled, the vibration moving through her palm. “Aye, well, the canvas doesn’t complain when you poke it.” He stretched, a long, cat-like movement that made the muscles in his abdomen clench and release. “Right. We’re going swimming.”
Roz blinked. “We’re what?”
“Swimming. In the loch. It’s tradition.”
“Whose tradition? The tradition of the clinically insane?”
“My tradition. Clears the head.” He was already throwing back the duvet, the cold air rushing in to make her gasp. He stood, gloriously, unselfconsciously naked, walking to the window. The morning light gilded his shoulders. “Look at it. It’s asking for it.”
Roz reluctantly sat up, pulling the sheet around her. The loch was a sheet of hammered lead under a sky the colour of bruised silk. Mist clung to the distant pines. “It looks freezing. It looks like it wants to kill us.”
“It’s bracing.” He turned, a wicked grin on his face. “And I promise, I’ll warm every single inch of you up afterward. Personally. And thoroughly.”
The challenge was there, in his eyes. The same one he issued on the pitch. Are you in or are you out? She saw the night they’d met, him defending her in that locker room, the quiet intensity of his pose in her studio, the way he’d said ‘no hiding’. This was part of it. stepping into his world, raw and real and uncomfortable.
“Fine,” she said, her voice small but decisive. “But if I die of hypothermia, I’m haunting you. I’ll follow you onto the pitch and be a very distracting, translucent presence.”
He laughed, a full, loud sound that echoed in the quiet cottage. “Deal.”
The path down to the pebbled shore was damp with dew and slick with moss. Roz wore one of his jumpers, which drowned her, and a pair of her own leggings. The air was so cold it burned the inside of her nose. Every rational fibre of her being screamed this was a terrible idea.
Ally, wearing only a pair of shorts, looked utterly at ease. He took her hand, his own already warm. “Quick in, quick out. The shock is the worst bit. After that, it’s… well, it’s still fucking horrible, but you feel amazing after.”
“Your sales pitch needs work.”
He led her to the water’s edge. The loch was dark, opaque, swallowing the stones. He didn’t give her time to think. “On three. One… two…”
He didn’t say three. He just plunged in, a violent, splashless dive that took him under. Roz shrieked as the icy spray hit her legs. She saw him surface a few meters out, gasping, his face alight with a savage joy. “Come on, MacDonald! Now or never!”
Teeth chattering, she peeled off the jumper, toeing off her shoes. The cold air attacked her skin. She waded in. The water was a knife, a thousand needles, a breathtaking theft of all warmth. It stole the air from her lungs. She gasped, whimpered, kept moving. When it reached her thighs, the pain was so intense it felt like fire.
“Dive!” he yelled. “Just do it!”
She shut her eyes and fell forward.
The world vanished into a silent, breathtaking agony. It was a white-out, a total system shock. For a second, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think, suspended in the freezing, dark silence. Then survival instinct kicked in. She broke the surface, sucking in a ragged, screaming breath.
“Fuck! Oh, fuck!” The words were torn from her. Her entire body was a single, shuddering nerve.
But he was there. His arms went around her, pulling her against the solid, heatless rock of his chest. He was shivering too, but he was laughing, a wild, exhilarated sound. “See? You’re alive!”
“Barely! My bones are frozen!”
“But you did it.” He held her face, his own dripping, his blue eyes blazing. “You’re in the loch.” He kissed her, a quick, freezing, salty press of lips. “My brave, mad artist.”
They lasted maybe ninety seconds. Scrambling out was a frantic, graceless affair, their limbs numb and clumsy. They stumbled up the path, trailing water, their laughter sharp and gasping. Inside the cottage, they stood dripping on the stone floor, their bodies shaking violently.
Ally grabbed towels from a worn chest, wrapping one around her first, rubbing her arms and back with a brutal, energizing friction. The pain of returning circulation was fierce, a prickling, burning invasion. But as the heat began to seep back, a strange, euphoric glow followed. Her skin felt electric, alive in a way it never had under a hot shower.
He was right. She felt amazing.
Wrapped in towels, they huddled by the rekindled fire, drinking sweet, scalding tea from chipped mugs. The silence was comfortable, filled with the crackle of logs and the occasional shuddering aftershock from one of them.
“So,” he said, staring into the flames. “The studio’s empty. The big commission’s done. What does Roz MacDonald paint next?”
The question, so simple, lanced through the pleasant haze. The future. It had been a distant country, obscured by the mountain of work. Now it was here, at the door. She pulled the towel tighter. “I don’t know. The gallery wants a follow-up. ‘Something in a similar vein.’” She mimicked Moira’s clipped tone.
“And what do you want?”
She watched the flames. “I don’t want to just be the girl who paints rugby players.” The admission felt dangerous, disloyal somehow. “It was… it was your story. It became our story. But it’s not the only story I have.”
He nodded slowly, not looking at her. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah. That commission was a door. You walked through it. You don’t have to set up camp in the doorway.” He sipped his tea. “Paint what scares you. That’s what you’re good at.”
Her phone, buried in her discarded bag on the table, buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again. A relentless, insectile hum.
The atmosphere in the room shifted, the warmth leaching away as if someone had opened a window. Ally’s jaw tightened. Roz felt a cold that had nothing to do with the loch settle in her stomach.
“Don’t look at it,” he said quietly.
“I have to. It might be the gallery. Or my mum.”
“It’s not your mum.” His voice was flat. He knew.
She untangled herself and padded over, water from her hair dripping onto the screen as she unlocked it. Notifications flooded in. Instagram. Twitter. Tagged photos. Comments. Messages.
The top one was a news alert from a Scottish sports site. The headline was stark: FRASER'S FOCUS: Star's New Muse The Inspiration For Shock Contract Decision?
Her thumb trembled as she opened it. There was a photo from the gala, of them looking at the portrait. Another, paparazzi-style, grainy but unmistakable, of them leaving the side entrance of Murrayfield, his hand on her back. The article was full of speculative, oily prose.
…insiders suggest Fraser’s head has been turned by his close collaboration with controversial portrait artist Roz MacDonald…questions raised about his commitment…his impending contract renewal with Glasgow Warriors is now ‘up in the air’…
“Roz.” Ally was behind her, reading over her shoulder. His body had gone very still.
She scrolled further. The comments on the article were a sewer.
Knew she’d be a distraction.
He’s throwing it all away for a bit of skirt with a paintbrush.
She’s pretty but is she worth £300k a year?
This is why players shouldn’t get involved with fans.
And then, another notification. A direct message on Instagram, from a blank account. A photo. It was taken through trees, with a long lens. It was of them, here, just an hour ago. Walking down to the loch, hand in hand. Her in his jumper. The caption was just two words: Cosy retreat.
A jagged bolt of pure fear shot through her. She dropped the phone like it had burned her. It clattered on the stone floor.
The cottage no longer felt like a sanctuary. The windows felt like eyes. The serene loch outside felt like a exposure. The quiet was no longer peaceful; it was listening.
Ally bent and picked up the phone. He looked at the grainy, invasive photo, his expression hardening into something she’d never seen before. It wasn’t anger. It was a cold, calculating fury. The look of a player who’s just seen the opposition’s strategy laid bare, and is formulating his counter-attack.
“Right,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. He placed the phone carefully on the table. “Okay.” He looked at her, and the softness from the morning was utterly gone, replaced by a protective ferocity that was almost frightening. “This ends now.”
“How?” Her voice was a whisper.
“We go back. Today. I talk to my agent. I talk to the club.” He walked to the window, his back to her, shoulders rigid. “They want a narrative? I’ll give them a fucking narrative.”
The momentum of their private idyll had shattered. They were in the game now, whether they liked it or not. And the rules were ugly.
And the rules were ugly.
The drive back to the city was a silent, clenched-jaw affair. The cozy cottage in the rearview mirror looked like a crime scene they were fleeing. Roz stared at her hands, the skin still faintly chilled, and replayed the grainy photograph in her mind. The angle, the trees. How long had someone been out there? Ally drove with a focused intensity, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping a relentless rhythm on his thigh.
The sun broke through the clouds, but it felt like a lie. Every other car on the A9 seemed suspect. A white van lagging behind them for too long made Ally’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. He took a sudden, sharp turn onto a minor road, the tires protesting, and navigated a maze of sheep-dotted back lanes without a word. He was running evasion patterns.
“You know they can’t actually follow us home, right?” Roz finally said, her voice sounding too loud in the quiet car. “That’s illegal.”
“They don’t care.” His tone was clipped. “A trespassing fine is a business expense to them. The picture’s the product.”
He was right. She knew he was right. It didn’t stop the feeling of violation, a slick, oily shame that had nothing to do with anything they’d done and everything to do with it being witnessed, stolen, and packaged for consumption. She watched the harsh landscape blur past, the vibrant greens and greys she usually loved now just scenery for a getaway.
They crossed the bridge into the city. The familiarity of her street, with its mismatched tenements and corner shop, should have been a relief. It felt like a target. Ally pulled up right outside her close mouth, double-parked, and killed the engine. The normal afternoon sounds—a dog barking, distant traffic—felt staged and threatening.
He turned to her. The fury had banked to a smolder, but his eyes were still dark with it. “Pack a bag. Enough for a few days.”
“What? Why? This is my home, Ally.”
“And it’s the first place they’ll camp out. You think they don’t have your address? Moira’s gallery website probably lists your studio location.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Just… come to mine. It’s got a secured entry. A concierge. They can’t get near it.”
It felt like surrender. Letting them chase her from her own space, her sanctuary with the river hum. Her studio, her unfinished canvases waiting. The thought of blank, hidden eyes watching her window made her stomach turn.
“Ally,” she said, her voice small.
He looked at her.
“All that crap in the paper. It’s crap, baby. Crap, aye?” The words tumbled out in a shaky rush. “Glasgow still want you. So do Saracens, apparently. Your career’s just fine. And so is yours.” She took a shuddering breath. “But this… this gutter spreading shite will stop, baby. I promise.” He held her, his arms wrapping around her with a sudden, fierce possessiveness, pulling her across the gearstick and into his chest. “My wee darlin’,” he murmured into her hair, his voice thick. “They don’t get to win this.”
They sat like that for a long minute, the world outside the car continuing, oblivious. His heartbeat was a steady, reassuring drum against her ear. For a moment, the fear receded, pushed back by the solid reality of him.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Okay?”
“I’ll pack a bag.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Five minutes. I’ll wait right here.”
Her flat felt alien. The light falling across her wooden floor was the same, the smell of linseed oil and coffee was the same, but the silence was watchful. She moved quickly, throwing clothes and her basic paints into a holdall. Her gaze landed on the half-finished canvas on the easel—a study of the loch water from memory, just colour and light, no defined shape. She left it.
Downstairs, she slid back into the passenger seat. He took her bag, tossed it in the back, and pulled away. He didn’t drive to his modern, glass-fronted apartment in the West End. Instead, he headed across town, towards the Southside.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere no one will think to look,” he said, a faint, grim smile touching his lips. “My Nana Fraser’s. She’s visiting my aunt in Oban. House is empty.”
The house was a semi-detached ex-council place with a neat, tiny garden and lace curtains. It smelled of furniture polish, old books, and slow-cooked stew. The living room was a time capsule of floral sofas and framed photographs of stern, handsome people. Ally dumped their bags in the hallway.
“Safehouse Fraser,” he said, attempting a joke that fell a little flat. He walked to the sideboard and picked up a framed photo of a young man in a vintage rugby jersey, grinning. “My grandad. He’d have told those paps to get tae fuck.”
Roz managed a smile. “I like him already.”
The tension began to seep, replaced by a strange, suspended calm. They ordered pizza. They ate it on Nana Fraser’s good china, sitting on the floor in the living room because it felt less formal. The absurdity of it—a star athlete and a rising artist hiding in a grandmother’s house—bubbled up into slightly hysterical laughter.
Later, in the small back bedroom with its crisp, aired sheets, Ally’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. He glanced at it, his expression closing off. “It’s my agent. I need to take this.”
He stepped out into the tiny hallway. Roz could hear the low rumble of his voice, not the words, but the tone—professional, firm, cutting. She lay back on the bed, staring at the Artex ceiling, listening. This was the other side of him. The businessman. The commodity. The part that existed in the world of contracts and headlines and ‘narratives’.
He came back in, the phone still in his hand. His face was unreadable.
“Well?”
“They’re spinning it,” he said, his voice flat. “The club. They’re not denying the ‘distraction’ angle. They’re leaning into it. ‘Fraser’s passionate in all aspects of his life.’ Making it a talking point for the next contract meeting.” He sat heavily on the edge of the bed. “They think it’s good leverage. That it makes me seem… unpredictable. More valuable.”
Roz sat up. “That’s grotesque.”
“It’s business.” He looked at her, and the weariness in his eyes was new. “I told them to stop. I told them it was hurting you. They said, ‘Then get her to lean in. Do a joint interview. Control the story.’” He laughed, a dry, hollow sound. “Control it.”
The fire from the morning was gone, banked by this cold, pragmatic machinery. He looked like a man who’d just seen the game was even bigger, and dirtier, than he’d thought. Roz reached out, her fingers brushing his back. He didn’t move.
“What did you say?” she asked.
He was silent for a long time. Then he turned his head, and the look in his eyes was pure, defiant clarity.
“I told him no.”
The word hung in the quiet room, solid and final. He’d drawn a line. Roz felt the significance of it settle over her, a weight warmer than the borrowed quilt.
“Just like that?” she whispered.
“Aye, just like that.” He finally turned to face her, his eyes searching hers. “It’s not their story to tell. It’s ours.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, the defiance softening into something more vulnerable. “Christ, what a mess. I brought this to your doorstep.”
“You didn’t take that photo.”
“But my world did.” He looked suddenly exhausted, the events of the day catching up. His phone lit up again on the bedspread, a relentless, toxic glow. He stared at it with pure contempt. Then his expression shifted, clearing as if he’d remembered something vital. “Actually, hang on.”
He snatched up the phone, but instead of reading the notifications, he opened his contacts. A different kind of focus took over. “Right. Enough of this shite.”
“What are you doing?”
“Damage control. The good kind.” He found a contact, thumb hovering over the video call button. A slight, nervous smile touched his lips. “He said my Nana and Mum are both at my auntie’s house in Oban. Dad’s back at home.” He glanced at her, his blue eyes earnest. “I need to video call them. They want to see you, say hi. My mum loves your paintings. Former art teacher, eh?”
The shift was so abrupt it left her dizzy. From the predatory gaze of the public to the kindly, anticipated scrutiny of his family. Her heart did a funny little stutter. “Ally, I’m a wreck. I’m wearing your t-shirt and I’ve got loch-water in my hair.”
“You look real,” he said simply. “That’s all they’ll care about.”
He hit the button before she could protest further. The ringing tone echoed. Roz instinctively smoothed her hair, a frantic, useless gesture. The screen flickered and resolved into a crowded, sunlit kitchen. Three faces filled the frame.
“There he is!” A woman with Ally’s eyes and a riot of greying curls beamed. “We were just talking about you two!”
“Ma.” Ally’s whole demeanor changed. The tension melted from his shoulders, replaced by an easy affection. “This is Roz. Roz, this is my mum, Catriona.”
“Hello, dear! Oh, just look at you!” Catriona’s smile was immediate and warm, devoid of any calculation. “I’ve been following your work since that first portrait in the Herald. The texture in the jersey! Brilliant!”
A smaller, sharper-featured woman with a fierce smile nudged into view. “Aye, she’s been boring us all senseless about it. I’m Auntie Jean. And this,” she pulled an older woman into frame, whose face was a network of gentle lines and bright, knowing eyes, “is Nana Fraser.”
“Och, let me see the lassie,” Nana Fraser said, her voice a soft rasp. She peered at the screen. Roz felt seen, but not exposed. It was a profound difference. “You’ve got a good face. Kind. He needs that.”
“Thanks,” Roz managed, her voice faint. “It’s lovely to meet you all.”
“Are you feeding him?” Nana asked, point-blank. “He looks peaky.”
Ally laughed, a real, unguarded sound Roz hadn’t heard all day. “We had pizza, Nana. Relax.”
“Pizza! That’s not food. You need a proper stew.” Catriona shook her head, then her expression softened. “Ignore us, Roz. We’re just glad he’s with someone who has a head on her shoulders. All those other ones were just... glitter.”
“Ma, for god’s sake,” Ally groaned, but he was smiling.
“It’s true! This one has proper hands. Worker’s hands. Artist’s hands.” Catriona leaned closer. “You know, I taught secondary school art for thirty-two years. I saw a lot of talent. Yours is the real thing. Don’t let them cheapen it.”
The directness, the unvarnished support, hit Roz squarely in the chest. It was the antithesis of the gallery’s slick pressure or the online venom. This was a woman who knew about colour theory and career doubts and stubbornly making beauty anyway.
“I won’t,” Roz said, and found she meant it.
They chatted for ten minutes—about Oban, about the weather, about Nana’s hip. No one mentioned the headlines. It was a deliberate, graceful act of protection. This was his clan, circling them. As the call wound down, Catriona fixed Ally with a look.
“You look after her, Alasdair. Or you’ll answer to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The screen went black. The quiet of the little back bedroom returned, but it was different now. It held the echo of their voices, the ghost of their approval. Roz let out a long, shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Ally placed the phone face down on the nightstand. “See? Not so bad.”
“They’re wonderful.” She leaned into him, her head finding the space between his shoulder and chest. The fear and anger of the day were still there, but now they were surrounded by something sturdier. “Your mum gets it. The art. The pressure.”
“She said you have worker’s hands.” He took one of her hands in his, turning it over, tracing the faint stains of ochre and Prussian blue that never fully washed out, the callus on her finger from the brush. “She’s right.”
He brought her palm to his lips and kissed it. The gesture was so tender it made her eyes sting. Here, in this borrowed room, with the distant hum of the city a world away, the narrative was theirs alone. It was painted in the quiet touch of his mouth on her skin, in the defiant, silent ‘no’ still hanging in the air, and in the unexpected, solid anchor of a family that saw her.
Outside, the world kept spinning its ugly stories. But in here, for now, they were still.