Chapter 1: First Meeting: The Rugby Star and the Shy Therapist
The community center’s meeting room smelled of lemon polish and old books. A square of late afternoon sun fell across the faded tartan runner on the low table, illuminating particles of dust dancing in the air. Roz Douglas spread her notes, the paper rustling in the quiet. She took a deliberate breath, organizing her points: introductory games, adaptive equipment, safety protocols.She was prepared. She was professional.
Then the doorway darkened.
He had to duck slightly under the frame, his silhouette broad enough to block the light from the hall. For a second, he was just a shape, massive and unexpected. Then he stepped inside, and the details resolved. The navy blue Scottish Rugby polo shirt stretched across a chest that seemed to redefine the concept of shoulders. Thick, dark hair, a slight wave to it. Eyes the colour of a loch under a summer sky—strikingly, stupidly blue.
Roz’s fingers, which had been rearranging a leaflet, went still. Her pulse, which had been perfectly normal, kicked up a frantic, unruly beat against her ribs.
“Roz Douglas?” His voice was a soft, rolling baritone, a West Highlands cadence smoothing the edges of his words. He smiled, and it was warm, genuine, transforming his face from rugged to approachable. “I’m Alasdair MacLeod. Apologies if I’m early.”
“No. Not at all. Right on time.” The words came out in a rushed whisper. She cleared her throat, standing up too quickly, her own notes fluttering to the floor. “Perfect timing.”
“Let me.” He was already moving, crossing the room with a fluid grace that seemed at odds with his size. He knelt, not bending, which felt strangely courteous, and gathered the scattered papers. His hands were large, the knuckles scarred and calloused, but he handled the pages with a librarian’s care.
“Thank you,” she managed, taking them back.Their fingers brushed. A static jolt, or her imagination working overtime. “Please, sit.”
He chose the armchair opposite the sofa where she’d been sitting, its frame groaning a faint protest as he settled in. He filled it completely. Roz sat back down, tucking her legs beneath her. The sunlight from the big window caught the gold in the wood of the floor, glinted off the rim of the empty mug she’d brought in.
“So,” she began, tapping her papers into a neat stack.“The outreach program. Thank you for volunteering. The group I work with… they’re amazing. But traditional sports sessions can sometimes feel exclusionary. The idea is to adapt the core skills of rugby—passing, teamwork, spatial awareness—into activities that are accessible. No tackles,” she added with a small smile.
He returned it, a crinkle appearing at the corner of those blue eyes. “A relief to my physio, that. He’s got enough to worry about. Tell me about them. The group.”
It was the right question. Not about logistics first, but about the people. Roz felt her shoulders loosen a fraction. “Eight young adults. Varied abilities. Jamie loves rules and structure—he’ll probably know your win-loss record before you do. Chloe is nonverbal but communicates volumes with her expressions. She has a hell of a side-eye. They’re clever, funny. They just experience the world differently.”
Alasdair listened, his gaze fixed on her, not straying to the view of Edinburgh’s rooftops behind her. He didn’t just nod; he absorbed it. “And what do they want from it?Fun? Friendship? A sense of belonging?”
“All of the above. Mostly, to be seen as capable. To try something new without an assumption of failure.”
“Makes perfect sense.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The movement pulled the fabric of his polo tight across his biceps. Roz forced her eyes back to his face. “We can start with passing. Different sized balls, softer textures. Work on movement without contact. A ruck without the collision—just the forming of a unit, a shared goal.”
He spoke about mauls and scrums not as violent set-pieces, but as exercises in unity. He talked about the poetry of a well-timed pass, the language of a line-out. His engineering background showed in how he broke down complex mechanics into simple, achievable parts. Roz found herself fascinated, watching his hands sketch shapes in the air between them.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said before she could filter the thought.
His eyebrow quirked. “What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know.Grunts. A bit of bland PR-speak about ‘giving back.’ Not… this.”
“Ah.” He sat back, a faint, self-deprecating smile on his lips. “The ‘big dumb jock’ fallacy. I’m familiar with it. Sometimes it’s useful. People underestimate you.”
“Do they?”
“Less and less,” he admitted, his eyes holding hers. “But it still happens.”
The air between them felt charged, the quiet hum of the building fading. Roz was acutely aware of the space she occupied, the weight of his attention. It wasn’t leering; it was focused.Complete.
“Can I ask you a question?” he said, his tone shifting to something lighter, casual.
“Of course.”
“That mug.” He nodded toward the empty one on the table. “It says ‘World’s Okayest Psychotherapist.’ That for your traineeship or a deep-seated self-esteem issue?”
A surprised laugh burst out of her. “It was a gift from a client. Well, a young person at the center. I think it was a compliment. Maybe.”
“I like it. Keeps things in perspective.” He glanced around the sunlit room. “This is a good space. Feels calm.”
“It usually is. Until the drama group arrives on Thursdays. Then it’s all soliloquies and stage combat.”
He chuckled, a rich, warm sound. “I’d pay to see that.”
They fell into an easier conversation then. He asked about her art degree, his interest genuine. She asked about the transition from engineering to professional sport, and he spoke about calculated risks, about the architecture of a play, about missing the quiet focus of a problem that stayed solved. It was easy.Too easy. The scheduled hour melted away.
The sun shifted, the golden light deepening to amber. A sharp trill from his phone broke the spell. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and muted it with a sigh. “Training reminder. I should let you get on.”
“Right.” Roz stood, a sudden, irrational sense of loss gripping her.“Of course. I’ll email you the finalized schedule.”
He rose, and the room seemed to shrink again. He extended his hand. “It was a genuine pleasure, Roz Douglas.”
She took it. His grip was firm, warm, the rough skin of his palm a stark contrast to the gentle hold. It lasted a second too long to be merely polite.
“You too, Alasdair MacLeod. Thanks for… the ideas.”
He released her hand slowly. “Thank you for the work you do. It’s important.” He moved toward the door, then paused, looking back at her. The dying sun lit one side of his face in gold. “That first session. I’ll bring the balls. You just bring the experts.”
He gave her a final nod and was gone, his footsteps echoing softly down the linoleum hallway.
Roz stood rooted in the silent, sun-warmed room. She could still feel the impression of his hand on hers, a phantom pressure. She looked down at her own fingers, then at the scattered notes about adaptive games and safety protocols. All of it seemed suddenly abstract, theoretical.
The meeting had been a success.More than a success. It had been fluid, collaborative, productive.
So why did she feel like she’d just dropped a pass she hadn’t seen coming? She listened until the distant door at the end of the hall clicked shut, leaving her alone with the quiet and the faint, lingering trace of his citrus and grass soap, and the unsettling sense that a very simple, professional arrangement had just become infinitely more complicated.
She listened until the distant door at the end of the hall clicked shut, leaving her alone with the quiet and the faint, lingering trace of his citrus and grass soap, and the unsettling sense that a very simple, professional arrangement had just become infinitely more complicated.
She sank back onto the sofa, the cushions sighing beneath her. The sun was lower now, painting the room in long, sentimental shadows. Get a grip, she told herself.He was a volunteer. A public figure. This was a project. She flexed her hand, the one he’d shaken, and brought it to her face without thinking. She could still smell the clean, sharp scent of his soap on her skin.
Her phone pinged from inside her bag. The sound was jarring. She fished it out, the screen glowing in the dimming room.
Catriona: SO? Did you meet the rugby sex god? Is he as muscley in person as he looks on the telly?
Roz rolled her eyes. Her flatmate Catriona had practically had hysterics when Roz had casually mentioned that she had a meeting scheduled with Alasdair MacLeod. To Catriona, he was a glossy image in a magazine, a collection of stats and highlight reels. Not a man who talked about the poetry of a line-out and asked about her art degree.
Her thumbs hovered over the screen. She typed a quick, defensive reply.
Roz: It was a professional meeting. He’s nice. Very focused on the project.
She hit send. It felt like a betrayal of the strange, charged stillness that had filled the room for the last hour. ‘Nice’ was for mediocre coffee and pleasant weather. It didn’t cover the way his voice seemed to resonate in her chest, or the intelligent focus in his eyes that had made her feel seen, not just looked at.
Another ping, immediate.
Catriona: ‘Nice’?That’s it? You’re hopeless. Is he single???
A cold, practical wave washed over her. She didn’t know. She hadn’t thought to check. She shouldn’t care. That was the territory of women like Catriona, who followed the gossip blogs. Roz’s world was case notes and care plans and the delicate architecture of trust she built with her clients. His world was stadiums and media scrums. The overlap was this tartan-draped table, and it was temporary.
She stood up, gathering her papers with more force than necessary. The ‘World’s Okayest Psychotherapist’ mug stared up at her, mocking. She stuffed everything into her leather satchel, the stiff new leather creaking.
As she swung the bag over her shoulder, the scent wafted up again. Citrus and grass. It was on her jacket, where he’d brushed past. She stopped, closing her eyes for a second. It was just soap. Just a smell.
But it wasn’t. It was the smell of a complication she couldn’t afford. She was a trainee, building a career on boundaries and clear thinking. He was a distraction packaged in a quiet, formidable intensity.
She switched off the lights, plunging the warm room into murky blue twilight. In the hallway, the fluorescent strips buzzed to life overhead. The spell was broken. The real world was linoleum and the distant clatter of pots from the community kitchen.
She pushed open the heavy front door, the Edinburgh evening air hitting her face—cool, damp, smelling of distant rain and city stone. It washed the scent of him away. She took a deep breath, feeling her equilibrium return. It had been a good meeting. A productive one.That was all.
She started the walk home, her boots clicking on the pavement. But her mind, traitorously, replayed the way he’d knelt to gather her papers. The careful, deliberate gentleness of those scarred hands. The specific, probing quality of his questions. It wasn’t the muscle or the blue eyes or the public smile. It was the quiet attention. That was the dangerous part.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket again. She ignored it. For now, she just walked, letting the city noise fill the space where his voice had been, hoping the rhythm of her steps would shake loose the feeling of his hand in hers, and the stubborn, inconvenient hope that she would see him again soon.
For now, she just walked, letting the city noise fill the space where his voice had been, hoping the rhythm of her steps would shake loose the feeling of his hand in hers, and the stubborn, inconvenient hope that she would see him again soon.
The flat was empty, a blessed silence after the overstimulation of the day. Roz dropped her bag by the door, shrugged off her jacket, and breathed in the quiet. The phantom scent of his soap was gone, finally, replaced by the faint smell of last night’s pasta and the floral note of Catriona’s detergent.
She poured a glass of wine, the glug of the bottle too loud in the stillness, and took it to her small, cluttered desk. The professional part of her brain, the part that wrote care plans and navigated funding applications, clicked into gear. She opened her laptop, the glow illuminating her tired face. First thing tomorrow, she had to phone the families and carers, get the times set up, see who else was going to come and help out. She’d need at least two more volunteers, maybe one of the support workers from the day centre. She began drafting an email, her fingers tapping a steady, efficient rhythm.
Dear all, following our discussions, I’m pleased to confirm the first adapted rugby skills session will be…
Her mind stuttered. She saw him kneeling on the soft wooden floor, demonstrating a gentle pass with an imaginary ball. The stretch of fabric across his back. The way his shoulders moved, not with brute force, but with a controlled, easy power. She took a sharp sip of wine.
She didn’t really want to have to play rugby herself if she could help it. She was coordinator, facilitator, observer. That was her role. Standing on the sidelines with a clipboard, making sure everyone was safe and included. The idea of running around, trying to catch a ball while he watched, was mortifying. She’d feel clumsy, absurdly small.
But then again, that body of his was so beautiful.
The thought landed, uninvited and vivid. It wasn’t just handsome or fit. It was beautiful in the way a well-made thing is beautiful—a stone bridge, a seasoned piece of wood. Functional, strong, elegantly put together. There was an artistry to it. Her fine art degree, long suppressed under textbooks on cognitive behavioural therapy, resurfaced with a painter’s eye. The planes of his chest, the column of his throat, the fascinating, scarred landscape of his hands. She imagined sketching them, the heavy, dark pencil lines she’d use to capture the weight of him.
“Christ, Roz,” she muttered to the empty room. She drained the glass.This was not helpful. This was the opposite of helpful.
She finished the email, sent it, and shut the laptop with a definitive snap. The silence pressed in again, but it was different now. Charged. She was trying to build a professional project on a foundation that already felt personal, and the ground was shifting beneath her.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, clear and chastening. Roz cradled her coffee, the phone pressed to her ear. She was in work mode, efficient and warm.
“Yes, Mrs. Ferguson, ten o’clock on Saturday. At the community centre field. He’s wonderful with first-timers, honestly… No, no tackling. Just games. Jamie will love the structure of it.”
Call after call, she painted the picture: safe, fun, inclusive. She confirmed times, reassured anxious parents, recruited Linda from the day centre to help. Her voice was steady, a professional melody. And underneath it, a counter-rhythm pulsed.He’ll be there. You’ll see him.In the daylight. Moving.
By the tenth call, her throat was dry. She took a break, leaning against the kitchen counter, staring out at the grey sandstone of the building across the street. The logical part of her argued that this was just biology, a primitive reaction to a physically impressive specimen.It meant nothing. The rest of her, the part that had felt the room shrink when he entered, knew that was a lie.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.An unknown number. Her heart did a stupid, hopeful little jump.
“Roz Douglas speaking.”
“Roz. It’s Alasdair.” His voice was even softer on the phone, a low hum that travelled straight down her spine. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”
“No. Not at all. I was just finalising the calls.” She sounded breathless. She made an effort to slow down. “We’re all set for Saturday. Ten o’clock. We’ll have eight participants, plus me and Linda, one of our support workers.”
“Perfect.” She could hear the faint echo of a large space behind him, the distant blare of a coach’s whistle. “I’ve sourced some softer, larger balls. Easier to grip. And some coloured bibs. Simple visual cues.”
“That’s… that’s really thoughtful. Thank you.”
A pause. She could hear his breathing, just barely. “I was thinking,” he said, his tone shifting into something lighter, almost playful. “For you and Linda. To help demonstrate. Would you be willing to have a wee runabout yourself? It’s easier for them to see it done, before they try.”
The question hung in the air. The trap, so politely baited, was sprung. She closed her eyes. The clipboard shield was being gently taken from her hands.
“I’m… not very athletic,” she said, the truth escaping like a plea.
His laugh was quiet, intimate. “It’s not about being athletic. It’s about being willing to look a bit daft. Sets everyone at ease. I’ll be looking plenty daft myself, I promise.”
How did he do that? Disarm with honesty. She pictured him fumbling a pass on purpose, that warm smile cresting on his face, and the tension in her shoulders loosened a fraction.
“Alright,” she heard herself say. “A wee runabout. But I’m warning you, my hand-eye coordination is a tragedy.”
“I’ll consider myself warned,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “Saturday then, Roz. I’m looking forward to it.”
The line went dead. She held the phone to her ear for a second longer, the quiet buzz of the dial tone mirroring the static in her head. She had just agreed to play. To run about in front of him. Her face flushed with a mixture of dread and a thrilling, undeniable anticipation.
She put the phone down. The professional framework was set. The times were confirmed, the volunteers secured, the equipment arranged. Every practical box was ticked.
And now, all she could think about was the beautiful, terrifying stretch of Saturday morning ahead, and the moment she would have to step onto the grass and meet his eyes, with no table between them.