Chapter 2: The Borrowed Outfit and Unwanted Admiration
The sports bra was a prison of elastic and nylon. Roz yanked the unforgiving band down from where it dug into her shoulders, but it just rolled back up, tightening its vise. A faint pink line bloomed across her pale skin.
“Stop fidgeting. You look fine.” Catriona’s voice was a lazy drawl from the bed, where she was sprawled like a contented cat, sipping her own coffee. “Better than fine. If I had that arse, I’d be showing it off on a pitch every day of the week.”
“It’s not about my arse,” Roz muttered, tugging at the hem of the borrowed rugby leggings. They were from the centre’s lost property, a size too small, and they clung to every curve and dip with a possessive intensity. The fabric was thin, worn from countless washes. She felt naked. “It’s about not looking like a complete idiot in front of a professional athlete and eight perceptive young adults.”
“You’re running about with a ball, not performing neurosurgery.” Catriona took another sip. “And the professional athlete is a man. A very, very nice-looking man. Who, according to you, is ‘thoughtful’ and ‘articulate.’ So he’ll be thoughtful and articulate while looking at you in those leggings. It’s a win.”
Roz shot her a glare. Her reflection in the full-length mirror behind the door was a stranger. The leggings, the simple grey t-shirt she’d borrowed from the centre’s supply cupboard, her hair pulled back in a practical but severe ponytail. She looked like she was trying, and failing, to be someone sporty. The art prints on the wall behind her—delicate line drawings of hands and leaves—seemed to judge the vulgarity of the stretched fabric.
“He won’t be looking.”
“Oh, he’ll be looking.” Catriona swung her legs off the bed. “But he’ll be polite about it. That’s the dangerous kind. Here.” She tossed a zip-up hoodie at Roz. “Wear this until you have to start. Armour.”
Roz caught it, hugging the soft fabric to her chest. It smelled of her own lavender laundry detergent, a small comfort. “Why am I doing this?”
“Because you care about the project. And because you’re secretly intrigued by the mountain of Scotsman who talks about poetry and engineering.” Catriona grinned. “Now go. You’ll be late. And for God’s sake, stop pulling at the leggings. You’re just drawing attention to the area.”
The community centre field was a wide, flat rectangle of well-kept grass, framed by chain-link fencing and bordered by sycamore trees whose leaves were just beginning to turn. The sky was a flat, unforgiving grey, the air carrying a damp chill that promised autumn.
Roz stood with Linda, the support worker, a clipboard clamped to her chest like a shield. The participants were arriving, filtering through the gate with their carers. Jamie, tall and meticulous in a tracksuit with perfectly parallel stripes, marched straight over. “The session will commence at 10:03. You said 10:00. We are early.”
“We are, Jamie. Well observed. We can do some warm-up stretches while we wait for everyone,” Roz said, her voice Calm Professional. She felt like an imposter in the clothes.
Chloe arrived, her steps a energetic bounce, her eyes wide and taking in everything. She made a beeline for the bag of brightly coloured balls Roz had brought, pointing at them with a sound of delight.Then he was there.
Alasdair came through the gate not with a swagger, but with an easy, ground-eating stride. He wore simple track pants and a long-sleeved training top, both dark grey, which somehow made him look more formidable, not less. He carried a large mesh bag stuffed with balls of different sizes and textures. His hair was damp at the temples, as if he’d come straight from his own training.He saw her. His eyes found hers immediately across the field, and that warm, crinkling smile appeared. It wasn’t the media smile. It was the one from the meeting room. It felt private, even here in the open.
Roz’s stomach did a slow, dizzying somersault.
He greeted Linda first, shaking her hand, then turned to the group. He didn’t tower over them, though he could have. He crouched down, bringing himself to Jamie’s eye level. “You must be Jamie. Roz told me you’re the one who keeps us all to time. I’m relying on you.”
Jamie’s stern expression softened a fraction. He nodded, once, sharply.
For the next hour, Roz watched him work. Her professional anxiety slowly melted, replaced by a kind of awe. He was a revelation. With Chloe, he didn’t insist on words. He mimed, he exaggerated his expressions, he followed her lead. When she threw a ball in a wild, spinning arc, he cheered as if it were a perfect spiral pass, then gently showed her a different way to hold it, his huge hands cupping hers with infinite patience.
He transformed complex ideas into simple, physical poetry. A ruck was “building a friendly wall.” A pass was “sharing a secret.” He moved with a liquid, economical grace that was mesmerising. When he demonstrated a sidestep, his feet barely seeming to touch the grass, Roz understood for the first time why people watched sports. It was beauty in motion.
“Right,” he called out, clapping his hands. The group was flushed, laughing. “Now we need two people to show us how the passing chain works. Linda? Roz?”
Linda shook her head, laughing. “Oh no, I’m the designated faller-over. You two show us.”
The shield was gone. The clipboard was on the grass. Alasdair was looking at her, a soft, challenging light in his blue eyes. He held out a large, soft, neon green ball. “Just a simple run and pass. No pressure.”
Every nerve in her body sang with alarm. She felt the eyes of the group on her, felt the cling of the dreadful leggings, the bite of the sports bra. She wanted to refuse.To hide.
But Jamie was watching, his face expecting adherence to the plan. Chloe was bouncing, eager for the next thing. She couldn’t let them down.
She took the hoodie off, the cold air hitting her arms. She walked towards Alasdair, feeling absurdly small.
“Just run straight,” he said, his voice low, for her alone. “I’ll hit your hands. Don’t think about catching. Just think about your hands being a basket.”
She nodded, unable to speak. She jogged away from him, her muscles tight and uncooperative.
“Now turn!” he called.
She turned. He was fifteen metres away, a still, powerful figure against the grey sky. He moved then, not a full run but a few easy strides, the ball held in both hands. His entire body coiling then releasing. The ball left his hands in a gentle, floating arc.
It was perfect. It drifted towards her as if on a string, slow and inviting. She saw it coming, a glowing green circle against the clouds. She remembered his words. A basket. She held her hands out, forming a shape.
The ball landed in her arms with a soft thump, the impact absorbed by her embrace. She hadn’t so much caught it as allowed it to arrive. She stood there, holding it, stunned.
A cheer went up from the group. Chloe was clapping. Jamie gave a firm nod of approval.
Alasdair jogged towards her, his smile wide and unrestrained. “See? A natural.”
“You threw it right at me,” she breathed, her heart hammering from more than the jog.
“That’s the point,” he said, stopping close. He was barely breathing hard. A faint scent of clean sweat and that same citrus-grass soap cut through the damp air. “The pass is a gift. It’s the passer’s job to make it easy to receive.” His eyes dropped to the ball in her hands, then flicked back up to her face. “Your turn.”
“My turn to what?”
“To pass it back.”
Her grip tightened on the ball. “I’ll throw it into the next postcode.”
“You won’t.” He took a few strides back.“Same thing. Don’t throw it at me. Just… let it go towards me.”
It felt like a metaphor for something she wasn’t ready to examine. She looked at his hands, held out in front of him, ready. She took a shaky breath, remembered the coil-and-release motion she’d seen him do. Hers was jerky, ungraceful. She shoved the ball into the air.
It wobbled, a lopsided, sad spiral. It was going to land pathetically short.
He was already moving. Two long strides forward and he plucked it from the air an inch from the grass, smoothly tucking it under his arm. “Perfect,” he said, as if she’d executed a flawless midfield move.
“That was terrible.”
“It was a pass. I caught it. Therefore, perfect.” His gaze held hers. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. “You didn’t trust your body. You thought about it too much.”
“A professional hazard,” she said, the words coming out before she could stop them.
He understood. A slow smile spread across his face. “Tell me about it.Now, again. But this time, don’t think. Just… feel it.”
They passed the ball back and forth, the group forgotten, the grey world narrowing to the space of grass between them. With each attempt, her movements grew less stiff. He never let a ball drop, always compensating for her errors with a casual, effortless grace that made her feel, impossibly, like she was getting it right. The rhythm became hypnotic. The thud of the catch, the sweep of his arm, the arc of the ball against the sky.
The session ended in a blur of high-fives and beaming faces. Jamie was explaining the rules of a line-out to a patiently nodding Linda. Chloe was trying to balance a ball on her head, giggling.
Roz, buzzing with a strange, exhilarating fatigue, helped Alasdair gather the equipment. Their fingers brushed as they both reached for the same ball. A jolt, warm and electric. They both straightened up, the mesh bag now full between them.
“You were brilliant with them,” she said, wiping a stray strand of hair from her damp forehead.
“They’re a great group. You’ve built something special here.” He hefted the bag onto his broad shoulder. “And you. You’re not a tragedy.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Your hand-eye coordination. You said it was a tragedy. It’s not. It’s just… under-practised.”
She snorted, a very unprofessional sound. “A diplomatic way of saying I’m crap.”
“I’d never say that.” His tone was light, but his eyes were serious, searching her face. “You’re brave. It’s harder to try something new in front of people you care about than in front of eighty thousand strangers.”
The simplicity of the statement disarmed her completely. The cold, the damp, the ridiculous clothes—it all fell away. For a second, it was just him, looking at her as if she’d done something remarkable.
“Alasdair!” Jamie’s voice cut through the moment. “My mother requires your autograph. It is for her friend Margaret, who is ignorant of rugby but appreciates notable signatures.”
Alasdair gave her a final, quick smile, a silent see? and turned to follow Jamie.
Roz stood alone on the emptying field. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a deep, pleasant ache in her muscles and a sharper, more confusing ache in her chest. She could still feel the phantom weight of the ball in her hands, the trajectory of his passes. She could still see the focused intent in his eyes as he watched her move.
She pulled the hoodie back on, the scent of lavender now mingling with the smell of grass and cold air. The professional part of her brain was already cataloguing the session’s successes, planning the next steps.
But another part, a part that had been dormant since her art student days—a part that noticed the play of light on a muscle, the poetry in a line of motion, the terrifying vulnerability of trying something new—that part was wide awake. And it was focused entirely on the man now signing an autograph with careful concentration, his dark head bent, his giant’s body folded down to meet Jamie’s mother’s eye level.
She turned and walked towards the centre, the cold grass wet under her trainers. The session was over. The project was a success. But as she glanced back once, seeing him laugh at something Chloe was signing excitedly in the air, she knew with a sinking, thrilling certainty that nothing was resolved. It had only just begun.
It had only just begun. The thought echoed in her head as she scrubbed the grass stains from her knees later that night, the bathroom light too bright, her reflection tired but strangely alert. Her phone, face-down on the edge of the sink, buzzed against the porcelain.
She dried her hands, the towel rough against her skin. The notification was an email. The subject line read: ‘Follow-up & Next Steps.’ Her thumb hovered. It was from him.
Opening it, the top was formal—a copied message to the centre’s director with a polished report on the session’s outcomes. Her professional self noted the articulate praise for the participants. Then her eyes caught the short, separate note at the bottom, just for her. The text was hurried, the typos like small cracks in a professional facade.
Roz – today was grand. Quick thing – HEY LISTEN I'M GOING TO BEING MY TEAM MATE NEXT WEEK IS TAHT OKAY, HE'S VETTED TOO, I'LL EMAIL.YOU THE PAPER AND WE'LL IN A FEW WEEKS I COILS ARRANGE A TOUR OF MURRAYFIELD MAYBE WATCH A PRACTICE SESSION IF YOU THINK THAT'S SOMETHING THEY WOULD LIKE. Cheers, Alasdair.
She read it twice. Three times. The shift in tone was jarring. The first part was the polite, measured Alasdair from the meeting room. This postscript was the man from the field, slightly breathless, thinking faster than he could type. ‘I COILS ARRANGE’ echoed in the quiet room. She pictured his large fingers stumbling over a phone keyboard. A strange warmth bloomed beneath her ribs.
“Who’s making you smile like that?” Catriona called from the bedroom, her voice sing-song with implication.
“No one.” Roz cleared her throat. “Just work. Logistics.”
But it wasn’t just logistics. It was an invitation to something bigger, a breach of the small community centre world. Murrayfield. A practice session. For a moment, she saw Jamie’s face, rigid with excitement. Chloe’s wide-eyed wonder. She typed a reply, her own fingers clumsy. A teammate next week is perfect. A tour would be incredible for them. Let me know the paperwork.
She paused, her cursor blinking. Then she added, And thank you again for today. You were a natural with them. She deleted ‘natural.’ It felt like too much. She settled on ‘brilliant with them’ and hit send before she could dissect it further.
She walked back into her bedroom. Catriona was painting her toenails a violent shade of purple, the scent of acetone cutting through the lavender.
“Logistics, my arse.” Catriona didn’t look up. “You’ve got that look. The ‘I’m-analysing-a-text’ look.”
“He’s bringing another player next week.” Roz sat on the edge of her bed, the worn quilt soft under her palms. “And he’s talking about taking the group to Murrayfield. To watch a real training session.”
Catriona whistled, low and long. “Right into the belly of the beast. That’s not outreach, that’s a field trip to Mount Olympus.” She capped the polish bottle. “And you’ll be there, of course. Wearing the magical leggings.”
“Shut up.” Roz flung a pillow at her. It was deflected easily. “It’s for the participants.”
“It’s absolutely for the participants.” Catriona’s grin was wicked. “And does Mr. Thoughtful and Articulate know you think his typos are adorable?”
“I don’t think they’re adorable.”
“You literally made a sound. A little ‘aww’ of academic pity.”
Roz buried her face in the other pillow. The fabric was cool against her hot cheeks. She could still smell the grass on her own skin, a phantom echo of the damp field and his focus. The week stretched ahead, a mundane tunnel, but at the end of it was another session. With a teammate. A vetted one.
She wondered what that meant, ‘vetted.’ Security checks? Or just someone who wouldn’t be a prick? Alasdair seemed like the type to think of that, to ensure the strange, delicate ecosystem of her centre wouldn’t be disturbed. The consideration unnerved her more than a simple, flashy gesture ever could.
“Stop thinking so loud,” Catriona said, her voice softer now. “It’s a rugby session. You’re the organizer. He’s the talent. That’s all.”
But that wasn’t all. It was the way he’d said ‘don’t think, just feel.’ It was the perfect, forgiving arc of his pass. It was the deliberate typo-laden promise of a future, placed casually at the bottom of an email like a buried seed. She pulled the pillow tighter over her face, wanting to suffocate the flicker of anticipation.
It wasn’t about him, she insisted to the dark insides of the cotton case. It was for Jamie, for Chloe. For the look on their faces if they got to walk through that stadium tunnel. She was a conduit, a facilitator. That was her role. To stand on the sideline and make sure the passes landed where they should.
Her phone buzzed again on the nightstand. A new email. Her heart did a stupid, hopeful little jump. She told herself it was just the paperwork he’d mentioned.
She told herself that all the way until she reached for it.
She told herself that all the way until she reached for it.
The screen glowed. It was just a newsletter from her course coordinator. The deflation was physical, a slight sag in her shoulders. She deleted it.
“See?” Catriona said, blowing on her toes. “Not everything is a missive from the handsome highlander. Sometimes it’s just spam.”
“He’s not a highlander. He’s from Oban.”
“Same difference. All hills and heartbreak.” Cat shifted on the bed, tucking her legs beneath her. “Oh, by the way, I hope you’ve not forgotten we’ve got Viv's birthday next Saturday night. Big night on the cards, Roz. Any thoughts about what you might wear?”
Roz smiled weakly. The question felt like it belonged to a different, simpler universe. Her mind was a cluttered palette of neon green balls, calloused hands, and the pending logistics of a stadium tour. “I don’t know yet,” she said, her voice distant. “Shall we plan now or later?”
“Later.” Catriona studied her, the teasing edge gone from her voice. “When you’re back in the room.”
Roz nodded, placing the phone face down again. The invitation sat in her mind, solid and daunting. Murrayfield.A real practice. She pictured the sterile, overwhelming scale of it, the roar of a crowd that wasn’t there, the sheer professional brutality of the drills. How would Jamie’s meticulous mind cope with that sensory avalanche? Would Chloe be frightened or enthralled?
And where would she be? Standing on the sidelines again, in her sensible facilitator clothes, watching Alasdair move in that elemental way, but now in his true habitat. A spectator to his real life. The thought left a hollow, anxious feeling under her ribs. It was one thing to be gently competent on a community pitch. It was another to be a stranger in the cathedral of his actual world.
“Stop it,” Catriona said quietly.
“Stop what?”
“That thing you do. Where you mentally fast-forward through every worst-case scenario and then write the script where you faint in the middle of the turf.” She leaned forward. “It’s a rugby training ground, not a minefield. You’ll be fine. You’re just worried you’ll see him as a celebrity instead of the guy who can’t spell ‘could.’”
Roz let out a short, surprised laugh. “That’s not it.”
“It’s a little bit it.” Cat stood, stretching. “You liked that he was normal. Approachable. A giant who folds himself up to talk to people. The stadium makes him a giant again, and you’re not sure where you stand.” She headed for the door, pausing with a hand on the frame. “For what it’s worth, I think the typos are a better sign than any perfect, press-ready email ever could be.”
The door clicked shut behind her. Roz lay back on the quilt, staring at the crack in her ceiling she’d been meaning to paint over for a year. Cat was wrong, and she was right, in that infuriating way she always was. The vulnerability of the typos had disarmed her more effectively than any slick charm. It was a tiny, open seam in the perfect jersey.
She imagined him next week, with a teammate. Another version of him, perhaps.The locker-room version. The one that existed before he walked through the community centre gate and carefully folded his public self away. She felt a jolt of something possessive, which was ridiculous. She didn’t know him. She knew a version he presented at work, a version that was kind and patient. The rest was a silhouette, a shape outlined by fame and physicality.
Her phone buzzed again, a harsh vibration against the wood. This time, it was a text. From an unknown number.
The message was brief. Alasdair here. Didn’t have your number, got it from the centre directory. Hope that’s alright. My teammate for next week is Ewan McKay.Good lad. Loud. Wanted to give you a heads-up. He’ll be on his best behaviour.She read it four times. The casual invasion of her private line was jarring, but the tone was the same as the email—direct, slightly hurried, considerate in its own way. He’d pre-empted her anxiety about a new variable. Loud. A single word that told her everything. She typed back, her thumbs clumsy. Thanks for the warning. Loud is manageable, as long as he’s not a prick. :)
The smiley face felt stupid the second she sent it. Too girlish, too eager. She squeezed her eyes shut. Before she could spiral, his reply came, quick.
He’s a prick on the pitch. Off it, he’s just a big dog who wants to be patted. See you next Thursday.
She didn’t reply. She let the phone rest on her chest, feeling its weight over her heartbeat. A big dog who wants to be patted. She could almost see it. A contrast to Alasdair’s quieter, more watchful presence. Next Thursday was suddenly not an abstract professional appointment. It was a thing on her calendar, loaded with new meaning.
Her thoughts skittered to Viv’s birthday, to the question of a dress, to the noisy, normal world of bars and friends where no one knew what a ruck was. The two realities—the one with the cling of rugby leggings and the arc of a perfect pass, and the one with birthday shots and karaoke—refused to merge. They sat side-by-side in her mind, a split-screen life.
She got up, walked to the mirror. The stranger from the afternoon was gone. She saw herself again, the tired eyes, the messy bun, the familiar slope of her own shoulders. But something in her own gaze felt different. There was a buzz beneath her skin, a low-level hum of awareness, as if her body was remembering the unfamiliar strain of muscles and the specific weight of being watched.
Not just watched.Seen.
She turned away from the reflection, the question of what to wear next Saturday seeming both trivial and suddenly, strangely urgent. It wasn’t about a dress. It was about which version of herself would walk into that bar, and whether the buzz would still be there, or if it would evaporate under the fluorescent lights, leaving only the memory of a ball flying sure and true from a pair of capable hands.