Chapter 3: Getting Ready for Trouble
The gold sequined dress was a second skin of cold, clicking light. Roz stood in front of the mirror, the reflection a stranger drowned in disco-ball shimmer. The fabric was shorter than anything she’d worn in years, tight across her hips, the neckline a deep V that felt like a declaration.
“Stop standing like you’re waiting for a bus,” Catriona said from the doorway, a glass of wine in hand. “You look insane. In the best way.”
“I feel like a trophy,” Roz muttered, trying to tug the hem down a futile inch. The sequins scratched her palms. “A very shiny, very insecure trophy.”
“You’re not a trophy. You’re a painting. A Klimt came to life. Now turn.”
Roz obliged, a slow spin. The dress caught the lamplight from her desk, fracturing it into a thousand little glimmers that danced across her watercolour studies taped to the wall. The contrast was absurd—the delicate, blurred landscapes next to this aggressive sparkle.
“Shoes,” Cat commanded.
Roz slipped her feet into the black heels. Her world tilted, her perspective literally elevated. She was now all leg and shimmer, a constructed creature of the night. The quiet sanctuary of her room—the fleece blankets, the lavender scent, the hum of the old record player spinning a gentle jazz vinyl—felt like a betrayal. This outfit was for a different ecosystem entirely.
“I can’t breathe in this.”
“That’s the point. If you can breathe, it’s a mumu.” Cat finished her wine. “Now, the real question. Are you taking a clutch or a backpack?”
“A backpack. I need my wallet, my phone, my emergency…”
“...your entire psychological profile and a first aid kit. Got it.” Cat tossed her a small, black leather bag. “Compromise. It fits a lipstick, a card, and your existential dread. Let’s go. Viv’s already texting that they’re doing shots.”
The bar was a roar of sound and heat, a thick wall of bass and bodies that hit them the second they pushed through the door. Roz instinctively moved behind Cat, a small, shiny fish following a shark through a coral reef of drunk, shouting people. The air was beer-sweet and sticky with spilled perfume.
They found the birthday group in a heaving booth near the back. Viv squealed, pulling Roz into a hug that mashed sequins against polyester. “You look filthy!” Viv yelled into her ear. “I love it!”
Roz forced a smile, sliding into the booth. The vinyl seat was tacky. She was immediately handed a shot of something clear and lethal. “To Viv!” someone bellowed. They downed them. The vodka burned a clean, obliterating path down her throat, momentarily silencing the buzz of anxiety. For a few seconds, everything softened at the edges.
Then it came back, sharper. She was hyper-aware of the dress, of every male glance that slid her way and stuck. A guy at the next table, all gel and tight shirt, gave her a slow, appraising look. It wasn’t the shy, curious looks from the centre participants. It wasn’t Alasdair’s focused, unnerving attention. This was a scan.An assessment. She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them, knowing the gesture made her look defensive.
“So,” shouted Meera, leaning over the table. Her breath smelled of lime and tequila. “Cat says you’ve been coaching rugby with actual gods. Spill.”
“It’s not coaching,” Roz corrected, too quickly. “It’s facilitating. For the outreach program.”
“With the giant,” Meera pressed, wiggling her eyebrows. “The one who can’t spell.”
Roz felt a hot flush creep up her chest.“He can spell. He just types fast.”
The table erupted in “ooohs.” Cat shot her a triumphant look.
“He texted her,” Cat announced to the group. “To warn her his mate is loud.”
“What does that mean?” asked a guy named Paul, Viv’s brother. “Like, shouty loud? Or ‘talks about his feelings’ loud?”
“I don’t know,” Roz said, taking a long pull from the beer someone had placed in front of her. “He just said ‘loud.’” She imitated Alasdair’s low, matter-of-fact tone. It felt odd, using his voice here in this chaotic booth. A piece of one world forcibly inserted into another.
The conversation moved on, swirling into gossip about work and other birthdays, plans for holidays Roz couldn’t afford. She nodded in the right places, smiled when laughter erupted. But she was split. Part of her was here, performing the rituals of a twenty-something night out. The other part was still on that damp field, feeling the thud of a catch in her hands, analysing the subtext of a three-word text.
He’s a prick on the pitch. Off it, he’s just a big dog who wants to be patted.
She pictured a massive, slobbering dog. A Saint Bernard. Gentle but clumsy. Would Ewan McKay be like that? Or would his loudness be a wall she’d have to navigate, another variable in her carefully managed environment?
The group decamped to the dance floor. Roz was pulled into the crush. The music was a physical thing, a thump in her ribs. She moved, the sequins scattering light, her body going through the motions. A guy in a checked shirt started dancing near her, his movements overly deliberate. He grinned at her. She gave a tight smile back and turned away, focusing on Cat’s whirling form.She needed air. The heat was becoming a solid thing, the smell of sweat and sugar overpowering the lavender still clinging to her hair from her shower. She mouthed “smoke” to Cat, who nodded, already absorbed by a new track.
Pushing through the crowd was a battle. The dress felt impossibly thin, a fragile barrier against the press of bodies. Finally, she burst into the alley behind the bar. The cold night air was a shock, a blissful slap. She leaned against the brick wall, which was damp and grimy, and breathed deep.
The alley was quieter, but not quiet. Couples murmured in shadows. A group laughed by a bin. The thud of the bass was a muffled heartbeat through the walls.
“Alright, goldilocks?”
The voice came from her left. It was the guy from the dance floor, the one in the checked shirt.He had followed her out. He was taller up close, his eyes a little glassy.“Yeah. Just hot,” she said, her voice politely distant. She turned slightly away, a clear dismissal.
He didn’t take it. He moved closer, leaning on the wall beside her, invading her space. His cologne was sharp, synthetic. “Nice dress. Stands out in there.”
“Thanks.” She scrolled aimlessly on her phone, the bright screen a feeble wall.
“You here with anyone?”
“Big group. Birthday.” She didn’t look up.
“Your boyfriend not here?”
The question was a probe, disguised as casual interest. She knew this dance. She used her standard, disarming line. “I’m actually here with my girlfriend.” It usually worked. A neat, non-confrontational end.
He blinked, then a slow, unpleasant smile spread across his face. “Yeah? She got a friend?”
Roz’s stomach tightened. “Excuse me?”
“You and your girlfriend. You must have a friend. For me.” He said it like it was a reasonable suggestion, his eyes dragging over her again. “Come on. You’re all dressed up. You’re out having a laugh. Don’t be a prick.”
The word landed like a slap. A prick on the pitch. Alasdair’s casual description. This was different. This was a threat, casual and cold. The dress, which had felt like armor, now felt like a target. The sequins were a beacon she hadn’t meant to light.
She pushed off the wall. “I’m going back inside.”
His hand shot out, not grabbing her, but planting itself on the wall, blocking her path. It was close enough for her to smell the beer on his breath. “Ah, don’t be like that. We’re just talking.”
A bolt of pure, clean fear shot through her. It wasn’t panic. It was a hyper-clarity. She noted the chipped polish on his thumbnail, the slick of sweat on his temple. Her psychotherapy training flashed, uselessly: de-escalate, set boundaries, remove yourself. Her body screamed something older.
“Get your hand out of my way.” Her voice was low, colder than the air.
He laughed, a short, nasty sound. “Or what?”
Before she could answer, a back door swung open a few feet away, spilling light and noise. A bar staff member lugging a crate of empties emerged. The guy in the checked shirt dropped his arm instantly, his posture shifting to casual innocence. He gave her a last, lingering look. “Your loss, goldilocks.”
He sauntered back inside. Roz stood frozen, the adrenaline making her tremble. The staff member glanced at her, gave a sympathetic grimace, and started breaking down the cardboard.
Shame, hot and immediate, washed over the fear. Why had she come out alone? Why was she wearing this stupid, shining dress? She felt reduced to the fabric, to the shape it presented. A shiny thing to be demanded.
She fumbled for her phone, her fingers clumsy. She needed Cat. She needed to be surrounded. But her thumb, moving on its own accord, didn’t open her messages. It opened her email.
She stared at the last thread.
Alasdair here. Didn’t have your number… He’s a prick on the pitch. Off it, he’s just a big dog who wants to be patted.The words blurred. A big dog. A gentle, pattable creature. The opposite of the predator in the checked shirt who saw a shiny object and thought it was an invitation to ownership.
Without thinking, her thumbs moved. She opened a new text to his number. Her heart was pounding against her ribs, a frantic drum.
The words she typed were simple, professional, a world away from the shaking in her hands.
Hi Alasdair, it’s Roz. Just confirming next Thursday is still 2pm at the centre. And double-checking Ewan McKay’s name for the signing-in sheet.Thanks.
She stared at the screen. It was a pathetic lifeline, thrown into the digital void. A desperate grasp for a connection to the other world, the one of clear rules and patient explanations, where passes were gifts and loudness was just noise, not a threat.
She was about to delete it, to just go find Cat, when three dots appeared.A reply. Instant.
2pm is perfect. Yes, Ewan McKay. He’s looking forward to it. You okay?You okay?
Two words. They undid her. Sitting in a dank alley, in a dress that suddenly felt like a costume, the smell of stale beer and garbage in her nose, those two simple words were a gentleness so acute it was painful.
Tears, hot and stupid, pricked her eyes. She couldn’t tell him. She wouldn’t. That wasn’t this world. That wasn’t them.
She typed, her vision swimming.All good. Just finalising details. See you Thursday.She sent it. The three dots appeared again, pulsed, then stopped. He’d seen through it. He knew it was a non-answer. But he didn’t push. No more dots came.
The silence from his end was more profound than the bass shaking the walls. It was a held breath. An open space.
She wiped her eyes carefully, smearing mascara she knew would be a wreck. She took a final, shaking breath of the cold, foul air, and pushed the door open to re-enter the noise.
The heat and light were a physical assault. She spotted Cat, who took one look at her face and was at her side in an instant. “What happened?”
“Nothing.Just some drunk guy. It’s fine.” Roz forced a smile. “I think I’m going to head off.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.Stay. It’s Viv’s birthday.” She hugged Cat tightly, the sequins pressing into both of them. “I just need my bed.”
The walk home was a blur of cold pavement and distant shouts. The dress that had seemed so bold now felt cheap, the sequins catching the streetlights like desperate, flashing warnings. She felt hollowed out, the giddy thrill of the evening replaced by a granular fatigue.
Back in her room, she peeled the dress off, letting it fall into a sparkling heap on the floor. It looked sad now, a discarded skin. She put on an old, soft t-shirt and fleece pajama bottoms, the familiar fabric a solace. She washed her face, the cold water stinging.
Climbing into bed, she pulled the handmade quilt up to her chin. The lavender scent from the diffuser was almost gone. The room was quiet, just the faint sound of the city.
Her phone, face-up on the nightstand, glowed with a new notification. Not an email. A text.
You sure you’re alright?
It was from him. That was all.
She didn’t reply. She just held the phone, its cool surface against her palm, and stared at the words until they lost their meaning, becoming just shapes of light in the dark. The fear from the alley was still there, a cold stone in her gut. But curled around it, warm and inexplicable, was the certainty of that Thursday pitch, of the sure arc of a ball, and the quiet, watching presence of a man who asked simple questions and waited for real answers.
She didn’t know what to do with either feeling. So she lay there, in the sanctuary of her soft textures, feeling split wide open, until the grey dawn light began to outline the sagging shelves and her unfinished sketches, turning everything back into the familiar, complicated shape of her own life.
The grey light solidified into day, and the sharp edges of the fear from the alley softened into a dull, familiar ache behind her ribs. The sequined dress remained in a guilty heap on the floor for two days before she stuffed it into a charity bag. Catriona didn’t ask for details, just made strong tea and left a pain au chocolat on her desk.
The week passed in a blur of client notes and textbook chapters. She avoided her own reflection in windows. Thursday arrived cloaked in a persistent, misting rain that made the world feel muffled and close.
On the pitch, Ewan McKay was a human exclamation mark. He was all booming voice and explosive laughter, a mountain of muscle packed into a bright blue rain jacket. “You must be Roz!” he thundered, engulfing her hand in a paw that could have crushed it. “The boss here says you’re the real brains of the operation. Don’t tell him I said that, his head’s big enough!”
He was, as advertised, loud. But it wasn’t the aggressive, grasping loudness of the man in the alley. It was a joyful, encompassing noise. He high-fived Chloe with a slap that made her giggle uncontrollably. He listened to Jamie’s meticulous explanation of the session schedule with a solemnity usually reserved for state funerals. His energy was a tidal wave, but Alasdair was the steady, deep current beside him, guiding it, channeling it into something useful.
Roz watched them work in tandem. Alasdair was quieter today, more observant. His eyes kept finding her as she shepherded the group, his gaze a soft, constant pressure. She wore her own clothes today—loose joggers and an old university hoodie, a deliberate armor.
“Right, you lot!” Ewan clapped his giant hands. “Line-out time. Which means I get to lift people. Who wants to fly?”
Chloe’s hand shot up, her body vibrating. Jamie took a precise step backward, his expression stating clearly that being launched was an unplanned variable.
The drill was chaos. Ewan hoisted a squealing Chloe into the damp air as if she weighed nothing. Alasdair orchestrated from the side, his instructions calm and clear. When it was over, and the participants were gathered under the overhang for juice, Roz began gathering the scattered cones. The rain had soaked through her hoodie, the cold fabric clinging to her shoulders.
A shadow fell over her. Alasdair was there, picking up a cone from the other side. “You’re quiet today,” he said, his voice low, almost lost in the patter on the turf.
“Am I?” She straightened, meeting his eyes. They were the colour of the sea under the grey sky. “Just focusing. Ewan’s… a lot.”
“He is.” A small smile touched his mouth. “But a good lot. You handled it well. You handle everything well.” He paused, rolling the cone in his hands. “Last week’s text. You weren’t alright.”
It wasn’t a question. She looked away, across the field where Ewan was pretending to fumble a water bottle for Chloe’s amusement. “It was nothing. Just a bad night out.”
“The ‘prick off the pitch’ variety?”
The callback was so unexpected, so precisely aimed, it stole her breath. She gave a tight, helpless laugh. “Something like that.”
He was silent for a moment. The rain hissed between them. “I’m sorry that happened.” The words were simple, heavy with a genuine weight. He didn’t ask for details. He just acknowledged the fact of it, and in doing so, made the shame she’d carried feel smaller, less hers alone.
“Thanks,” she said, the word barely more than a breath.
They finished gathering the equipment in a silence that felt different now, charged but not uncomfortable. The participants began to filter out with their carers, Ewan giving each a loud, individual farewell. Soon, it was just the three of them by the equipment shed, the rain easing to a fine mist.
“Right, I’m for the pub,” Ewan announced, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Al, you coming? Celebratory pint for not dropping any weans on their heads?”
“In a bit,” Alasdair said. “Got some things to sort.”
Ewan’s eyes flicked between Alasdair and Roz, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. “Aye. You do. See you next time, Roz. You’re a saint.” He winked, a broad, unsubtle gesture, and lumbered off towards the car park, his whistle echoing.
The sudden quiet was immense. Roz busied herself with the padlock on the shed, her fingers cold and clumsy.
“Coffee,” Alasdair said, the word cutting cleanly through the quiet.
She fumbled the lock. “What?”
“I think we should get a coffee. There’s a place on the corner that does a passable flat white.” He said it like it was the next logical step in the session debrief, his tone neutral, but his eyes were watching her closely. “Unless you need to dash off.”
She did need to dash off. She had notes to write, a supermarket run to make, a life to attend to that existed far from rugby pitches and the disarming quiet of this man. The sensible part of her brain, the trainee psychotherapist, listed all the reasons this was blurring a professional line. The woman who had stood trembling in a sequined dress felt the offer like a lifeline thrown onto quiet, solid ground.
He saw the hesitation. “Just coffee,” he added, a faint, almost imperceptible emphasis on the just. “I won’t bite. Promise.”
The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “You’re not the biter. Ewan might be.”
“He might. But he’s gone to the pub.” Alasdair shifted his weight, the small movement betraying a hint of nerves she hadn’t seen before. “Well?”
The rain had almost stopped. A weak, silvered light broke through the clouds, glinting off the wet tarmac of the path leading out of the centre. She thought of her empty flat, the quiet, the leftover hum of anxiety that still lingered in her veins. She thought of the solid, simple shape of him standing there in the mist, asking a direct question and waiting for her answer.
“Okay,” she said, slinging her bag onto her shoulder. “A coffee would be good.”
“A coffee would be good.”
The words hung between them, a tangible decision. They walked side by side out of the gates, the rhythm of their steps awkward at first on the wet pavement. The café was a hundred yards away, its windows steamy and inviting. The silence wasn’t empty. It was thick with everything they hadn’t said.
He held the door for her. A bell jingled, and the warm, bitter scent of ground beans wrapped around them. It was a small, independent place, all mismatched chairs and local art. Quiet. They found a corner table by the window, the world outside softening into grey watercolour streaks.
She shrugged off her damp hoodie, conscious of her simple t-shirt beneath. He did the same, revealing a long-sleeved merino top that clung to the solid planes of his shoulders. They ordered: a flat white for him, a pot of Earl Grey for her. The waitress, a student with purple streaks in her hair, didn’t give them a second glance.
“So,” he said, after she’d left. He traced a line in the condensation on his water glass. “Ewan.”
“Ewan,” she agreed, a small laugh escaping her. “He’s brilliant with them. Like a… a joyous bear.”
“That’s him.” Alasdair’s smile reached his eyes this time, creasing the skin at the corners. “Loud, but pure-hearted. It’s a good combo on a pitch. Off it, too.”
Their drinks arrived. She busied herself with the teapot, the ritual of pouring a distraction. The warmth of the china seeped into her palms.
“He asked if you were single,” Alasdair said, his tone casual, but his eyes were fixed on his spoon as he stirred.
Roz’s hand stilled. “Who, Ewan?”
“Aye.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him it was none of his business.” He looked up then, his gaze direct. “And that he’d scare you off before the session started if he asked you himself.”
She exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh. “He would have.”
“I thought so.” He took a sip of his coffee. A silence stretched, but it was softer now. The rain picked up again, tapping against the window. “About that text,” he began, his voice lower. He put his cup down with a precise click. “That bad night out.”
She felt her shoulders tense. She wrapped her hands tighter around her teacup. “It was just standard stuff. A guy in an alley. He was… persistent.”
Alasdair didn’t flinch. His expression grew still, focused. The easy athlete was gone, replaced by someone intently listening. “Persistent.”
“He blocked my way. Called me a prick for not being interested.” The words came out flat, stripped of the fear that had animated them. Saying them here, in the safe, sleepy café, made the incident sound small. But her pulse remembered.
Alasdair was very quiet. He looked out the window at the sheeting rain, his jaw working slightly. When he spoke, his voice was a careful, neutral thing. “Does it happen a lot, pricks bothering you?”
The phrasing was so blunt, so unvarnished. It cut through the clinical language she might have used. ‘Pricks bothering you.’ Not ‘harassment,’ not ‘unwanted attention.’ Pricks. A short, ugly word for a short, ugly act.
She opened her mouth to deflect, to say ‘not really,’ to minimise it. But his eyes were back on her, waiting for a real answer. The honesty in them disarmed her.
“Often enough,” she said quietly, looking into her tea. “Not always that… direct. Sometimes it's just the looking. The feeling of being assessed. Like I'm a menu.” She finally met his gaze. “You know?”
He held it. A muscle in his cheek twitched.“Aye. I know the type. Men can be such bastards to women.” He said it with a weight of frustrated certainty. “Us rugby players, we get a reputation. And some of it’s earned. But most of the lads I know are okay. They’d knock that sort of shite right out.” He paused, swirling his coffee. “Doesn’t help you in a dark alley, though.”
“No,” she whispered. The word was almost lost in the hum of the coffee machine.
“What did you do?” he asked. “In the alley.”
“I… my standard thing. I told him I was here with my girlfriend. It usually works.”
“Did it?”
“No. He asked if she had a friend. For him.” She heard the bleakness in her own voice. “Then a staff member came out with a crate, and he left.”
Alasdair absorbed this. His big hands, one curled around his cup, the other resting flat on the table, were completely still. He didn’t offer platitudes. He didn’t tell her she should have shouted or kneed him. He just sat with the ugly reality of it. His quiet acceptance was more validating than any outrage.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” he said again, his voice gruff. “And I’m glad you’re alright. Truly.”
She believed him. The tight coil of shame in her stomach, the one she’d carried since that night, began to loosen, just a fraction. “Me too.”
They drank their beverages. The conversation shifted, turning to safer ground. He told her a story about Ewan getting lost on the way to a match in France. She described Jamie’s detailed analysis of last week’s passing drill, which he’d graphed in a notebook.They laughed. It was easy. The world outside the steamy window seemed to recede.
The bill came. He reached for it before she could.
“Let me,” she insisted.
“Next time,” he said, and the simple finality of it, the assumption of a next time, made her breath catch. He paid with cash, leaving a generous tip under the sugar pot.
They stepped back out into the damp afternoon. The rain had softened to a mist. The streetlights were already on, casting blurry halos in the grey.
“Which way?” he asked.
“Up towards the Meadows,” she said, nodding left.
“I’m the other way. The stadium.” He gestured right with his chin. He made no move to leave. They stood under the café’s awning, two people with no more reason to stay.
“Thank you,” she said.“For the coffee. And… for asking.”
“Thank you for answering.” He shifted his gym bag on his shoulder. “See you next Thursday?”
“Thursday,” she confirmed.
He gave her a last, slow nod, a look that felt like a physical touch, then turned and walked away. His stride was long and purposeful, quickly swallowing the distance down the glistening pavement. She watched him go until he turned a corner and was gone, swallowed by the evening.
The walk home felt different. The air was cold, but it felt clean in her lungs. The incident in the alley was still a dark smudge on her memory, but it felt contained now.She had named it. She had told someone who’d heard it, really heard it, without making it about himself or offering empty solutions.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Cat: So? Did the mountain speak?
Roz smiled, a real one that warmed her from the inside. She typed a reply as she walked, the mist cool on her face.
He did. We had coffee.
The three dots appeared almost instantly. Cat’s response was a single emoji: a fire.
Roz laughed, a quiet sound in the twilight. She put her phone away, her hands deep in her pockets. She thought of his hands, still on the table. The careful neutrality of his voice when he asked. Pricks bothering you.
He hadn’t tried to fix it. He’d just acknowledged it.Saw it. In her world of analysis and treatment plans, that simple witnessing felt like a radical act.
When she got home, her flat was dark and quiet. She didn’t turn on the main light. She went to the window, looking out at the city lights starting to glitter through the mist. She replayed the conversation in the café, the way the steam had risen between them.
Then she walked to her desk. She moved the charity bag with the sequined dress aside with her foot. From a drawer, she pulled out a fresh sketchpad and a stick of charcoal. She sat, and without overthinking it, began to draw. Not a planned composition, not a study for her course. Just the memory of a shape in the rain.
The broad line of a shoulder under damp fabric. The intense focus of a profile looking out a window. The strong, quiet curve of a hand around a white ceramic cup.
She drew until her fingers were stained black and the streetlights outside burned bright against the deepening dark.