Chapter 4: Chapter 4
The morning after the party, the coffee shop felt like a decompression chamber. Roz moved through the familiar motions—grinding beans, steaming milk, wiping counters—with a heightened awareness of the silence. It was a clean, empty silence, scrubbed free of the booming laughter and the press of bodies. Her ears still rang faintly from the noise, but her mind replayed a quieter track: the weight of his look across the crowded room, the way he’d said, You look like you.
Denny was still asleep, a well-earned coma after her sociological fieldwork on rugby culture. Roz had left her a note and a paracetamol on the kitchen table.
The bell chimed. Roz didn’t look up, her hands busy arranging pastries.
“You’re open. Thank Christ.”
Ally’s voice was a ragged scratch. She turned. He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the grey morning light. He wore a grey hoodie and track pants, his hair damp from a shower. He looked exhausted, pale under his tan, with shadows like bruises under his eyes. But he was smiling, a faint, wobbly thing.
“The party,” she said.
“Was a lot. A great lot. But a lot.” He shuffled to the counter, moving with a slight, careful stiffness. He lowered himself onto a stool with a soft groan. “I think Ham hired a professional decibel generator.”
“He seemed in his element.”
“He was born in his element. My head, however, was not.” He rested his elbows on the counter, cradling his forehead in his hands. “Two pints. That’s all I had. I swear. But the combination of noise and everyone wanting a piece… it’s more draining than a match.”
Roz placed a large glass of water in front of him. Then she set about making a double espresso, knowing he wouldn’t ask for it. The machine hissed and gurgled.
“You left early,” he said, his voice muffled by his hands.
“You were busy. And Denny had dissected the social hierarchy sufficiently for her thesis.”
He peeked at her through his fingers. “You looked… I was glad you were there. It made it feel less like a press conference.”
She pushed the small cup toward him. The dark crema swirled. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I think I do.” He sat up, took a sip of the espresso, and winced, either at the taste or the effort. “What Ham said last week… about all the stuff that comes with it. Last night was a version of that. A sanctioned, friends-and-family version. But it’s still performance.” He drank the water in two long gulps. “I saw you watching. You see the structure of it. The lines.”
She leaned against the back counter, arms folded. “It’s a dynamic. A social ecosystem. You’re the keystone species.”
He barked a short laugh. “A keystone species with a pounding headache.” His smile faded. “I’m leaving tomorrow. For the tour. Edinburgh, then Cardiff, then London.”
“I know. Ham’s spreadsheet.”
“Right.” He spun the empty espresso cup on the saucer. “I’ll be gone almost three weeks.”
The statement hung between them. It was just a fact, but it seemed to change the air pressure in the room. The easy, quiet understanding they’d built in this space was about to be tested by distance and the very world he’d just described.
“You’ll be busy,” she said.
“Yeah. Meetings, trainings, media. The circus.” He looked directly at her. “I’d like to text you. If that’s okay. Not… not circus stuff. Other stuff.”
Roz felt a flutter, deep in her chest. “What kind of other stuff?”
“I don’t know. The coffee where we are. The weird paintings in my hotel room. The profound truth I discover about hydraulic hinges.” He was trying for light, but his eyes were serious. “Something real. To remind me.”
She looked down, wiping a non-existent spot on the counter. Her heart was a loud, clumsy thing. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” He exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath. “Good.”
The door burst open, letting in a gust of cold air and Ham. He was alarmingly energetic, clad in neon running gear. “There you are! I’ve been calling you. We have the pre-tour physio in twenty. You’re gonna get the grumpy one if we’re late.” He nodded at Roz. “Morning, Picasso. You survive the night?”
“Barely,” she said.
“A woman after my own heart. Ally, move your aching carcass.”
Ally didn’t move. He held Roz’s gaze for a second longer, a silent confirmation of the new, fragile agreement. Then he pushed himself up from the stool, his body protesting.
“See you,” he said.
“Good luck. In Edinburgh.”
He gave a slight nod and followed Ham out into the morning. Roz watched them go, Ham talking a mile a minute, Ally listening, his broad shoulders hunched against the chill.
The tour began. His first text came that evening, a picture of a hotel room window framing a rainswept view of Edinburgh Castle. The message read: They gave me a ‘historic view.’ It’s just wet. How’s the shop?
She replied a hour later, a picture of Susan’s cat, Mitten, asleep on a sack of coffee beans. Guard duty is lax.
The rhythm established itself. His messages were sporadic, sent in stolen moments: a close-up of a truly horrific abstract painting in a Cardiff hotel (“Think it’s called ‘Angry Soup’”), a screenshot of a dense academic abstract on door-closer mechanics (“See? Riveting.”), a photo of his heavily strapped ankle resting on an ice pack (“Ham stood on it. Accidentally. Maybe.”).
Her replies were shorter, quieter: a sketch of a regular’s hands wrapped around a mug, the steam rendered in quick, light strokes. A picture of a failed attempt at latte art that looked like a depressed ghost. A question about the difference between a ruck and a maul, prompted by a news headline.
It was a thin, digital thread, but it held. It felt private, a small backchannel running underneath the roaring public narrative of the tour. She followed the matches online, watching the condensed highlights. She saw the colossal hits, the mud, the orchestrated violence. She saw him score a try in Cardiff, breaking through two defenders with a powerful, twisting motion that seemed to defy physics. The camera zoomed in on his celebrating face, smeared with dirt and exultation. It was a face she didn’t fully know—the warrior’s mask. Minutes later, her phone buzzed. Think I pulled something in my eyebrow celebrating. Vanity is pain.
She laughed, and the distant, terrifying figure on the screen collapsed back into the man who drank espresso at her counter.
Two weeks in, the messages stopped for thirty-six hours. The silence felt different. Heavy. She checked the news, her stomach tight. No major injuries reported. Scotland had lost to England at Twickenham. The analysis was brutal, picking apart defensive errors. Ally’s name was mentioned, not for the try he’d scored, but for a missed tackle.
Her phone finally buzzed late on Sunday night. No picture. Just text.
Today was noise. All the wrong kind. Sorry for the radio silence.
She stared at the words. She could feel the exhaustion, the disappointment, vibrating through them. The performance had gone badly, and the critics were loud. This was the other side of the keystone species—the weight of the entire ecosystem when it falters.
She didn’t offer platitudes. She typed back slowly, carefully.
The shop was quiet. A customer tried to pay for a scone with a button. Susan accepted it. New currency established.
Three dots appeared. They hovered for a long time.
A button.
What kind?
Pea coat. Horn, I think.
Solid trade. Tell Susan she drives a hard bargain.
The thread was reconnected. The simplicity of it, the pivot away from the noise, felt like a victory.
He returned on a Tuesday afternoon. Roz heard the door chime and looked up from stocking cups. He was there, leaning against the frame, his duffel bag at his feet. He looked thinner, worn at the edges, but his eyes found hers and something in them settled.
“You’re back,” she said, stupidly.
“I am.” He didn’t move from the doorway. “The tour’s over. We came third.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s… financially adequate. Morally ambiguous.” He finally stepped inside, dropping his bag. “I brought you something.”
He approached the counter and placed a small, wrapped object on it. It was about the size of a matchbox, wrapped in newspaper from a London hotel.
Roz picked it up, unwrapping it carefully. Inside was a small, heavy piece of dark, forged iron. It was a vintage door handle, its surface pitted with age and use, shaped into a sleek, artful curve.
“It’s from a salvage yard near Twickenham,” he said, watching her face. “The guy had a whole bin of them. This one… the line of it reminded me of your drawing. The one of the scrum. That same kind of contained force.”
She turned the cold, heavy iron over in her palm. It was the most thoughtful, most perceptive gift anyone had ever given her. It wasn’t a souvenir. It was a translation. He’d taken her language—lines, force—and spoken it back to her in his own.
“It’s perfect,” she said, her voice thick.
“Yeah?” A relieved smile touched his lips. “Good. I also brought Ham a keychain that says ‘I ♥ London.’ He was weirdly emotional about it.”
She laughed, blinking quickly. She held the handle tightly, the metal warming in her grasp. “Coffee?”
“Please. The real stuff. I think my blood is ninety percent hotel filter now.”
As she made his drink, he sat, watching her. The silence was easy, full. It was the silence of the thread being pulled taut, now that they were in the same room again.
“The button economy collapsed, by the way,” she said, placing his coffee down. “Susan tried to buy milk with it. The dairy man was unimpressed.”
“Philistine,” Ally said, taking a grateful sip. He looked around the empty shop, then back at her. “It’s good to be back.”
He said it like he meant more than just the city. Roz, the iron handle a solid weight in her apron pocket, simply nodded.
“It’s good to have you back,” she said.
And for the first time, she didn’t question her right to say it.
And for the first time, she didn’t question her right to say it.
The following Friday, Denny materialized at the shop’s closing, a garment bag slung over her shoulder like a secret agent. “You’re coming. Leo’s birthday. It’s at the Viper Room. No arguments.”
Roz wiped down the espresso machine, avoiding her friend’s fierce gaze. “Leo who? I don’t know a Leo.”
“You met him at the exhibition last month. Tall, does those wire sculptures that look like nervous systems. He asked about you.” Denny unzipped the bag to reveal a slash of emerald green silk. “I borrowed this. It’s your color. You’re coming.”
The dress was beautiful. It was also alarmingly small. “I have to inventory the—”
“Susan already said she’d do it. You’re out of excuses, Roz.” Denny’s voice softened. “It’s just our crowd. Painters, sculptors, a few weirdo photographers. Your people. We’ll stay an hour.”
An hour, Roz thought, might be survivable.
The Viper Room throbbed, a dense capsule of heat and sound. Denny had been right about the crowd; Roz recognized several faces from degree shows and gallery openings. They were a symphony of tailored black and deliberate asymmetry, talking animatedly over the pounding bass. She felt simultaneously part of the scene and utterly detached from it, a spectator in an emerald-green costume.
She sipped a vodka tonic, the condensation slick on her fingers. Denny was already deep in debate about public funding with a printmaker. Roz let the noise wash over her, studying the way the strobe light fractured the room into fleeting, disconnected images.
Then one of those images resolved, solid and unmistakable.
Across the dance floor, near a raised booth, was a knot of very large men. They moved with a particular athletic ease, their laughter booming through a momentary dip in the music. Ham was there, conducting an invisible orchestra with a bottle of beer. And beside him, leaning against the booth’s edge, was Ally.
He looked different here. Not in a hoodie and fatigue, but in a simple, well-fitting dark shirt, his sleeves rolled up. He was listening to something a teammate was saying, a faint smile on his face, his gaze casually sweeping the room. It was that sweeping gaze that found her. It paused. It locked.
His expression shifted, the casual smile melting into something more specific, more surprised. He straightened up.
Roz’s first instinct was to flee into the crowd. Her second was to look down at her drink. She did neither. She held the look, the noise receding to a dull roar in her ears. He said something to Ham, who immediately spun around, grinned, and gave an enthusiastic wave that nearly toppled a passing waiter.
Ally began moving through the crowd. People naturally parted for him, not because they knew who he was, but because of the sheer, focused physicality of his path. He arrived before her, the music swallowing any greeting.
He leaned close, his voice a warm vibration near her ear that cut through the bass. “You’re here.”
“It’s a friend’s birthday,” she said, the statement feeling absurdly mundane.
“You look…” He leaned back, taking in the emerald silk. His eyes were bright with genuine astonishment. “Different. Really different. Good different.”
“Denny’s doing,” Roz shouted, tugging self-consciously at the dress’s hem.
“No.” He shook his head, a firm negation. “It’s yours.” The song changed, the rhythm shifting into something deeper, a pulsing, soulful house track. His eyes lit up with an idea. He extended a hand, palm up. A question, not a demand.
“I don’t really—” she started.
“Neither do I,” he interrupted, his smile turning playful. “Not properly. Come on. For science. I want to see if the door-handle theory of kinetic energy holds up on a dance floor.”
It was such a ridiculous, perfectly Ally thing to say. It disarmed her. She placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and sure, and he led her into the moving crowd.
The initial steps were awkward, a careful maintenance of space. Roz was acutely aware of every point of her body, a clumsy collection of angles. Then she stopped thinking. She let the rhythm in the bassline find the bones in her feet, travel up her spine. She stopped trying to dance and just moved, her body tracing the music’s contours with a natural, instinctual grace.
Ally watched her, his own movement stilling for a moment in pure surprise. Then he matched her. He wasn’t performing; he was listening, his body translating the beat not with practiced club moves, but with an athlete’s innate coordination and power. He had a natural, rolling rhythm, all contained strength and fluid motion.
He moved closer, not touching, but inside her orbit. Their movements began to converse—a dip of her shoulder answered by a tilt of his head, a shift of her weight mirrored by his. It was a collaboration. The shyness didn't vanish, but it transformed into a fierce, quiet concentration.
“You’re a secret weapon,” he shouted, his voice full of delight.
“You’re not terrible!” she called back.
“High praise!”
He spun her, a simple, clean turn under his raised arm. She came back, laughing, the motion effortless. The silk of her dress brushed against the rough denim of his jeans. For a few minutes, there was no coffee shop, no rugby pitch, no tour. There was just this shared, pulsing space and the unspoken conversation of their movement.
The song faded into another. They slowed, breathing quickly, the spell softening. The world rushed back in—the lights, the crush of people, Ham’s audible whistle from the sidelines.
Ally’s hand, which had rested lightly on her waist to guide her through the turn, fell away. His eyes were dark and vividly focused on hers in the strobe’s intermittent flash.
“Told you,” he said, his voice low enough that she had to read his lips more than hear him.
“Told me what?”
“That it was yours.” He meant the dress, the dancing, the night. He meant her. Before she could formulate a response, he nodded toward the bar. “Can I get you another? Your drink’s gone.”
She just nodded, her throat tight. He began to cut a path through the crowd toward the bar. Roz stood still, the ghost of his touch on her waist, the memory of his surprised, delighted smile etched into the air around her. The emerald silk felt less like a costume now. It felt, impossibly, like her own skin.
The music swelled again, a pulsing wave that made the floorboards tremble. Roz stood anchored, the sensation of movement still humming in her limbs. Across the crowded room, Ally reached the bar. He leaned in, speaking to the bartender, then turned.
He caught her eye and nodded for her to join him. The gesture was simple, a tilt of his head, but it cut through the chaos like a clear signal.
She wove through the shifting bodies, the emerald silk whispering against her legs. When she reached him, the relative quiet of the bar area felt like a sudden hush.
“What would you like?” he asked. His face was warm and smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. A faint sheen of sweat glistened at his temples.
She could barely look at him. Her gaze skittered to the bottles lined up like colored glass soldiers. “Just a water, please. It’s loud.”
“Tell me about it.” He ordered two waters, handing one to her. Their fingers brushed. The condensation was shockingly cold. “You all look great, you and your friends,” he said, glancing over to where Denny was now attempting to explain performance art to a baffled-looking Ham. He smiled, returning his full attention to her. “Especially you.”
Roz took a swift gulp of water, the chill hitting her throat. “It’s just a dress.”
“It’s not the dress.” He said it with a quiet certainty that brooked no argument. He leaned a shoulder against the bar, studying her. The noise around them seemed to recede another degree. “You’re nothing like most of the girls I meet, Roz.”
The statement hung there, unadorned. It wasn’t a smooth line. It sounded like a realization, something he was turning over in his own mind.
“What are they like?” The question left her mouth before she could stop it, born of a genuine, prickling curiosity.
He exhaled, a short, humorless laugh. “Loud, in a specific way. They tell me what they think I want to hear. They talk about matches I’ve played like they’re quoting stats from a fan page.” He swirled the water in his bottle. “It’s all surface. No doors. No buttons. No angry soup paintings.”
He remembered everything. Every trivial, quiet thing she’d shared.
“Maybe you just meet them in loud places,” she offered softly.
“Maybe.” His eyes never left hers. “I don’t want to meet you in loud places. Not really.”
Her heart executed a slow, heavy roll in her chest. “Where then?”
“The shop. A quiet pub. A museum that smells like old wood and dust.” He paused. “My flat. I make a decent pasta, when I’m not living out of a suitcase.”
It was an explicit invitation, clear and calm. The world beyond their small space at the bar—Ham’s booming laugh, the thrashing bass, the strobe light—felt like a film playing on a distant screen. Here, the sound was the click of ice in a bottle, the rustle of her own breath.
“I…” She faltered. The vulnerability was a physical pressure, immense and terrifying.
He saw it. He didn’t push. Instead, he nudged his bottle gently against hers. “Think about it. No tour this time. Just… pasta.”
“Pasta,” she repeated, the word solid, normal, anchoring.
“With a regrettable amount of Parmesan. It’s my one culinary vice.”
From behind them, Ham materialized, slinging a heavy arm around Ally’s shoulders. “Are you lecturing this poor woman on door hinges again? I saw the intense eyebrows. It’s a party, MacLeod.”
Ally shrugged him off with an easy grin, the public mask sliding back on, but his eyes when they flicked to Roz were still private, still asking. “We were discussing carbohydrates. A serious topic.”
“Right,” Ham drawled, winking at Roz. “He’s definitely more fun after a try. I’ll get him back on the dance floor, loosen him up.” He began to pull Ally away.
Ally resisted for just a second, his hand finding Roz’s wrist. Not grasping, just a brief, warm point of contact. “Stay. For a bit?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. He allowed himself to be dragged back into the throng.
Roz didn’t stay much longer. The exchange had left her electrically alive, every nerve ending singing. She found Denny, pleaded a headache that wasn’t entirely untrue, and escaped into the cool, silent embrace of the night air. The city sounds were muffled, ordinary. She walked, the iron door handle a familiar weight in her clutch bag, its solid curve a talisman against the evening’s surreal beauty.
Her phone buzzed in her hand an hour later, as she sat on her bed, still in the green silk.
Pasta. Thursday. 7pm. I’ll send the address. Say no if you want to.
She stared at the words. The simplicity was its own kind of weapon, disarming all her complex, winding fears. It was just pasta. It was everything.
Her thumbs hovered. Then she typed a single word, pressed send before the courage could evaporate, and sat very still in the quiet dark.
Yes.