Chapter 5: Chapter 5
The roar was a physical thing, a wall of sound that hit Roz the moment she stepped into the stadium’s inner concourse. It vibrated through the soles of her designer boots, a low, constant thunder that made the air itself feel thick and heavy with collective breath. She clutched the security pass Ally had arranged for her, the laminated card feeling flimsy against the palpable energy of 67,000 people.
Ally had been apologetic on the phone, his voice a warm, sheepish rumble. “I know it’s not your thing,” he’d said, after their dinner at The Dome where the words between them had been soft and fraught with a new, terrifying potential. “But it’s a big match. I just… I’d like you to see this part of my life. If you want.”
She’d said yes because the memory of his hands, those vast, scarred things that could effortlessly crush hers, nervously adjusting his tie as he confessed he thought about her constantly, had left her disarmed. The Alastair Kinghorn the world saw—the monolithic figure on billboards, all grit and muscle—was a costume. The man she’d shared scallops and a ridiculously old whisky with was someone else entirely, and she was desperately curious to see how the two halves connected.
Now, flanked by a security guard, she was led through the bowels of the stadium. The corridors were a stark contrast to the Georgian elegance of her usual haunts; here, it was all raw concrete, exposed piping, and the sharp, astringent smell of deep heat and grass. They passed an open door, and she caught a glimpse of men in various states of undress, bodies coiled with tension, their voices a guttural chorus of encouragement and slang she didn’t understand. It was a world of pure, unvarnished physicality.
Her seat was in a private box, blessedly insulated from the worst of the noise. The glass front offered a dizzying view of the pitch, a brilliant, almost unreal green under the floodlights, crisscrossed with the shadows of the players warming up. She spotted Ally instantly. Even amidst a squad of other mammoth athletes, he had a particular economy of movement, a focused grace as he practiced lineout lifts, being hoisted into the air like he weighed nothing.
Her phone buzzed in her clutch. A text from him.
You made it. Saw you come in. Don’t be too horrified.
She smiled, typing back. It’s… loud. And you look very professional up there.
Trying to impress you, came the immediate reply, followed by a second message. Kidding. Mostly.
The game began, and any semblance of conversation was obliterated. The controlled chaos on the field was a brutal ballet. Roz, who found sports generally baffling, found herself gripped despite herself. It was the sheer commitment, the violent, percussive collisions followed by moments of startling strategy. She watched Ally charge into a ruck, his form a blur of focused aggression, and felt a visceral jolt. This was the other side of the man who’d quoted Robert Burns over dessert.
At halftime, he jogged off the field, his face a mask of concentration, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and rain that had begun to fall. He didn’t look towards her box.
The second half was a tense, grinding affair. The score was close, and the crowd’s energy became a single, living entity, willing its team forward. With ten minutes left, Ally received a pass and broke through the defensive line. He wasn’t the fastest, but his power was immense, defenders seeming to bounce off him. He was brought down just short of the try line in a tackle that cracked through the stadium like a gunshot.
Roz winced, her hand flying to her mouth. He didn’t get up.
The world seemed to narrow to that one patch of mangled grass. The medics ran on. The crowd’s roar diminished to a concerned murmur. She could see him on the ground, one large hand pressed to his ribs, his face contorted not in agony, but in sheer, frustrated anger. After what felt like an age, he was helped to his feet and limped off, not looking at the applauding crowd, his head bowed.
The game ended a few minutes later, a narrow win for Edinburgh, but the celebration in the stands felt muted from her perspective. The text notification on her phone was a stark intrusion in the quiet box.
Medic’s room. Basement level. Can you come?
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She navigated the now-chaotic corridors, following signs until she found a small, sterile room that smelled of antiseptic and sweat. Ally was sitting on a treatment table, shirtless, a large ice pack strapped across his ribs. His skin was gleaming with sweat, marked with fresh purple bruises and old, faded scars. He looked up as she entered, and the vulnerable, unguarded relief in his eyes was a punch to her gut.
“Hey,” he said, his voice rough.
“Hey yourself.” She leaned against the doorframe, not wanting to intrude. “Are you okay?”
“Cracked a rib, probably. Hurts like a bastard.” He gave a wry, pained smile. “Not the impressive finale I was hoping for.”
“You were… incredible,” she said, and meant it. “Until the… you know.”
“The part where I became a human crash test dummy?” He shifted, wincing. “Yeah, that part’s less fun.”
The medic finished up and left with a nod, leaving them alone in the humming silence. The distant sounds of the celebrating team echoed down the hall.
Ally looked down at his hands, then back at her. “So. This is the glamorous part of the job. Ice packs and painkillers.”
“I prefer it,” Roz said quietly, stepping fully into the room. “It’s more honest than the billboards.”
He held her gaze, the air between them shifting, charged with the unspoken words from their dinner and the raw vulnerability of the moment. “That thing I said at The Dome… about how I feel. I wasn’t just saying it because of the candlelight.”
“I know.”
“And?” he prompted, his voice soft.
She moved closer, until she was standing in front of him, the cool air of the room a contrast to the heat radiating from his body. She reached out, her fingers hesitating for a second before she gently brushed them over the back of his hand where it rested on the table. His skin was warm, the knuckles scarred and swollen.
“And I think you’re nothing like I expected,” she whispered. “And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it either.”
He let out a slow, careful breath, as if afraid to break the moment. His other hand came up, his fingers gently circling her wrist. His touch was surprisingly delicate, a conscious restraint of his strength. The sounds of the stadium, the world outside, faded into insignificance.
“I can’t really move right now without wanting to curse a blue streak,” he said, a low, rueful chuckle in his voice. “But when I can, would it be terribly cliché if I asked to kiss you?”
Roz felt a genuine laugh bubble up, freeing her from the last of her own shyness. “Considering the circumstances, I’ll allow it.”
He smiled then, a real, full smile that transformed his pained face, making him look younger and utterly captivating. He didn’t pull her closer, just kept his hand on her wrist, a simple, steady point of contact. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about that, too. A lot.”
Outside, a final, roaring cheer erupted from the stands, a celebration they were no longer a part of, sealed in their own quiet, promising world.
The roar subsided, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Ally’s thumb stroked a slow, absent rhythm across the inside of her wrist, his gaze locked on hers. “So, the human crash test dummy is still in with a chance, then?”
“A preliminary chance,” Roz said, her voice softer than she intended. “Subject to further review.”
He laughed, a sharp, pained sound that tightened the muscles across his stomach. “Christ. Don’t make me laugh. It’s a weapon.” He shifted carefully on the table, his movement causing the ice pack to slip. She reached out instinctively to steady it, her hand pressing against the firm, warm skin of his side. The contact sent a jolt through her arm. His breath hitched, but not from pain this time.
They stayed like that for a long moment, the hum of the fluorescent lights the only sound. The potential of that almost-kiss hung between them, palpable and electric. She slowly pulled her hand back, the memory of his heat lingering on her palm.
“I should let the medics finish with you,” she said, reluctantly stepping back towards the door. The real world was pressing in again, and with it, a thought she’d been suppressing. “And I… I have some news.”
Ally’s playful expression sobered instantly, reading the shift in her tone. “What kind of news?”
“The kind that involves a early flight tomorrow.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, focusing on a scuff mark on the pristine floor. “I have to go to London. Some awful meeting about a meeting about a contract. I really don’t want to go.”
“How long?” he asked, his voice flat.
“Three days. Maybe four.” A faint, bitter smile touched her lips. “At least David’s not coming. Small mercies.”
Ally looked at her, his eyes searching her face, taking in the tension around her mouth and the way she avoided his gaze. The disappointment was a physical weight in the sterile room. “I’ll miss you,” he said, the words simple and direct, cutting through all the unspoken things. “Let’s do something together when you get back. Properly. No cracked ribs, no stadiums. Just… us.”
The promise in his words unspooled the knot of anxiety in her chest. It was no longer a hypothetical. It was a plan. “Just us,” she repeated, testing the sound of it.
He nodded, a grimace of pain mingling with a look of pure determination. “It’s a date. Now get out of here before my physio comes back and starts torturing me. And text me when you land.”
She left him there, sitting shirtless and bruised on the medical table, a king in his realm of pain and victory. The corridor was still bustling, but the noise felt different now, a distant backdrop to the new, quiet certainty building inside her. She had a miserable trip ahead, but for the first time, the return felt like the real destination.
The taxi to the airport felt like a retreat. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the historic Edinburgh stone into a grey wash. Roz clutched her phone, the ghost of his touch on her wrist a persistent, warm echo.
Across the city, Ally stared at the ceiling of his flat. Each breath was a sharp, stabbing reminder of the cracked rib. The pain was a clean, physical thing, simpler than the tangled knot of frustration in his chest. He hated her going, especially back to that world.
His phone buzzed on his sternum. A text from Roz.
Boarding now. The guy at the gate looked at my passport like I’d personally offended him.
He smiled, typing carefully with one thumb. They sense you don’t belong in their rubbish airport system. You’re too good for it.
Her reply was instant. I’d rather be in a medic’s room.
The three days stretched, a monotonous landscape of conference rooms and hotel lobbies. Roz sat through meetings, her mind drifting from drainage plans and client approvals to the feeling of Ally’s hand, so surprisingly gentle on her wrist. She doodled in the margins of her notepad, sketching the arch of a rugby goalpost, then quickly scribbling it out.
Ally’s texts were a lifeline. They were snippets of his day, photos of his dismal meals, a video of him doing prescribed breathing exercises that ended with him cursing the physio. She lived for the evenings, retreating to her sterile hotel room to call him. His voice, rough with sleep or pain, was the only real thing in the artificial London light.
“Tell me something,” she said one night, curled on the bed, the city a silent, glittering map below. “Something you never tell anyone else.”
There was a long pause. She could hear the rustle of his sheets. “I hate the sound of the crowd after a loss,” he said, his voice low. “It’s not the shouting. It’s the silence that comes after. It feels… disapproving. Like a parent.”
She absorbed this, the vulnerability of it loosening something tight in her own chest. “I hate the sound of a room full of architects all agreeing with each other. It means no one has any real ideas.”
He chuckled, a warm sound that traveled down the line. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”
On the third day, a problem with the Murrayfield drainage schematics erupted. It required her immediate attention, a fact she relayed to her project manager with a sense of grim triumph. She changed her flight, moving it up by a full day. She didn’t tell Ally.
The plane touched down in Edinburgh as a soft dusk was settling. The air was clear and cold, a relief after London’s damp blanket. She went straight from the airport to his building in Stockbridge, her suitcase rattling over the cobblestones. She stood outside his door, her heart hammering a reckless rhythm against her ribs. She knocked.
The door swung open. Ally stood there, leaning heavily on the doorframe. He was wearing loose sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair messy. He blinked, his brain slowly processing her presence. “Roz?”
“The meeting finished early.” She offered a small, hesitant smile. “There was a drainage crisis. I’m apparently the only one who understands it.”
He just stared, his expression unreadable. Then a slow, genuine smile broke through his confusion. He reached out, his hand finding hers, his fingers lacing through them with a certainty that stole her breath. “Get in here,” he said, his voice a soft command. He pulled her gently inside, closing the door on the world.
The flat was dim, lit only by a single lamp. It was tidy but lived-in, a biography told in stacks of books and a well-worn leather armchair. He didn’t let go of her hand. “You’re really here.”
“I’m really here.” She let her suitcase drop by the door. Her eyes adjusted to the low light, taking in the lines of fatigue on his face, the careful way he held his torso. “How’s the rib?”
“Better now.” His gaze was intense, tracing the features of her face as if memorizing them. The space between them crackled, all the unspoken words from phone calls and texts coalescing into this single, charged moment.
He lifted his other hand, cupping her jaw. His thumb stroked her cheekbone. “I’m not going to be very good at this,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to her lips. “I can’t exactly sweep you off your feet.”
“I don’t want to be swept,” she whispered, leaning into his touch. “I just want to be here.”
He bent his head, his movement slow and deliberate, giving her every chance to pull away. She rose onto her toes to meet him. The kiss was not gentle. It was all the pent-up tension of the past days, a raw convergence of relief and desire. His arms wrapped around her, careful but firm, pulling her flush against him. She could feel the solid wall of his chest, the faint wince he tried to suppress, the overwhelming reality of him.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing heavily. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. “Okay,” he breathed out, a statement of pure, stunned wonder. “Okay.”
She smiled, her hands resting on his shoulders. “So that’s what that’s like.”
“Aye,” he said, a slow, dazzling smile spreading across his face. “That’s what it’s like.” He nodded towards the living room. “Stay. Tell me about the drainage crisis. Tell me anything.”
Later, they sat on his sofa, the city lights twinkling outside the window. Her head was on his good side, his arm around her. She was talking, her voice a soft cadence in the quiet room, and for the first time in days, the world felt perfectly, undeniably aligned.
The low hum of the city outside his window was a distant second to the rhythm of his breathing beneath her ear. She traced the intricate weave of his wool sweater, her words about contract clauses and stubborn project managers trailing off into the comfortable silence. It was Ally who broke it, his voice a soft rumble she felt as much as heard.
“You know, for a woman who just flew back to solve a drainage emergency, you’re remarkably calm.” His fingers drew lazy circles on her shoulder. “I’d be buzzing.”
“I think I left all the buzz in London,” she murmured, nestling closer. “It’s all just… quiet here.”
He was silent for a long moment. The hand on her shoulder stilled. “Roz?” The change in his tone made her lift her head. His face was serious, the lamplight carving out the strong lines of his jaw. The playful glint was gone, replaced by a raw, unwavering honesty that made her breath catch.
“Stay.” The word was simple, direct, and hung in the air between them. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Don’t get on another plane. Don’t go back to that hotel. Stay the night, gorgeous.”
The world narrowed to the hopeful, vulnerable look in his eyes. All the calculated reasons to leave—her suitcase by the door, the professional facade, the fear of moving too fast—evaporated. She’d crossed a city and an ocean for this feeling of alignment. Saying no was suddenly the most impossible thing in the world.
She leaned forward, her answer a soft press of her lips against his. It was slower than their first kiss, a deep, confirming seal on his question. When she pulled back, she saw the tension drain from his shoulders, replaced by a relief so profound it echoed her own.
“Okay,” she whispered.
A brilliant, unguarded smile broke across his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She nodded, a genuine laugh escaping her. “But I should warn you, I hog the duvet.”
“A risk I’m willing to take,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He shifted, a slight grimace crossing his features as he moved his injured side. “Just don’t make me sleep on the couch. The physio would have my head.”
He stood, offering her his hands. She took them, letting him pull her to her feet. He didn’t let go, instead lacing his fingers through hers and leading her slowly down the short hall. His bedroom was spartan, dominated by a large bed with a rumpled, grey duvet. A stack of books sat precariously on the nightstand, a biography resting atop a well-thumbed collection of poetry.
He fetched a soft t-shirt for her to sleep in. While she changed in the bathroom, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were bright, her usual guarded expression softened into something she barely recognized. This wasn't a carefully planned decision. It was a freefall.
When she emerged, he was already in bed, propped on his good side. The lamp was off, the room lit only by the city’s ambient glow filtering through the blinds. It painted silver stripes across the floor and the planes of his body. She slid in beside him, the sheets cool against her skin.
He turned onto his back with a careful, controlled movement, and opened his arm in a silent invitation. She curled into the space he offered, her head finding its familiar place on his shoulder, her hand resting lightly on his chest, away from his bandaged ribs. His heart beat a steady, reassuring rhythm under her palm.
“This okay?” he murmured into her hair, his breath warm against her scalp.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered back.
The last thing she felt before sleep took her was the weight of his hand, solid and sure, settling on her back, holding her there in the dark.