The Play

No worries.

And though Bram said no worries, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t worry.

I take a deep breath and make my way back to the office where I sit down and pretend to concentrate on my real job for the rest of the day.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lachlan

I hate interviews.

I mean, I really, really despise them. So when Bram told me that his girl’s friend would be contacting me, wanting to interview me for some San Francisco weekly magazine, I immediately said no.

Don’t get me wrong. I want to help him out. After all, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m supporting him the best I can, putting my own money in. I’ve always had a soft spot for charity, and even though I hadn’t seen my cousin for years, I have a soft spot for family too.

But interviews are a whole other thing. Nothing is worse than having to talk about yourself, especially to someone who will twist your words around. The number of times I’ve been called “difficult” and “temperamental” by a news article or interview is high, high enough that I just full-on stopped doing them. It became less about the game and more about whatever salacious items they could drag up about me, and that’s a game that I just don’t play.

And the main problem is, there’s a lot about me that they can bring into the light. Not necessarily things that I’m ashamed of, but stuff that shouldn’t concern anyone else except me. Privacy is everyone’s given right, and the problem with the world today is the fact that everyone thinks they have a right to it, too. So fucking what if I play for Edinburgh? Does that mean the public has a right to know about my personal life, my private life? No, it doesn’t.

Bram’s a persuasive guy though. He said the article could help us secure the extra funding that he needs. Then he mentioned that the girl, Kayla, is trying to get her break in writing, so she won’t be like any of the journalists I’ve been subjected to.

He was right about that. The girl is kind of a hot mess. She’s hot too, even though she looked like she just rolled out of bed the first time I met her. But more than that, she gives me the impression of a runaway train that’s about to implode. Not exactly professional journalist material. So with that in mind, I said yes. Let her interview me if Bram thinks it will help.

Of course he had to warn me of a couple things about Kayla. One was that she was a notorious man-eater, and if I wasn’t careful, she’d be climbing me like a bloody tree. And two, she has no filter and was bound to say the wrong thing and that I should take it easy on her if that happened.

Well, she didn’t climb me like a tree. I can’t say I was disappointed because when you’ve had women throwing themselves at you over the years, the novelty can wear off really fast. But even though she wasn’t getting handsy with me, she was letting her eyes roam all over my body like she was exploring a new planet.

What she did do, though, was come out and say something incredibly stupid. I guess stupid is a strong word, but the mention of my adoption did seem to come out of left field. I knew she regretted it immediately—her face flamed a shade of pink and I could see the utter embarrassment in her eyes—and I probably should have taken it easy on her.

I couldn’t help it though. The fact that Bram and Linden’s aunt and uncle adopted me when I was a teenager is nothing I’m ashamed of. I just don’t like that some girl I barely knew somehow knew that about me. It’s not like I went around a

So I snapped at her. I won’t be surprised if she also describes me as “difficult” in the piece, if she’s even going to write it still. I’m not exactly the kind of guy you want to donate money to, no matter how hard I’ve been working on changing that back at home.

After I left her there at the waterfront, I went straight back to the flat I was temporarily renting. I resisted the siren song of alcohol and immediately put on shorts and ru

Being back in my flat though, this small, cold space that’s so far from my real home, has this ability to pull me back down. Now I feel really bad. I keep seeing Kayla’s dark eyes flash with humiliation, the way her shoulders slumped as I nodded goodbye. I don’t know the girl at all, but something about her, maybe it’s her boldness, her enthusiasm, makes me care that I was a premature arse to her.

I glance at my phone and think about texting her, just to say I’m sorry. It would at least appease the traces of guilt that are creeping through me. But I’m nothing if not prideful.

I text Bram instead.

I think I might have been a dick to your friend.

He texts back: Don’t worry about it. She’s tougher than she looks.

Has she said something?

She’s always saying something. Want to come to the Lion tonight?

Part of me wants to say yes. Especially if Kayla is there and I can apologize in person. But I’m in a mood and I know my moods well. I shouldn’t be in a bar, I’m apt to drink too much and get in a fight, and that’s really the last thing I need right now.

The truth is, I’m counting the days until I go back home: all fourteen of them. The injury to my Achilles tendon is fully healed and I’m due back in Edinburgh mid-August to start training again with the team. I won’t be on right away—I’ve missed too much sitting on the sidelines and resting up—but it’s a start. It’s kind of pathetic, actually, how much the game controls my life—how much passion it brings me and how lost I am without it. The fact that I’m getting late in my career is something I try not to think too much about.

Then of course there is Lionel, who I miss like fuck. And everyone who works with me at the organization, my brother Brigs, my mate Amara, my teammate Thierry. Even though my life back home felt like it was stalling for a while, like it was missing something, coming here makes me realize that Scotland is where I truly belong. I might go back still feeling bereft—that void that swoops in when you’re lying in bed, in the dark at night and wishing your chest wasn’t aching for something more—but at least I know it’s home.

I text Bram that I’ll catch him some other time, then settle down to watch the telly. I make it through a few stupid American shows and half a baseball game before curiosity grabs me by the ankles. I find myself grabbing my iPad and searching through Facebook for Kayla. I barely have a Facebook account myself, and what I do have is locked down and private, but even so I can’t help but want to find out more about her. I’m aware that I’m being a wee bit stalker-ish and I can’t exactly explain why I’m doing this, but it’s happening.

Short of adding Kayla as a friend, which is weird and u

I have to admit, for all her crass attitude, Kayla is actually a really beautiful girl. Dark, wicked eyes, long shampoo commercial hair, and just enough freckles to make her seem young and i

But I’m not creeping on her out of anything other than curiosity—she’s not really my type. Sure, gorgeous girls can be great for a quick shag, but anything beyond that is usually futile. They’re too shallow, too vain, too vapid. And once they discover that I’m more than just a rugby player, when they find out who I really am, what I’m really like…they tend to run the other way.