Blindsided

by Amy Daws

  “I know all that about him,” I reply, blinking back my confusion. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Tilly exhales heavily and stops walking, turning to face me like she’s going to say something big. But the moment she looks into my eyes, she shakes her head and smiles. “Never mind.”

  “Never mind what?” I ask nervously, reaching out to stop her from walking away.

  “It’s nothing, Freya. You seem really sweet, and I’ve never seen Mac behave around a girl the way he is behaving around you. So maybe I’m wrong.”

  “Wrong about what?” I ask, the anxiety in my belly making me spin.

  Tilly looks down for a moment and then looks up. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. You’re different than the normal WAGs that chase footballers around. You’re…real. I hope that means you two can make it.”

  And with that, she turns and resumes her walk to the pet show that I can’t even get excited about anymore.

  The afternoon is packed with activities, and ends with me and the guys winning the seven-a-side football. Thank fuck. If we had lost, we’d be an embarrassment to all of our teams to be sure.

  The girls watch from the sidelines, drinking merrily, and I even show off a bit for Freya because I just can’t help myself. Kissing her in front of everyone like that was unexpected, but I haven’t exactly been the most sensible man around her these days. I just knew when I saw her in my family tartan that I had to grab her. Hold her. Claim her as mine and show her physically just how touched I was. The kilts she offered to make were already incredible, but the fact that she made that dress to surprise me meant something to me. It meant that she’s more than just a friend. She’s…Freya.

  Which we clearly need to talk about. But every time we have a moment together, someone interrupts us. Bloody group trip has become a pain in my arse.

  My family says their goodbyes after the match, and my grandpa makes me promise to come to his flat in the morning for breakfast so we can talk. Nerves shoot through my veins at his ominous words because despite how taken he was with Freya, I’m sure he’s going to tell me that spending time with her is a bad idea.

  And maybe he’s right.

  If Cami could screw up my game when I wasn’t even in a relationship with her, imagine what Freya Cook could do. But could I just walk away from Freya at this point? I honestly don’t know. And I don’t really want to think about it yet. I just want to enjoy what’s left of our trip and dance with my girl.

  We clean up after the match, and it’s dark out when we go seek out the ladies who have made their way over to the street dance going on down the road. It’s a DJ’d dance with a mix of today’s music and traditional highland dancing that I’m total crap at.

  As we approach, I see Freya sitting with two of my mates that I grew up with, and she’s laughing so hard, it makes me ache to be beside her. I’m supposed to be the one to make her laugh. Not Jerry. Fuck that nob. He was always a creepy bugger in school and likely still is.

  As we walk through the gates, I see Jerry offer his hand to Freya, and she accepts it willingly. He leads her out onto the dance floor and begins showing her the highland dance that’s going on.

  The entire scene pisses me the fuck off. Aye, I’ve had plenty of whisky today, so maybe I’m overreacting a bit, but I’m also not okay with my girl learning a Scottish dance with someone other than me.

  I abandon my mates and make my way out onto the dance floor.

  “I got it from here, Jerry,” I state, giving him a wee shove before taking Freya’s hand.

  “Easy pal, I was just showing her some steps.”

  “I know what you were doing.” I narrow my eyes at him.

  Freya looks up at me with confusion all over her face. “Mac, don’t be so rude to your friend.”

  I scoff and murmur, “Jerry is hardly my friend. And he doesn’t need to be showing you how to dance. I do.”

  Freya laughs. “You’re a horrible dancer.”

  “Aye, but this fucker doesn’t need to be the one showing you something in my town.” I glance over my shoulder, and a spark of anger ignites inside of me when I see him still lurking behind me. “Jerry, seriously man. What are you still doing here?”

  Jerry laughs and holds his hands up defensively before walking away.

  I turn back to Freya, who looks positively pissed now. “This is the third time you’ve barrelled in and ripped me away from someone. Jealousy is not a becoming trait on you, Mac.”

  My jaw drops. “Jerry doesn’t count. He’s a bawbag who’s just trying to irritate me.”

  “He’s not a bawbag,” Freya defends, her brows pinched together in the middle. “He’s been telling me stories about you and him growing up, which I’ve been enjoying.”

  “Well, by all means, don’t let me interrupt you.” I gesture back to our group of friends, which Jerry has rejoined. They all seem to be watching us in rapt fascination.

  “What’s your problem?” Freya asks, grabbing my arm and stepping closer to me.

  I exhale heavily and feel an intense pressure building in my chest. “I just thought that maybe you and I could talk finally,” I grind out through clenched teeth. “But you seem to be more interested in talking to Jerry—”

  “Stop it,” she hisses and crosses her arms over her chest. “If you want to talk, then take me somewhere we can talk. Don’t pick a fight with me for no bleddy reason.”

  “Not here with everybody fucking watching,” I growl, grabbing her by the hand and dragging her through the crowd.

  I glance around in search of a quiet place and see a gazebo across the street with lights hanging from it. A wee bit flowery for my taste, but it’s away from all these damn people that have been getting in my way all day. We make our way over and find a bench to sit on.

  “What is your problem?” she asks, turning on the bench to face me. “Do you honestly think I’d rather spend time with Jerry instead of you? Why are you trying to pick a fight with me?”

  “I don’t fucking know,” I growl, facing forward and propping my elbows on my knees. I run an agitated hand through my hair. “I’m not exactly a rational man these days when it comes to you, Cookie.”

  She’s quiet for a moment and then asks, “Why is that exactly?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” I bark out, turning to face her, mirroring her position on the bench.

  She has a soft, tender look on her face as she croaks, “Not to me.”

  I huff out a laugh as my eyes scan her face. “I fancy the shite out of you, Freya, and it’s twisting my guts inside of me.”

  Her face wars between a smile and a frown, and I hate it. I hate that I can say something like that, and she doesn’t know how to respond. I’m crap at this.

  “So what does that mean, exactly?” she asks softly.

  “I don’t know.” I stretch my arm out on the bench behind her and lean closer. “I didn’t expect for things to feel like this between us.”

  “Neither did I,” she agrees and pulls her lower lip into her mouth to chew on nervously. “So what are we then?”

  I shrug and swallow the uncomfortable knot in my throat. “Labels aren’t really a thing I’m used to.” She looks hurt by that response, so I lean in and cup her freckled cheek in my hand. “I’m not opposed to being together, but I need some time to wrap my head around it before we dive into whatever this is.”

  She nods and looks down at her hands, clutched tightly together on her lap. “Time.”

  “Aye, time.”

  She looks up at me. “And until you’re ready…what? We don’t see each other?”

  “I didn’t say anything like that,” I snap, a sharp flash of desperation coursing through me at the thought of her even suggesting that. “Can’t we just keep things how they are for now, and we’ll figure it out as we go?”

  She stares at me solemnly for a moment before turning to face forward. I can feel her disappointment and it eats away at a part of my soul. I hate doing this to her, making her fe
el insecure in what we are. She’s my best mate, and I’m not the one who should be sending her mixed signals. But I’m not ready to dive in head first with her either. I need to take this slowly so I don’t make any mistakes. She’s too important to me to rush into a decision.

  “Freya, are you okay with that?” I ask when she still hasn’t replied.

  She exhales heavily and plasters a smile on her face. “Sure. I’m okay with that.”

  Relief washes over me as I reach out to turn her to face me. “Good,” I state, gliding my thumb along her jaw. “That’s good.”

  I lean in and press my lips to hers. She feels tense at first but then softens, allowing me to tilt her head and kiss her properly.

  We’ll figure this out together. We have to.

  The next morning, the sun has barely begun to rise when I squat down to kiss Freya’s bare shoulder peeking out from the blankets.

  She moans her discontent. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to town to see my grandad for a bit.”

  “It’s so early,” she moans and snuggles under the covers.

  “Grandad is an early riser,” I state, kissing her temple. She’s so cute like this that I debate blowing off my morning and crawling back under the covers with her. “I’ll be back in plenty of time for our ride to the airport, though, okay?”

  She nods and turns to look up at me. Her green eyes twinkle in the darkness, and the wee smile she gives me makes my heart melt. “I’ll miss you.”

  Her words pierce through me like my heart is made of butter. I puff out my chest and compose myself before replying, “I’ll be back soon.” I press a quick kiss to her lips and then head out.

  My grandad’s flat in Dundonald is small and loads different than the way he and my gran lived when she was alive. It’s stark and plain, like a true bachelor pad, all memories of her erased from his life except for a wee photo of her on the mantle. It’s not just my grandad’s surroundings that have changed, but him as well. He’s become thinner since her passing, and for the first time in my life, he actually looks like a grandad.

  For a man who says women are nothing more than a distraction, he’s definitely taken the loss of my gran to heart. I can’t blame the man. As much as my grandpa said that football was the most important thing in the world, I knew he loved my gran fiercely. Maybe the absence of her is what helped him warm to Freya so quickly? Maybe he sees that there’s more to life than football.

  I’m seated across the kitchen table from him, both of us with cups of tea in hand, and I’m mentally preparing myself for the football talk that I’m certain is about to happen.

  Nothing could have prepared me for the three words that eventually do come out of his mouth.

  “I’m sick, Macky.”

  I frown, my body tensing at the severe expression on his face. “Sick with what exactly?”

  His eyes focus in on mine as he replies, “The cancer.”

  “What?” I ask, moving back in my chair and pushing away from the table.

  “I have cancer,” he repeats as his lips purse together with concern.

  My heart plummets with that word again. The C word. I release my cup of tea and ball my hands into fists on my lap. “How bad is it?”

  “It’s bad,” he replies, his expression grave. “They say I’ve probably had it for years. Your gran was always on me about getting myself checked, and I just ignored her because I’m a damn fool.”

  “Christ,” I reply, my eyes doing their best to blink away the shock. “So what’s the plan? Chemo? Radiation? Surgery?”

  Grandad shakes his head. “None of that.”

  I frown back at him. “Why not?”

  There’s a grim twist to his mouth when he replies, “It’s too far gone, laddie.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I growl, denial and confusion overwhelming all my senses.

  “Watch your tongue in my house,” he admonishes and then relaxes his face instantly. “I’ve only got months left, they say. Maybe a year if I’m lucky.”

  “Months?” I stand up from the table, the sound of the chair scraping the hard wood loud in the quiet heaviness of the kitchen. “You’ve only got months to live?”

  I push a hand through my hair and begin pacing back and forth. This can’t be happening. My grandad isn’t even that old. Losing Gran was hard enough, now him? There’s no way this is happening. He can’t be fucking dying. Not yet.

  “We should get a second opinion,” I say, turning wide eyes on him.

  Grandad offers me a sad smile. “We already did, Macky. Your dad and mum and even your wee sister have been shuttling me to all sorts of doctors for the past year.”

  “The past year?” My voice is guttural as I splay my hands out on the table and eyeing him harshly. “And none of you wanted to tell me about any of this?”

  “There was no need,” he retorts, staring up at me with pain all over his face. “You didn’t need anything else messing with your focus for your first year in the Premier League.”

  “Fuck football!” I roar, my hands lifting from the table and slicing through my hair as my entire world begins to spin.

  Grandad’s chair tips over as he stands to meet me toe-to-toe. “Don’t say that shite in my house, goddammit!”

  I inhale a shaky breath, staring into his angry eyes and feeling so much betrayal that it physically hurts. “You should have told me.”

  His face softens, his shield of stony Scottishness fading away before my very eyes. “I didn’t want to tell you until we knew for certain.”

  He reaches out and touches my shoulder and it feels like acid on my skin, because all I can think about is the fact that I won’t feel this touch again. This man has been my hero my whole life. Everything I’ve done was to please him. I don’t know how to be in a world without him.

  “So, what now?” I croak, my voice betraying me as tears sting the backs of my eyes.

  Grandad sniffs and turns away from me, his jaw ticking as he fights back his own emotion. He clears his throat harshly and replies, “Nothing. You go back to playing football and making me proud. And I go back to watching you on the telly and cheering you on like the overly chuffed fool that I am.”

  My stomach twists in pain and my grandad turns to look at me, his expression unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. He grabs me by the arms and yanks me into his chest, his hands wrapping around me and slapping my back as a sob breaks loose from my throat.

  Fuck this. Fuck life. Fuck all of this shite.

  “Don’t you dare mourn me, Macky,” he says into my shoulder, his voice husky as his hand cups the back of my head. “I’ve lived a good life and I got to watch you live a life I only ever dreamt of. I have no regrets,” he says firmly, pulling back and smiling proudly at me through red-rimmed eyes. “Except maybe never seeing you with a Ranger kit on.”

  He barks out a garbled laugh and I reach out to pull him into my arms again. I know he’s joking and I know he’s proud of me. But he has no clue how much he’s done for me and how much I’d do for him.

  The next few days with Mac are different than I expected. He still sleeps over at my flat every night, and we’re still having The Sex every day, but he’s not his normal, happy-go-lucky self. He’s contemplative and distracted. And when I tease him, he’s barely able to crack a smile.

  At first I assume it’s because he’s training a lot more than usual this week so maybe he’s just over-tired. But then the other night, we were watching Heartland and Hercules came out of nowhere and leapt up onto Mac’s lap. My jaw dropped with amazement because ever since the nipple-licking incident, Hercules has been giving Mac a wide berth. So clearly this is a momentous occasion that would have deserved some commentary. But Mac seemed completely unaffected by it. He just mindlessly petted Hercules like it was no bother. The Mac I know would have made some crack about Hercules watching where he put his tongue.

  Something is off with Mac. Something that I need to address with him.

&n
bsp; The night I plan to talk to him about everything, something incredible happens to me at work.

  “Freya! Can you come down here and talk to me and Leslie before you leave for the night?” Sloan calls up the stairs just as I’m shutting off the lights.

  “Of course, I’m just coming down now.”

  I grab my bag and make my way downstairs just as Leslie turns on the closed sign in the window. She turns and gives me a big smile, gesturing to the back where the sofas are by the changing rooms. Sloan is back there looking over the books as Leslie and I sit down to join her.

  “What’s going on, ladies?” I ask curiously.

  Sloan closes her book, looks at Leslie with a grin, then back to me. “We want to hear your pitch.”

  My brows furrow. “My pitch?”

  “Yep,” Leslie stares back at me expectantly. “You mentioned in Scotland you had ideas that you wanted to discuss with us at some point. Well…this is some point.”

  My face falls. “Oh God, I’m not ready. I haven’t prepared anything. My ideas are probably shit.”

  “Lying cunt,” Sloan says, waggling her brows knowingly. “We’re friends, Freya. We don’t need a formal pitch. Just tell us what ideas you have. We’re dying to hear them.”

  My eyes bounce back and forth between Sloan and Leslie as nerves take flight in my belly. That lying cunt of a voice wants to tell me that my ideas aren’t good enough and they won’t like them. But then I hear Mac’s voice say, ‘Your unique brilliance deserves to be seen.’

  And Mac’s voice sounds a whole lot sexier than that lying cunt.

  I reach into my bag and pull out my sketchbook. Here goes nothing.

  “Saints preserve me!” I exclaim, bursting into my flat with the biggest, brightest smile on my face ever.

  “What is it?” Mac asks from the sofa where he’s been waiting for me every single day for the past two weeks and where I want him to remain for the rest of my life.

  Woah, where did that come from?

  I shake the strange thought out of my head and practically squeal, “Sloan and Leslie love my pet clothing idea!”