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 announcing it, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. I wondered what else she knew. It seemed no matter where I went, my past couldn’t leave me alone.
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 running shoes and went for a run along Central Basin until the ocean spray and the exhaustion calmed my nerves.
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.