Long Shot

Chapter 26

While Gleann had the benefit of the northern New Hampshire mountains, an atmosphere that lent itself more to Scotland, at least the Connecticut Highland Games, held in a small town northeast of Stamford, didn’t have a giant glass box of an abandoned corporation looming over it. These smallish games, where Jen had secretly confirmed Leith was throwing, were set in a beautiful park surrounded by thick stands of trees and pockets of shade and shadow. A building of pale stone overlooked the circle where pipe bands marched in to their competition. Little girls dressed in tartan and velvet, their hair pulled tightly back, giggled and stretched, preparing for their competition. The blare of perfectly timed drums and pipes sailed toward the athletics field, and it was there Jen headed.

Unsure of how Leith would take her sudden appearance, she timed her arrival toward the end of the athletics competition in the afternoon, desperately wanting to see him throw but also not wanting to distract him. After all, he’d thrown after she’d left Gleann, and apparently her absence had changed quite a bit in him.

The day was ridiculously hot, and people huddled under portable canopies and umbrellas as they cheered on the ten or so men and one woman, all kilted up, on the athletics field.

Still a good distance away, Jen immediately picked out Leith. He’d cut off the sleeves to his T-shirt, and the navy blue thing with the white X on the front to symbolize the Scottish flag was nearly soaked through. He wore his father’s kilt and one of his giant smiles. The kind that lit up his whole body and enveloped anyone near him. God, she’d missed him.

“And now,” the announcer said, his tinny old man’s voice sputtering through the bad speakers, “the final round of weight for height.” Applause circled the towers holding the crossbar. “Competitors are Duncan Ferguson and Leith MacDougall.”

Jen grew excited. She’d arrived just in time.

Leith gave a respectable nod to the audience, but Duncan lifted both meaty arms and turned in a circle, mouth opened in a roar, begging the audience to give it up for him. They did, too. Leith just shook his grin at the ground, sweaty, shaggy hair plastering itself to his cheeks and neck. He pushed it off his face and went over to the towers and bar.

A few more onlookers straggled over to watch this event, and Jen found a place in the shade of a big tree, behind an older couple holding hands in their lawn chairs—just out of sight, should Leith happen to look up.

He didn’t, though. An intense look of concentration masked his face as he went over to the weight—a great black orb with a thick ring attached to its top—lying tilted in the grass between the towers. She’d once picked up that same kind of weight in the MacDougall garage, and had nearly toppled over under its fifty-six pounds. She remembered how Leith had laughed with her, but Mr. MacDougall had thrown out some words of encouragement, wanting her to try the women’s twenty-eight pounder instead. She’d politely declined.

“The bar is at fifteen feet,” said the announcer. “Each thrower gets three attempts to get it over using any style necessary, as long as they use only one hand. The weight touching the bar doesn’t matter, as long as it ends up on the other side. First to throw: Leith MacDougall. A fine Scottish lad.”

Leith pointed at the announcer, grinning, then positioned himself under the bar, looking up several times to get his placement just right. Giving his back to the tower, planting his feet wide, tugging the bottom of his kilt up and over his knees, he reached down and wrapped one big hand around the ring of the weight. Any semblance of a grin died. His lips rolled inward with concentration.

Knees bent, torso forward, the great muscles in his gripping arm flexed, the ligaments popping out. She watched his neck and face flush. With a heave he pulled the weight from the ground, sending his body rocking, the weight sailing once between his legs, once along the side of his body, and a third time back between his legs. When the weight came forward, he pushed his legs to straighten, let out a shout of effort, and launched the weight high up into the air.

The hefty thing sailed upward, looking way too big and bulky to get anywhere near fifteen feet. Leith stepped away, whipped around . . . and watched, teeth clenched, as the curve of the ball hit the bar, then rolled over the back side to land with a thunk in the grass.

The crowd cheered, no one louder than Jen. Leith slapped his hands together once and then acknowledged the audience. Jen ducked behind the old couple in the off chance he’d see her, but he turned to Duncan, who was showing him a jovial double thumbs-down.

Duncan gave his competitor a hearty clap on the back, then assumed his own position under the bar. He used a little different method to throwing this event—a full-body pivot and spin, more like a classic shot put throw. To Jen, he didn’t seem as graceful as Leith, being shorter and bulkier around the middle. Leith was more streamlined, a little more top-heavy, and at least five inches taller.

Duncan made fifteen feet, but missed sixteen all three times.

Leith got sixteen on the second attempt, and the crowd erupted. Duncan stood off to the side, shaking his head but grinning. When the cheering died down, Jen distinctly heard Duncan say, “Good to have you back.”

She read Leith’s lips: “Good to be back.”

“And the Scottish lad wins the weight for height!” chimed the announcer to a terrific amount of applause, even though it was apparent Duncan had been the overall crowd favorite.

Leith took a seat on a stool and grabbed a water bottle, pouring some down his throat, then squirting a healthy dose over his head and on the back of his neck. It took all of Jen’s strength not to go to him. Another competitor went over to talk to Leith. The other guy was older, clearly strong but in a softer, less defined way. It looked like he was asking Leith for advice on the weight, because Leith was showing the man a grip and gesturing to his back and legs.

This was how Leith had been his whole life. Giving. Accommodating. Generous sometimes to the point of forgoing what he wanted. When he’d revealed the bit of resentment he held for his father and for Gleann, it had shocked her at first, but now she understood. It was okay for someone like him to feel that.

“Next and final event, the heavy hammer,” the announcer said. “And looking at the score sheets, ladies and gentlemen, this event will determine the overall winner of the heavy athletic events here in Connecticut. Duncan Ferguson and Leith MacDougall vying for first place, Duncan with the slight edge. It is my understanding that Duncan won the Gleann games a few weeks ago, so MacDougall might have a score to settle here.”

Leith and the older man looking for advice went over to the edge of the field and grabbed a foldable set of chain-link fence, like what you’d see behind home plate in Little League games. They set it up behind a log painted white that they were using as the trig. Duncan brought over the hammer—a large ball on the end of a long bar weighing twenty-two pounds—and set it by the trig.

The scene was so much like Gleann, with the cook smoke drifting through the air, the kids’ area off to the side where the little ones were trying to throw minicabers, the same bagpipe song played over and over again with varying degrees of talent. And Leith, out in the athletic field, looking every bit at home as he did in his truck or . . . lying next to her. Or on top of her.

She wanted that back. She needed that back.

On the field, as though her desire had formed a whip and lashed out from her body, Leith looked up from where he was toeing the dirt behind the trig. It wasn’t like his gaze had been wandering around the crowd and then he did a double take when his eyes mistakenly landed on her. No; he raised his head, his stare making a burning line across the grass, and found her instantly.

Jen startled, pushing away from the tree, her arms falling to her sides. Her first thought sent her back in time and space to how she might have acted in seventh grade when the boy she crushed on looked her way. For a moment, she considered ducking low and crawling away. But he’d seen her, recognized her, knew she was there—there was no denying it now. And really, she’d come here to talk to him anyway.

Leith froze and just stared. Then, shaking himself out of it, he excused himself from the other competitors and stalked toward her, kilt flapping about his legs, those powerful arms swinging. A few onlookers watched him pass, skittering out of his way as though he might mow them down.

Jen took a deep breath and left the shade of the tree, meeting him on the border of the field.

She smiled at him, because he was just too beautiful and it made her heart swell with equal parts pleasure and hurt. His eyes, however, were far too wide with confusion and, yes, a little anger. For showing up? For not calling first? She couldn’t guess, but it actually made what she’d come here to do a little easier. She’d prepared for his doubt, and if there was one thing Jen Haverhurst excelled at, it was planning.

“Hi.” His twinge of anger morphed into wonder and surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, suddenly feeling the ninety-degree heat in triplicate. “I didn’t mean for you to see me until after you’d thrown. I didn’t want to distract you.”

He ran a hand through his wet hair and swept a gaze around the grounds. “I should’ve known word would get out. Aimee?”

Jen nodded. She almost said, “I wish you’d told me you’d thrown in Gleann,” but then realized that would have been the worst thing, considering how they’d parted. Instead she said, “When I heard you were throwing this close to New York, I had to come.”

His eyebrows made a V. “What happened to London?”

That fed her a little more confidence. “That’s one of the reasons why I came. I have a lot to tell you, a lot to say. Will you meet me tonight? After this is over?”

His face said that he was being cautious because she’d disappointed him twice before.

No more. I won’t disappoint you anymore, she longed to say right then and there, but knew he wouldn’t buy it. She needed him to meet her later.

“It won’t take long,” she added hurriedly, “if you have plans with the guys or something.”

He rotated each arm, signaling that his mind was divided between her and why he was here on this field. “We were all going to grab a beer in town later.”

“Please. A few minutes, is all.”

He considered her for more seconds than she thought herself capable of withstanding. “All right,” he finally replied, and she exhaled. Then she gave him the address of where she wanted him to come.

He started to walk away and she got scared over his indifference. Then he stopped and turned back around. “The heavy hammer’s not my best event. Just so you know.”

These games were larger in attendance than Gleann’s, but the grounds weren’t that much more expansive, and the athletic field was ringed with trees. There was room enough to throw the heavy hammer without compromising safety, but the light hammer, with its sixteen-pound weight and the way it cut through the air much faster and farther, couldn’t be thrown here due to space.

Out of all the heavy athletic events, to Jen the hammer was the craziest. The movement to throw it was incredibly primitive, and also looked beyond unnatural. Dangerous, even. Every time she watched this particular throw, someone’s broken back or ripped muscle seemed imminent. As she recalled from Mr. MacDougall, form was paramount.

She worried terribly that she’d screwed this up for Leith. That he’d break form and then totally break his back.

The other competitors cycled through their first attempts, including the sole female thrower who had the raucous support from the gallery. As far as Jen could tell, she threw awesomely, using a smaller hammer than the guys. Good on her.

The announcer left Leith and Duncan for last.

When Leith’s name was called, he raised an arm to the onlookers, his profile showing lips pressed tightly together. He approached the trig, divided from the audience by the fencing, his steps heavy and focused. For this event the throwers faced the audience, their backs to the open field, and loosed the hammer backward over one shoulder. They used the best of three throws.

She didn’t know why she’d been so worried. Leith was nothing but centered.

Lifting the hammer up by the long end, the ball resting on the ground, he kicked his legs out, shifting to find the perfect stance. When he got it, he tilted the long hammer to one side and wrapped both hands around the end of the bar, pinky of one hand resting against the thumb of the other. He swung the ball out far to his right so his arms were angled low in front of him and the ball was in the grass. Knees slightly bent, he shifted his weight, heaved the hammer ball off the ground and swung the thing in a great arc in front of his body. It seemed to start slowly, almost too slowly, but using his tremendous power, the hammer looped once up and around his head. Momentum and strength brought it swooping back down in front. He kept it going, around and around and around his body. Faster and faster with every turn, every second. His face reddened, his features flat with exertion.

Each loop around was punched with a crazy power that pulled out every line in every muscle of his arms. Just when it seemed like the hammer movement would carry him off his feet, he brought it across his left shoulder and . . . released.

Leith roared, fists slapping to his sides.

Jen held her breath.

The ball sailed back and back over the empty space, looking far too heavy and strange to ever be airborne. It landed hard in the grass and a kilted judge jogged over to give it a measure, but it was clear to everyone in attendance that he’d blown away all the other competitors.

Only then did Leith swivel around, and it was to great applause, perhaps none louder than Duncan’s masculine grunts of “Yeah! Yeah!”

The judge called out a distance to the announcer, who said into the microphone, “Seventy-three feet, one and a quarter inches.” As a new round of cheers went up, Leith finally smiled, his shoulders dropping in obvious relief. In clear pride. He melted into his group, and the other throwers pounded fists on his back.

Duncan threw one foot shorter than Leith on his first attempt, then six inches longer on his second.

Leith never beat his first hammer throw, but he also never stopped smiling or laughing. And Jen thought that the only time she’d ever seen him look happier was the night they’d first kissed, all those years and miles away.