Starlight (12 page)

“Come on. Let’s see this if we’re going to see it.”

Polly led the women to the edge of the pitch, where another dozen people had gathered. She recognized wives and girlfriends, fathers and mothers. A sense of belonging eased over her once again.

When Alex strode onto the slippery, half-frozen pitch, her peace evaporated. In its place pulsed a tension that she hadn’t expected. What if he didn’t do well?

What if he did?

Luckily, he wound up being on the same team as Les and Hamish. Perhaps that would keep Connie from teasing her anymore. But probably not. In their neighborhood, teasing was a prime pastime.

Justine bounced once on the balls of her feet,
clinging to Polly’s arm. “So exciting. The winter has been so dull.”

Perhaps that also accounted for some of the excitement. It was simply good to be outdoors again. They spent so much time cooped up in noisy factories and cramped tenements. Now the afternoon was quiet except for the happy talk of those standing around her. All was expectation and eagerness.

A retired riveter called Jules MacDonald took his position as referee. At his signal, two players walked toward the center of the pitch. The battered round football waited there. Its dirty stitched leather had seen better days, but it would serve for this test of manly wills. Polly stamped the cold out of her feet, locating where Alex had taken his position at the right rear of the pitch. It was a good place for a beginner, because few men could attack using their left foot to strike the ball. He could certainly survive the next ninety minutes, although his chances of eating muddy turf were diminished.

The whistle sounded.

Cheers shot out from the sidelines. More people had arrived, bringing the total to nigh on fifty. Polly grinned as the pace of play picked up and good-natured insults began to fly.

“Oooh, Walt’s in good form,” Connie said of her husband.

And he was. Walt tore up the right wing toward the opposing goal. His usual slouched expression had transformed into one of concentration. He dribbled the ball past the first defender, then another.
His shot on goal was deflected. The stout goalkeeper shouted at his players to resume their positions.

Play continued for several minutes before Alex tasted any hint of action. But when it happened . . . A quick-footed attacker swerved past Les and collided straight into Alex. Both fell to the ground amid groans of sympathy from the crowd. Polly winced.

Alex elbowed his opponent in the chest and scampered to his feet.

“He must be running on pure stubbornness,” Connie said.

Agnes grinned. “It’s not like he knows what he’s doing, the poor dear.”

They weren’t wrong. Although Alex was quickly stripped of the ball, he put on a fantastic chase. Sweat slicked his face and neck. Exertion darkened his skin. Every quick exhale became a white plume in the chilly air.

That initial contact marked how he continued to play. All muscle. No skill. Polly couldn’t help but admire his tenacity. Unlike what he must be like while studying or teaching or tabulating accounts, he was a fighter now. His body was the instrument, not his intellect, and he overcame every opportunity to wade into the fray.

Les lost the ball, which sailed past their keeper and through twin goalposts.

“Damn,” Connie whispered. “We’re one down.”

Justine elbowed Polly. “Hamish looks upset.”

Sure enough, Hamish was screaming at Les and another player, who waved a dismissive hand. Alex stepped in to keep Hamish from going after his teammate.
For a moment it looked as if Hamish would pop the mill master in his grim, determined mouth, but Polly was able to breathe again when the men parted and play resumed.

Once again, Alex’s team was on the back foot. They bunched too quickly along the defensive line, leaving a gap for another attack. This time the keeper was able to deflect the ball, but the damage had been done. Polly could almost feel morale cool and collapse.

Their team was down by three when halftime was called. After switching sides, the lopsided battle forged on. Alex was on the near side now, where Polly could better read his expressions. More resolve. His sandy brows dipped low on a frown. He licked his lower lip and clapped his hands to rally the defense.

“Come on now, men. We have this. Buck up and fight these bastards!”

A rush of hot admiration whisked through Polly’s veins.
Do that again
.

Alex even grinned at Hamish, apparently enjoying the hard competition. “Don’t tell me you’re tired, Nyman. Would bust your pride something fierce if I’m still standing while you’re flat on the ground.”

“Piss off, Christie. You’ll get yours!”

Justine stilled. Agnes gasped. Polly’s knees went soft and wobbly.

Yes, Alex was a different sort of man, but he was still a man. He only grinned. “Not until we bury these smug gents up to their eyeballs.”

Hamish clapped his hands, too. “Let’s go, boys. You heard the master.”

The air was charged with potent energy. Alex
looked ready to eat the competition for an afternoon snack. Teeth bared, he bent over and braced his hands against his thighs. Blue-and-white fabric stretched across his back.

“Here comes Lennox again,” Justine said.

She jerked her eyes away from Alex. “Is that his name? The little quick one?”

“That’s right. He’s Anne-Margaret Lennox’s youngest boy. You didn’t recognize him?”

As the lad ripped past the midfield line, Polly tried to get a good look. He was just too fast. She hadn’t seen Paddy Lennox in at least ten years, not since his da had gone to prison for killing a man. After that, the family disappeared from good company. Even in poverty, her people had lines that would not be crossed.

Young Paddy had nearly made it past Les when he tripped. Polly didn’t see exactly how it happened, only that he flew through the air and landed hard against the unforgiving ground.

How it happened didn’t matter. Tempers made short by the unbalanced play sparked to life. Les, who stood over young Lennox, was the first to be mobbed with accusations of having tripped the lad. He was jumped by two of Lennox’s side. Then Hamish barreled into the skirmish.

And to Polly’s surprise, Alex Christie—covered in mud and sweat—joined in, too.

Alex
distinctly remembered the last time he’d thrown a punch. On his wedding day. Josiah Todd had deserved his head cut from his body, but a crack across his mocking mouth had made the point:
Mamie was Alex’s wife, and Josiah would have nothing more to do with her.

Bloody hell, it still felt good. Just cutting loose.

He’d seen Les trip the fast boy, just as he’d clearly seen a dozen other bad calls. None of it mattered. He only knew that supporting Les, Hamish, and the men in blue-and-white stripes was the right thing to do. They were his teammates.

And after a rough hour of intense physical exertion, all the while losing in front of Polly Gowan, he was in the mood to bloody a few noses.

He hauled a skinny man off Hamish, then spun him away. He’d barely time to offer Les a hand up when he was jumped from behind. One minute standing . . . the next minute knee-deep in the mud. Slippery grass slid beneath Alex’s palms. A fist connected with the back of his skull. The blows kept coming. He grabbed his attacker’s hand, using the leverage of his low position to hurl him to the ground.

Alex used the moment’s distraction to jump to his feet. He spun into the crack of another punch—this one to his cheekbone. That blaze of hot, red fire freed him from any further niceties. He twisted and dodged, facing his opponent behind raised fists. Two quick jabs came to nothing, but he landed a third against the man’s kidney. The punch Alex took to the gut barely registered, so fast and hard did his blood beat. His uppercut snapped back the other player’s head and sent him staggering.

Alex rode high on the rush and flow of the fight. The whistle blew again and again. People at the edge of the playing field barged forward. Men were
restrained. Alex turned at the feel of a hand on his shoulder, only to find Hamish standing there.

“Enough for now, Christie, unless we want to spend the night locked up.”

“Until the next time then.” Alex certainly couldn’t afford to be caught by the authorities.

Les, too, arrived to offer his thanks. “Wouldn’t have thought a man like you had it in you, friend.”

Alex spat blood and wiped his lips. “Maybe I like surprising people.”

“Now if only you could learn to dribble and pass,” Les said with a laugh.

They turned to walk off the pitch, but another Scotsman wearing blue and white stopped Alex with a hushed call. “Mr. Christie, a moment?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I’m Walt Nells, sir. My wife, Connie, works your looms.”

“I know Constance, yes. What can I do for you? Other than give you better cover next time.”

Walt smiled, but the reaction was fleeting. “Sir, there’s something you should know about what happened at the mill.”

“Oh?”

“I didn’t want to share it with Polly Gowan because I know her. She’d go off half-cocked.” He glanced toward where Polly waited with the other women. “I work at Gallagher’s Shipyard. Different men frequent those pubs down by the docks—with different information than she’d be able to find here in Calton.”

“What sort of information?”

“Just what you’d need to know to solve your
mystery. Please don’t make me say much more, Mr. Christie. It’s a tricky spot. I don’t want to be labeled a snitch, but neither do I want my wife to lose her job. Our family needs the money.”

“How many children do you have?” Alex found himself unaccountably curious. With every passing hour, they were becoming people. Names first. Then grins and the sounds of voices and the quiet details of their lives. He might regret that closeness if hard decisions came down the line, but he hadn’t changed so much as to become completely insensitive.

“Two, sir. Girls too little to work the factory.”

Young, then. Under five or so. Walt looked barely old enough to shave, despite his burly frame. “Just a pub and a name, Nells. Can you give me that?”

“Jack Findley at Old Peter’s on the Clyde.”

“I won’t forget this. Thank you.”

“Just . . . keep Polly safe. We need her more than you could know.”

Left to ponder the implications of that remark, Alex turned—and walked right into a wall. That’s what it felt like. Sudden loss of momentum. Bright shots of pain. The strike of a fist landed dead center of his chest. The world spun backward.

When the spots cleared from his eyes, he blinked and coughed. “What in God’s name happened?”

Les knelt over him, as did Polly Gowan. “A bruiser named Kilgore,” Les said. “He didn’t take kindly to you hitting his brother.”

“Apparently not.”

Alex slumped against the ground, with the wet, cold grass as his pillow.

“Come on, master.” Les tugged on his arm. “Fun’s over.”

Polly said nothing as she helped Les lift him from the soggy ground. Alex felt every bone in his body, and all of them protested. When he next focused, he found himself in a darkened room where several of his teammates chattered with a good-natured spirit. He could even make out members of the opposing team, greeting one another while exaggerating the afternoon’s events.

Alex pushed into a sitting position. A wince revealed yet another injury across his cheekbone.

Polly slipped into the booth next to him. She carried two steaming mugs of coffee. “This will help.”

“Where are we?”

“Idle Michael’s. He opened the pub for us after the brawl, to get something warm in the men before they head home.”

“Idle Michael?”

She smiled. “Doesn’t sound like he’d make a very reliable innkeeper, but he’s a good man. Still going strong at sixty.”

Alex reached for his mug. Warmth seeped through earthenware, instantly relaxing the tension in his arms. His first sip, however, caught him by surprise. “What is that?”

“Just some whiskey. You don’t like it?” Eyes made smoky in the dim lighting still glittered with laughter. Another tiny dare.

“No, I like it just fine.” He took a heftier drink. “Women are allowed in the pubs?”

“Let’s just say I’m allowed in this one. My da’s
rules are a lot more important to me than anyone else’s.”

The comfort of the small tavern and the heady warmth of the whiskey-doused coffee eased Alex’s pain. He settled gingerly against the booth, sinking into worn leather.

Her brows drew together. “Are you badly hurt?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Without ceremony, she swept the hair back from his nape and whistled. Alex was caught between surprise, an acute awareness of her gently probing fingertips, and pain. “That’s a nasty one,” she said. “And I know you took a bruiser to the chest. Come on. Bring your coffee.”

She helped him out of the booth.

“Hey, master.” Les held a bottle of whiskey by its neck. “How’s your face?”

“Hurts like hell,” Alex replied evenly. “How’s your arse?”