Page 13 of The Highland Game

I find him in the small office behind the bar, doing some paperwork. Literal paperwork. Sometimes I think he’s allergic to anything with a power button.

He looks up, faint lines of exhaustion framing his green eyes and a slight tremor in his hands betraying itself as he sets down his pen. He’s always been the strongest man I know—my rock. But rocks wear down eventually, don’t they? Which scares me more than I like to admit to myself.

“How’d it go at the doctor’s?” I perch on the edge of his desk. “I still wish you’d let me come with you.”

Da waves a dismissive hand. “Och, I’m a grown man, Maisie. I can handle a wee doctor’s appointment on my own.”

I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to point out that he’s been putting off this “wee appointment” for months. “So, what did they say?”

He sighs, leaning back. “Well, the doc reckons it might be rheumatoid arthritis. She wants to do some more tests to be sure.”

“Rheumatoid arthritis?” It’s a relief to finally have a name for what’s been plaguing Da, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means I’m getting old,” Da says with a wry smile. “But it’s nothing to fash yourself about. Once they’ve got the diagnosis confirmed, there’s medication I can take to ease some of the symptoms.”

I nod, trying to process this information. “And . . . maybe there should also be some lifestyle changes? Did the GP talk about slowing down at all? Resting more?”

Da picks his pen back up and fiddles with it. “Well, she might have said something about that—about ‘recognising my physical limitations’—but I reckon once the medication is doing its job, I’ll be just fine.”

I see an opening and decide to take it. “Maybe this is a good time to think about hiring some extra help? It’d take some of the pressure off you, and⁠—”

“Maisie,” Da cuts me off, his tone sharp. “I’ve been running this pub for longer than you’ve been alive. A little arthritis isn’t going to stop me.”

“I know, Da, but⁠—”

“But nothing. We’ve managed fine until now. We don’t need to be wasting money on additional staff.”

My frustration bubbles up. Our tiny team just isn’t enough. A couple of chefs covering evening meals between them. One extra pair of hands behind the bar on weekends. And a cleaner coming in only a few hours a week. “It’s not a waste if it helps you, Da. And it’s not just about you. The pub⁠—”

“The pub”—Da’s voice rises—“is my responsibility. I’m the manager here, Maisie, not you.”

I bite my lip, hard. The urge to argue with him is strong but I swallow it down. “I’m only trying to help,” I say eventually, my voice quiet.

Da’s expression softens. “I know. But I’ve got this under control. You don’t need to worry.”

But I do worry. I worry every time I see him wince as he lifts a crate. Every time I catch him massaging his hands when he thinks no one’s looking. Every time I have to cover for him because he’s too proud to admit he needs a break.

“All right, Da.” I stand. “Just . . . promise me you’ll think about it? Please?”

He’s already turning back to his paperwork. “Aye, I’ll think about it.”

I leave the office, closing the door behind me, and rest my elbows on the bar, where I drum my fingers on the well-worn surface as though that might drum some sense into him by proxy. I love my Da, I really do. But sometimes he can drive me absolutely mad.

Right, tea. A good cuppa can solve everything, or at least that’s what my maw always used to say. She’s been gone eight years now but her wisdom lives on.

I climb the stairs to the flat and, once inside, make straight for the kettle. As it boils, I replay the morning’s events in my head. Most of the time Jamie had been his usual irritating self—utterly insufferable—but there had been a moment when he’d apologised to me and actually seemed sincere about it. He’d even complimented my hair. And then, just seconds later, he’d delivered that cutting remark about me looking like a Smurf. Talk about emotional whiplash.

Besides, Smurfs have blue skin, not blue hair. In fact, Smurfette is a bloody blonde!

I pull down a mug, toss in a tea bag, top it with steaming water, then add a splash of milk. Ugh, men and their defences. Jamie is all smug one-liners, Da all unbending stubbornness. Honestly, how do they not wear themselves out? Just being around them is exhausting.

Through in the living room, I curl up on the sofa with my tea. I reckon I could do with a dose of girl power right now, so I lift my phone and open the “Scottish Sirens” group chat—a sacred space for me and my two besties, Iona Stewart and Cat McIntyre.

Maisie

Ladies, I am having A DAY. Someone please distract me with some classic Siren shenanigans.

Within moments the words Cat is typing . . . appear.