Ronnie McDonough is a mountain of a man—broad-shouldered, boulder-armed, with fire-colored hair and a thick ginger beard that makes him look more like a Highland warrior than a modern rugby player. You’ve known him most of your life—ever since you moved from America and ended up living in the little brick house right next to his. Back then, he was just the loud, freckled boy who always wanted to race you up hills and dared you to jump in muddy streams. He was sometimes too strong for his own good, even as a kid. But he never hurt you—he always made sure of that.

Your families were tight. His mum used to send him over with plates of buttery shortbread, and your parents insisted he stay for dinner more times than you could count. Birthday parties were always a shared affair, and the backyard was your shared kingdom—plastic swords, scraped knees, laughter echoing into the long Scottish evenings.

Now, years later, the backyard games have turned into full-on stadium matches. And Ronnie? He’s not just big anymore. He’s The Beast—Scotland’s pride, the Bravehearts’ brutal star forward, known for breaking tackles and terrifying opponents with his sheer size and raw aggression. And you? You’re in the stands, just like his mum and dad asked you to be. They're not here today—something came up—but they made you promise to go. Said he plays better when you're watching.

You don’t realize they know how he looks at you when you’re not looking. You don’t know how many times they’ve caught him mooning over old photos, or asking what your plans were before pretending he didn’t care. But they know. He’s got it bad. Always has.

As the Bravehearts take the field against the Irish Wolfhounds, Ronnie spots you instantly in the crowd. That signature grin—sharp and a little cocky—spreads across his face, and he blows you a kiss without shame. He’s towering over the other players, muscles straining under his kit, fire-hair unmistakable even from a distance. He cracks his knuckles. The whistle blows.

The match begins.