Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (16 page)

Please be happy, Fergus,
Evan’s letter had read.
You of all people deserve it.

He knocked on the bathroom door, though he was the one inside. “John, you ready yet?”

“No! Five minutes.”

“You said that five minutes ago. And five minutes before that.” They’d thought it romantic to change clothes in separate rooms so they could surprise each other, but Fergus was getting restless. “There’s more light in here, if you want to swap. I promise I’ll avert my eyes until you say.”

“I cannae move. I’ve got it all…sorted, I think.” John’s voice had lost its characteristic confidence. “Maybe ten more minutes?”

“Oh, come on.” Fergus opened the door and went into the hotel room. John was sitting in his dress shirt, tie, unbuttoned waistcoat, and kilt, with one leg extended on the bed in front of him. He seemed to be peering at his phone screen.

“What’s wrong?” Fergus asked him.

John held up a silencing finger as a calm, tinny male voice came from his phone: “Insert half a knot for tension, then immediately twist the laces one…two…three times.”

John tossed the phone aside. “These fucking shoes. I cannae seem to—” His words stopped as he saw Fergus. “My God, you look incredible.”

Fergus’s heart flipped. “And you will too, as soon as we see to those laces. Stand up.”

John slid off the bed with a sigh. “I wanted to look perfect when you first saw me. Now it’s all ruined. We might as well shed these clothes and give the whole event a miss, maybe stay in and order pizza.”

“Careful, I might take you up on that offer.” Fergus knelt in front of him and unwound the ghillie brogues’ black laces from where they’d fallen loose at John’s left ankle. “Have you already met many people who’ll be there tonight?”

“Hardly anyone. That’s what makes it an exciting opportunity, don’t you think?”

“Hm.” Fergus counted to six under his breath, one for each twist of the laces—not the mere three times the video had recommended—before winding them carefully about John’s lower calf. “I suppose.”

John started buttoning his waistcoat. “Not a fan of meeting strangers? Does it give you the flutters?”

“It doesn’t make me nervous, just—I don’t know, tired. After a big party, I tend to crawl into my cave to recharge.”

“Is there room in that cave for me?”

“Exactly enough room for you.” Fergus smiled as he tied John’s laces in a perfectly centered bow at the front of his shin, adjusted their tassels, then straightened the fold of his cream-colored hose.

John examined the results, holding out his leg and waggling his foot. “Yaldy!”

“Now keep still while I do the other.” He unwound, then rewound the laces about John’s calf. “This reminds me of the day we met, when you knelt in front of me to put your business card in my sock.”

“Did I?” John said with mock innocence. “I don’t recall.”

“I recalled it, all week long before our first date. Every time I pictured you looking up at me, your hand on my leg, saying ‘How’s that, then?’, I’d get so fucking hard in an instant.”

John gave a sultry chuckle. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Fergus finished tying John’s laces into a bow. “Where’s your
sgian dubh
?”

“What’s that? Sounds filthy.”

“The wee knife that tucks into your sock.”

“Oh, that.” He reached up into his sleeve and withdrew the blade. “I thought it was for protection.”

Unsure if John was joking, Fergus just rolled his eyes. He inserted the knife inside the outer edge of John’s right hose, then straightened his kilt pin. It took every ounce of self-control not to run his fingers over the bare knee in front of him—or for that matter, put his head up under the kilt and suck everything he found there.

Instead he simply took John’s hand, kissed it, and said, “All right, go and see.”

John hurried into the bathroom, grabbing his tuxedo jacket from the foot of the bed where it had been tossed, a sight that gave Fergus indigestion just imagining the wrinkles.

“You’re a shoelace god!” John exclaimed from behind the door. Then he reappeared wearing the jacket. “How do I look? Be honest and fix whatever needs it.”

It was a struggle to find fault with such a vision in scarlet and black. The way John’s broad chest and shoulders filled out the black dress shirt, high-button waistcoat, and Argyll jacket made Fergus’s palms tingle. Even the poshest clothes couldn’t disguise John’s brawny masculinity; in fact, they accentuated it.

John’s silky, dark-brown hair still swept low on his forehead, but a bit of product kept the strands all pointing more or less in the same direction. That touch of restraint made Fergus want to run his fingers through it even more than usual.

He regarded the kilt, a plaid that complimented John’s striking scarlet tie. It had been well fitted, hanging just above mid-knee.

“Could be a wee bit more snug here.” Fergus stepped close to John, reaching around and under the jacket to tighten the strap at the back of the waistcoat. John rested his hands on Fergus’s shoulders. To keep this maneuver from becoming a full embrace—and then much more—Fergus asked, “What made you choose the Royal Stewart tartan?”

“Mm,” John said, staring at Fergus’s mouth. Then he blinked. “I mean, erm, I like red?”

“Royal Stewart’s the Queen’s tartan. Thought maybe you were a big fan of Her Majesty.”

“What about yours?” John asked. “Is this the Taylor tartan?”

“No, the Taylor is a bit poncey, to be honest. It’s sort of pale green with lavender accents.” Fergus let go of John and smoothed the front of his own blue, green, and black kilt. “This is one of about a hundred tartans for the Campbells—my mother’s clan. It’s the one that best matched my sister-in-law’s bridesmaids’ dresses.”

“Fashion before tradition. I see.” John tugged his own waistcoat. “This feels better, thanks. Anything else?”

“One last bit. This hangs”—Fergus shifted the black dress sporran to the center—“there.”

John’s eyes widened as the pouch settled over his groin. “That will take some getting used to.”

“You can move it to the side when the dancing starts.”

“Thank God.” He adjusted Fergus’s tie, then brushed his fingers down the deep green silk. “I need everything to stay in working order tonight.”

At the thought of John’s “everything” moving inside him for the first time, Fergus’s own sporran felt suddenly heavy. He leaned over and gave John a soft but promising kiss. “Me too.”

= = =

Fergus’s desire grew no weaker during the cocktail hour. Mingling with the other guests in the hotel’s lush reception area, John converted one stranger after another into friends and allies. With his earnest charm and bold humor—combined with those dazzling brown eyes—John needed to put on no airs to impress these well-heeled philanthropists. For Fergus, watching John work the room was a complete turn-on.

Not that he merely stood there drooling. John’s contagious confidence soon had Fergus “selling” the friendly match almost as well as he did. At least with this charity-minded crowd, Fergus could emphasize the good to be done with the funds they’d raise, rather than tout the spectacle of an LGBT football club in itself. He was still opposed to “selling the gay” like John wanted.

“Gillian, there you are at last!” John reached out to clasp the hand of a petite middle-aged blonde. “You look absolutely stunning tonight.”

“And you, dressed to the nines.” As she kissed John’s cheek, she spied Fergus. “Ah, who is this?”

“None other than Fergus Taylor, the Woodstoun Warriors captain. And, incidentally, my boyfriend.”

Boyfriend?
Dumbfounded, Fergus could only blink at John as Gillian exclaimed, “The famous Fergus! So happy to meet you.”

“Y—yes, you too,” he stammered, the
b
word taking a wrecking ball to his composure. “I think your—erm, that what you’re doing is…great.” So much for being an eloquent spokesman for the team. “For the asylum seekers, I mean.”

“Thank you ever so much for agreeing to play this charity match. Now that you’ve got an opponent and a range of dates, all we need is the place.”

John nodded. “Charlotte and the Morningside manager are sorting that. We might even hear tonight.”

Fergus said, “I’d love to get one of the junior-football venues like Lochburn or even Newlandsfield. Of course, there’s no way we’d fill Newlandsfield. It seats what, four thousand?”

“Something like that.” John exchanged a glance with his boss.

“We want the announcement to make a big splash to spur early ticket sales,” Gillian said. “Imagine the buzz we’ll create if we can announce within a week that we’re half sold out.”

“You must be joking.” Fergus gave a nervous laugh. “How could we sell even half of Lochburn in a week? That’d be nine hundred tickets. The attendance at this year’s amateur cup final—the biggest match of the year—was only seven hundred.”

John and Gillian exchanged another glance, raising their brows as they sipped their drinks in unison. Fergus suspected they weren’t thrilled with his pessimism. “I’ll contact the Morningside captain,” he offered. “We’ll do a joint announcement to the press.”

“No, that’s boring,” John said. “What about a video? That way people can share it if it’s cool. Which of course it will be.”

“Oh, I had an idea!” Gillian grabbed John’s arm. “Remember when the US Olympic Swim Team did a version of ‘Call Me Maybe’? Warriors could do something like that.”

Fergus cringed at the image of his players camping it up to a cheesy pop tune. “Sounds silly.”

“This is Glasgow,” John said. “Silly is the norm. Besides, if your video goes viral, you’ll get international exposure. People all over the world will want to buy your merchandise.”

“We’re a poor wee amateur football club. We haven’t got merchandise.”

“Right.” John turned to Gillian. “Put that on our list of to-dos.”

Fergus felt the nape of his neck turn cold with sweat. Hype. Buzz. Merchandise. Attention.

Exposure.

He reminded himself that this match wasn’t about all that. Those aspects that made him feel sick with nerves were just a means to an end, necessary evils to achieve the greater good.

“I’ve an idea.” Seeing their hopeful looks, Fergus cleared his throat before continuing. “Could one of the asylum seekers come and talk to the team during practice? If it wouldn’t be an invasion of privacy, of course. It’d inspire us all, remind us why we’re doing this event.”

John gazed up at him. “Fergus, that’s a beautiful idea.”

And just like that, Fergus’s neck went from cold to warm.

“I agree,” Gillian said, “and I know just the person to do it. I’ll go and give her a call now.” She squeezed John’s arm as she departed. “He’s cute!”

A tinkling bell signaled the start of dinner.

“Finally!” John said. “I’m starving for food that doesn’t come on toothpicks.” He checked their name cards, then slipped his hand inside Fergus’s elbow. “Will you escort me to table twenty-three, my noble Highlander?”

They entered the grand ballroom and found their seats at a large round table with eight other people. All were strangers, but John soon remedied that.

Later, as their dinner plates were cleared, Fergus took advantage of the conversational lull and his wine-weakened inhibitions. An important matter had been swirling through his mind this last hour.

He leaned close to John. “So you’re calling me your boyfriend now?” he murmured, then took a sip of pinot noir to cover his nerves.

“Aye,” John said. “Seemed more polite than calling you ‘the man whose cock I live to suck.’”

Fergus choked on his wine, dribbling half a mouthful down his chin.

John calmly patted his back to soothe his coughing. “So ‘boyfriend’ is all right, then?”

Through his teary eyes, Fergus could see John’s hopeful smile. He nodded.

“Good, now let’s tidy you up.” John swiped his napkin over Fergus’s chin. “Crikey, my boyfriend’s embarrassing me in front of Glasgow’s finest citizens.”

Fergus took a sip of water, readying a comeback. Before he could speak, his phone buzzed inside his sporran. John’s beeped at the same time. They pulled out their devices to see a text from Charlotte, sent to them both:

The match is set! Sunday, 20 July, Firhill Stadium. :)

“Yes!” John slapped his hand on the table. “Now we can tell everyone we meet tonight.”

Fergus stared at the screen, his blood going as cold as the water he’d just swallowed. “Firhill Stadium?” he whispered. The gargantuan home of Premier League team Partick Thistle?

There had to be some mistake. Perhaps Charlotte meant Firhill
Complex
, the sport facility where the Warriors hosted home matches. But John wouldn’t be rejoicing over such a tiny venue.

“I didn’t think the stadium would be available on short notice,” John said. “They must’ve had a cancellation.”

Fergus closed his eyes and fought to breathe, imagining the cavernous arena engulfing his team and their handful of fans. Making them look so very small.

At the other end of the ballroom, someone tapped the podium’s microphone. “Good evening,” said a man with a deep voice.

John nudged Fergus. “Time for dull speeches. That’s the price we pay for cake.” He shut off his phone and tucked it back into his sporran. “Firhill!” he added with a double fist-pump.

It was just now sinking in that John wasn’t surprised. “Wait,” Fergus said. “You knew that was one of the options?”

“It was my idea,” John whispered. “And the twentieth is perfect, as it’s Glasgow Pride weekend. The city will be chockablock with fun-seeking gays.”

“But Firhill Stadium seats over ten thousand.” Fergus’s throat grew tight just saying the number.

“I know. Imagine all those people cheering for you.”

“There won’t
be
that many people, not by a quarter.” He lowered his voice as the others at their table glanced at him. “We’ll look absurd. Partick Thistle themselves rarely fill half the stadium, and they’re in the Premier League.”

“So?”

“We’re amateurs, John. The attendance at this year’s cup final was only—”

“Seven hundred, aye. You told me. Now wheesht.” John tapped Fergus’s lips to silence him. “The man’s speaking.” He turned away to face the podium.