Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (29 page)

“That’s not—here, take the banner.” John stumbled sideways to keep up with Ian, conscious his own father was watching in the background. “Please!”

“No,
you
take it!” Ian pushed the handle away. The top-heavy banner swayed hard, the cloth flapping into John’s face. “It’s your responsibility, your heritage.”

John turned to see Fergus sprinting up the pavement, the other spectators jeering and shaking their fists at his retreating figure.

Fuck my heritage.
John pitched the banner out of the path of the marchers, only to realize he’d thrown it at the feet of this father, sitting in the terrace front row with Nicole and Harry. He met Dad’s eyes for one shocked moment, whispered, “I’m sorry,” then took off.

As John ran, his stiff black shoes clamped his toes, their smooth soles sliding on the wet pavement. Behind him, the parade had descended into chaos, the drums beating out of time, the flutes sounding like strangled songbirds.

Fergus was out of sight now, but John kept going, hoping his boyfriend was headed for Ibrox subway station. It was his only hope. For all he knew, Fergus had caught a taxi and was far out of reach by now. But John had to try. He had to explain face to face.

As he tore around the corner onto the long road leading to the station, John narrowly avoided a nasty spill on a discarded shopping bag full of Wotsits. Far ahead through the drizzle, he saw the familiar flash of neon-green running shoes.

“Fergus!” he tried to shout, but had too little breath to spare.

He ran the last quarter-mile on pure adrenaline, finally staggering through the subway gate, nearly dropping his pass card.

The escalator was crammed, but as John reached the top, he thought he saw Fergus’s gray-hooded figure step off the bottom.

“Sorry,” John said as he pushed his way past anyone who looked like they wouldn’t tumble over. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

He practically leapt over an old woman near the bottom of the escalator, then hurtled down the corridor toward the Outer Circle platform.

It
was
him. “Fergus!” he called, voice cracking.

His boyfriend’s shoulders hunched at the sound, as if cringing from a blow. As John dashed toward him, Fergus spun around, scanning the platform for an escape route. But there was nowhere to go but the track itself.

“Leave me alone, John!” He backed away with long, wobbly strides.

“It’s not what it looks like,” John said as he closed the distance between them.

“It looks like Orange Order shite!” Fergus reached out as if to yank John’s collarette, then pulled back like it was toxic.

John glanced nervously at the people around them, then lowered his voice, hoping Fergus would follow suit. “Please, let me explain.”

“Your da made you do it? Is that your excuse?” His voice rattled with rage. “Are you such a wee bairn you can’t think for yourself?”

“I’m not! I do! Look, I’ll prove it.” John undid his jacket, but his gloved fingers couldn’t manage his shirt buttons. “Just a moment. I’m having a bit of—”

“What are you doing?” Fergus’s face was bright red now, his eyes brimming with tears. “All this time you’ve been lying to me. First today was your da’s birthday and then it’s the anti-anniversary. Then the other night you said you didn’t know who’d phoned when it was someone named Ian.”

“I’m sorry I lied,” John said as he tore off the gloves. “I wanted to tell you the truth, but I couldnae find the right time. Please forgive me.”

“
Forgive
you? I never want to see you again!”

“Please…” In full panic, John gripped the lapels of his shirt, ready to tear it open. “Let me show you—”

“You’ve shown me plenty!” Fergus spat. “You’ve shown me you’re nothing but a lying piece of Proddy scum!”

John’s head snapped back like he’d been punched in the jaw. He tried to speak, but the shock had stolen his breath. Paralyzed, he could only stare into Fergus’s eyes, which held more hate than John had ever seen in his father’s or even in Keith’s.

Two teenage boys in blue hoodies pushed past John, getting in Fergus’s face. “What the fuck’d you just say?” hurled the taller one. The shorter one, sporting a jagged scar that ran from his cheekbone up beneath his close-cropped hair, shoved Fergus’s shoulder and echoed the question.

The roar of an approaching train came from John’s right, where twin headlights appeared in the tunnel. The two thugs advanced, backing Fergus toward the edge of the platform. A woman screamed, and another shouted for the subway police.

John couldn’t wait for help. He seized both boys by their hoods and yanked them away from Fergus. The taller one threw up an elbow and bashed John’s mouth. His ears rang and he tasted blood, but he didn’t let go. Instead he backpedaled, taking them off balance, then slammed them both to the gray-tile floor.

As the train pulled next to the track, brakes squeaking, John loomed over the two lads, waving at his own chest. “’Mon, then!” he shouted, hoping to distract them from Fergus.

“Och, you want a doing, ya wee bam?” the bigger lad said as he got to his feet, pushing up his sleeves. He lunged, and when John tried to sidestep, the scar-faced one shoved him back.

“Leo, man, gonnae hold him for me.”

An arm closed around John’s neck. He struggled, wrenching from side to side. Scarface landed an off-center punch to his gut. Barely feeling the pain, John leaned his weight back on Leo and kicked up, keeping his knee and an outstretched foot between himself and his assailant. Leo tightened his grip, squeezing John’s windpipe.

“Stop!” Fergus shouted. “Leave him alone!”

Through watering eyes, John saw his boyfriend step closer, hands out, face full of fear. Beyond him, the subway train door slid open.

John pulled in enough air for one word. “Run!”

Fist raised, Scarface turned to Fergus, hesitating long enough for John to kick him in the balls.

Well, almost long enough. The hooligan looked down in time to dodge the blow, which deflected off his thigh. Snarling, he crashed his fist into John’s stomach, this time bang on target. Pain exploded through John, stealing what was left of his breath.

Then Scarface turned and lumbered toward Fergus.

Desperate now, John slammed the back of his head into Leo’s chin. The lad roared with pain and released him. John staggered forward, his vision swimming with stars. Just as Scarface reached out for the retreating Fergus, John felt himself collapse. With his last bit of strength, he turned his fall into a lunge, tackling Scarface around the legs.

An electronic trill sounded, signaling the train doors were closing. Fergus leaped back into the waiting car.

Scarface roared and kicked out, his boot heel smashing John’s brow, but John clung on through the pain. A police whistle pierced the air as the train pulled away with a metallic groan.

John let go at last. The last thing he saw before blood filled his eyes was Fergus’s face floating away, blurred by glass and tears.

O
BAN
,
THE
S
EAFOOD
Capital of Scotland—it’s closer than you think!

Buchanan Galleries: Where It’s At

Glasgow Kelvin College…for Progression

Fergus stared up at the adverts lining the subway car wall, memorizing and analyzing their designs as if his sanity depending on it. He had to focus on something, anything, to blot out the vision of John’s smiling face as he marched in that parade.

He’d looked so…fucking…proud. That wasn’t the face of a son manipulated by guilt into pleasing his father. It was the face of a bigot.

How naive Fergus had been, to think this country’s cancer would never touch him. To think everyone he’d meet in twenty-first century Glasgow, especially in the gay community, would be immune to sectarian hate. To think he’d never fall in love with a Prod.

It finally made sense, the way John had reacted to his Celtic blanket, first with shock, then impotence. He probably couldn’t stomach the sight of the green-and-white shamrock logo, proof of Fergus’s Catholicism.

But John hadn’t left that night. He’d stayed, and returned, and treated Fergus with such sweetness. He must have had some greater plan, must have relished how he would someday hurt Fergus and strike a blow for his side. Or had John simply been using him to pull off this charity match, to make himself look good and further his own political ambitions? Otherwise his work with New Shores made no sense.

Reeling with confusion, Fergus gripped the edge of the seat so hard he felt the pattern of the fabric imprint on his skin. Like the signs and maps and everything else in this subway system, it was predominantly orange.

Like this city.

He got off at St. George’s Cross station and walked home, willing one foot in front of the other through the rain, which was now barely a drizzle. He wished the clouds would open up again, so his face could have an excuse to be soaked. His lungs and eyes and throat burned with the need to cry, but he held it in. He would not collapse, not this time, not until he was alone.

Yet when Fergus reached his flat and stepped into the kitchen where John had made him blueberry pancakes, the tears didn’t come. When he entered his room and saw the bed where they’d slept entwined, the tears didn’t come.

He wandered back out into the living room and opened the door to the balcony. But he couldn’t step out onto the place where he’d first kissed John. Maybe he’d never step out there again.

Leaving the door open to the mist, Fergus went to the sofa and sat on the edge of the black leather cushion. For a long time, he didn’t move, could barely think, his mind stuck on a new quartet of words:

My life is empty.

Some part of him knew that wasn’t true. John wasn’t the only thing he had. But he’d infiltrated every corner of Fergus’s existence—his home, his team, his friends, even his work. Fergus had begun to dream of partnering with John one day to build a better world.

It was all a lie. Every word, every smile, every kiss, every touch. John hated what Fergus was.

And Fergus, he had to admit, hated what John was. He’d thought he was above the old prejudices, but his gut had curdled in loathing at the sight of the marchers, even at the sight of Ibrox Stadium. He’d called John a lying piece of—

Oh God.

Then he’d left John on the subway platform to take the blows meant for himself.

Fergus slumped over, put his face in his hands…

…and finally cried.

= = =

“I tried to hand over the banner,” John told his dad, who was sitting beside him in the very place John had expected to end up today, though for different reasons.

The emergency physicians at Southern General had checked him for a concussion (negative) and a broken rib (positive), then stitched up his busted lip. Now he was impatiently awaiting discharge, balancing an ice pack on each bruised knee and holding a third to his left eye. All he wanted was to get home—get anywhere alone—so he could phone Fergus. His flurry of frantic texts had thus far gone unanswered.

“You didn’t have to throw it on the ground!” His father clutched John’s bloodstained orange collarette with both hands, as if it would try to escape. “And you were lucky you weren’t arrested for that row in the subway station.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it. Those two cunts started the whole thing. I only pulled them off Fergus. Everyone could see that, including the CCTV cameras.”

“Well, you’ll be paying for the banner you ruined.”

“Fine. It’s just a stupid piece of cloth. I’m more worried about the
relationship
I ruined.” He had to find Fergus and explain it all properly. He couldn’t lose him. He
couldn’t
.

“Keep your voice down.” Dad looked around the crowded discharge area. “No one has to know he was your—no one has to know. There’s always rabble rousers at these parades, so we’ll say your temper got the best of you and you had to hunt down that Fenian bastard.”

“I won’t call Fergus that, and I won’t disavow him. I’m not a coward.”

“This isn’t about fear. It’s about self-protection.”

“Do you even know the difference anymore?”

“In the real world, there
is
a difference. Not everyone accepts you the way I do.”

“If you truly accepted me, you wouldn’t care Fergus is Catholic any more than you care he’s a man.”

“It’s not the same.” His father lowered his voice. “You can’t choose not to be gay. He can choose not to be Catholic.”

“They don’t see it that way, Dad. Fergus doesn’t go to Mass, and he disagrees with the Pope on loads of things, but he’s still Catholic. It’s what he is and what he’ll always be.”

“Because he was indoctrinated into a mindless, freedom-hating way of life. The Church makes them think they’ve got no choice. It makes them forget they’re individuals.”

“Look, I don’t fully grasp his devotion either, but I do accept it. I accept
him
.” John lowered the ice pack and met his father’s eyes with both of his own. “And I love him.”

Dad sighed and sat back in his seat, resting the back of his head against the wall. After a long moment, he said, “They’ve got ways, you know.”

John’s face was throbbing so hard, he couldn’t think. “Who’s got ways? Ways for what?”

“I never told anyone this, but when I was your age, I loved a Catholic lass. She was…” His lips pursed as he searched for the right word.

“Beautiful?” John offered.

His father’s deep blue eyes went tender. “To me she was. She’d open her heart to anyone, but there was a mystery inside her I could never solve. She enchanted me.” He looked at John again. “That’s what I mean when I say they’ve got ways. They don’t make sense the way we make sense. That’s why they’re hard to resist.”

They’re the Other
, John thought, harkening back to some philosophy text he’d read that year.

“But we must resist their charms,” Dad continued. “
You
must. Or you’ll never know happiness.”