Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (32 page)

= = =

“It’s over,” John told the bottom of his…fourth?…fifth?…brandy.

“You don’t know that.” Andrew gave John’s wrist a light slap. “Stop tilting the glass and peering into it. The bartender will think you’ve spied a floating midge.”

“Floating Midges,” John repeated blearily. “That’d be a brilliant name for a football club.”

“Yes, the mascot would have a charming costume. Six legs, two wings, and a proboscis to make all the ladies blush.”

John was so ashamed of the reason behind his breakup with Fergus, he’d sequestered himself from their mutual friends. Katie and Brodie had each phoned John Sunday night to offer comfort, but he’d told them very little.

Then last night, after four days of miserable solitude, he’d reached out to Lord Andrew Sunderland, of all people. His uni mate had invited him to have “a drink or six” at this obscure, rustic, yet oddly luxurious Glasgow pub, where John had just spilled his entire sordid story.

“Give Fergus time to cool down.” Andrew settled into the rounded corner of the red leather snug. “It’s not even been a week. My mum once went four hundred sixty-eight days without speaking to my father. Then again, they live in Scotland’s second largest inhabited castle, so perhaps she simply couldn’t find him.”

“If I stop contacting Fergus, he might think I don’t care.”

“If you
keep
contacting him, he’ll get a restraining order. Now show me these messages.” Andrew’s index finger made a
do-my-bidding
motion. “Let’s see where you’ve gone wrong.”

Desperate for advice, John slid closer to Andrew—carefully, so as not to jar his own sore rib—and took out his phone.

A notification alert showed a new email from Charlotte, with the subject
STARTING XI
.

“Ooh, the lineup for the charity match.” Thanks to the professional event planner New Shores had hired, John no longer had to be directly involved in the occasion, a fact that was no doubt a relief to Fergus.

John tapped the message, curious to see who the Warriors had moved into the remaining midfielder spot. He scanned the list, searching for names with “(M)” after them. There were Marcelo, Fergus, and Alisdair, along with—

John’s heart halted, then started to pound like a jackhammer. “Oh no,” he whispered. “Oh God, no.”

Andrew turned John’s hand so he could see the phone. “Who’s Evan Hollister? Was he one of the substitutes?”

“He was Fergus’s boyfriend.” The last word came out in a choked whisper.

“The one who ran off with another man to Holland?”

“Belgium.”

“Whatever. Are you sure this isn’t last season’s lineup? Perhaps Charlotte copied and pasted the wrong one by mistake.”

“My friend Katie Heath’s on the list. She just joined.” Every muscle in John’s body was seizing up. “Evan’s back in Glasgow. Why is Evan back in Glasgow?” He lifted the phone, ready to smash it against the table.

Andrew pried the device from John’s hand. “Please don’t break that, unless you’re looking for an excuse to upgrade.” He tapped the screen a few times, then started typing.

“What are you doing?”

“Sending this Katie Heath person a message: ‘Are Evan and Fergus together? Be honest.’”

“Wait—”

“It’s done.” Setting the phone in his own lap, Andrew nodded across the room to the bartender, who abandoned his current customer to pour another pair of brandies. “Poor John. You’re really mad about this fellow, aren’t you?”

“Desperately. It feels like every cell in my body wants to burst out from under my skin and run off to find him.”

“How sweet and grisly.” Andrew thanked the bartender as he delivered their drinks, then turned to John. “You’re not completely in the wrong here. It’s obvious Fergus looked up your address so he could stalk you on your own street. Worse, he went through your
phone
. That’s like reading your mind while you’re sleeping. It ought to be grounds for murder.”
 

John rubbed his swollen lip where the stitches had finally dissolved, and pondered Andrew’s point. He’d been so busy feeling guilty, he’d forgotten to feel violated.

“Ah. Talking of phones…” Andrew lifted John’s and checked the screen. “Katie says, ‘Crazy vibe between them. Can’t tell if it’s love or hate. Sorry. Will sleuth for you, babe.’ Then three exclamation points and a broken-heart emoji.”

John’s hands shook as they curled into fists. Was Evan the reason Fergus hadn’t returned John’s calls? Perhaps Fergus wasn’t still hurt he’d been lied to—perhaps he just didn’t
care
. Perhaps John had been nothing but a halftime interval to the main event of Fergus’s love life.

The adrenaline of helpless rage quickened John’s breath to near hyperventilation. “I need to hit something. Now.” He grabbed the edge of the table, wanting to flip it over, then hurl it through the window. His cracked rib protested with a shooting pain. “Ow! Fuck.”

“Listen, pet.” Andrew took one of John’s hands and rubbed it between his own, like a mother with a freezing child. “You know what my people do when we’re agitated?”

“What?”

“First, we take a deep breath.” Andrew demonstrated, lifting his palm along the front of his own diaphragm. John mimicked him, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through pursed lips. “Then we take a deep dram.” He drained his glass, and John followed suit. “Then we order a few peasants shot in the face.”

John choked and coughed. “What?!”

“I’m kidding. But there, I distracted you from your rampage, didn’t I?”

“Och.” John slumped onto the table, resting his cheek on the pillowy cotton coaster. “Fergus hates what I am. And he thinks I hate him, because of what
I
am.”

“To be fair, he probably thinks you hate him because you’re a member of an anti-Catholic hate group.”

“But I quit the Orange Order! The only reason I did the Walk was so I could protest it. If Fergus had waited ten more seconds, he would’ve seen for himself. And how can he think me a bigot when I work with New Shores?”

“Because New Shores helps your own kind. Persecuting gays is a completely different issue to sectarianism.” Andrew picked up John’s phone again. “Now let me see these messages and try to salvage the situation.”

While Andrew read silently, with a deepening frown, and the bartender delivered more drinks, John considered what his friend had just said. It fit with his own musings about Keith and their father, how they could support him while still hating Catholics. But there had to be a way to bring the two issues together. He had to show Fergus he cared about both.

An idea struck him so hard, he nearly spit out his brandy. “Drew, listen! What if the charity match could also be a statement against sectarianism?” John grabbed the edge of the table again, this time rattling it in excitement, ignoring the pain in his side. “We’ll call it a unity match! Both sides could wear kits incorporating green
and
orange. Maybe one team wears an orange shirt and green shorts, while the other does the opposite?”

“John—”

“Right, that’d be hard for players to spot teammates in their peripheral vision. What about shoes? Everyone could wear their own kit’s colors, but they’d each wear one orange boot and one green boot.”

“John—”

“It could be a surprise for Fergus! I’ll wait until the last planning meeting before the match. I’ll put together a massive PowerPoint—”

“Stop talking!” Andrew grabbed John’s earlobe and squeezed hard. “Have you learned nothing?”

“Ow!” John raised a hand to push him away, then remembered that one did
not
shove a lord, even one with a mere courtesy title. “What do you mean?”

“What do
you
mean? You want to ambush Fergus with another grand gesture? How did that work out for you the last time?”

John stopped squirming. “Poorly.”

“Correct.” Andrew let go of John’s ear. “Your idea is sweet, but not remotely realistic given your timeframe and the number of people involved. Worst of all, you’d dilute your message. It’d look like you’d lost interest in the refugees. ‘Oh, you were dragged from your home and beaten half to death in the street? That’s nice, but I gave my boyfriend frowny-face by carrying a banner.’” He mimed shoving someone aside. “‘Now out of my way, for I am contrite!’”

“Okay, okay. No surprises, no grand gestures.” John rubbed his sore ear. “Even though it’s what I’m best at.”

“What you’re best at, or what you personally enjoy?”

“Both. Like, our first morning together, I made Fergus blueberry pancakes. They’re his favorite.”

“Trust me, it’ll take more than pancakes to win him back.”

John ignored him, lost in masochistic memory. “I even went out to the market while he was still asleep. That way it could be a big surpri—oh, fuck me.”

“Sorry?”

John pounded his fist against his temple. “I left him. He woke up alone. He thought I abandoned him.” He remembered the rage-text, and the desperate kiss Fergus had given him in the kitchen. In John’s brandy-fogged brain, every piece fell into place at once. “My entire relationship with Fergus has been one surprise grand gesture after another. I mean, I booked Firhill fucking Stadium behind his back. God, I’m such a wee shit. Why am I such a wee shit?”

“I literally have no opinion on that.”

“I even asked him to top me. To be my first.”

“Oh?” Andrew’s bemusement turned to avid interest. “So tell me—”

“But I gave him no warning. I just ambushed him, all puppy-eyed, like, ‘Hey, fancy a go at my virgin bum a hundred meters from your mum’s house? No pressure or anything, but please please please I really really want to. PS: surprise! Hope you like it.’”

“And did he?”

“Did he like it?”

“Did he
do
it?”

“Aye,” John said. “Not that I gave him much choice.”

Andrew waved the issue away. “So tell me, did your life not completely and utterly change forever?”

“It did!” John’s mood swooped up at the memory. “It was like, like—”

“Like the world was suddenly in color and you hadn’t even noticed it’d been black-and-white?”

He clutched Andrew’s arm. “Oh my God, that’s exactly it! Everything looked different after. It was the sex version of 3-D glasses.”

Andrew laughed louder, but then his smile turned sad. “Do you feel any better now? Have I helped at all?”

“I feel worse, but you have helped, by making me see where I’ve gone wrong.” He sighed. “I’ve broken Warriors’ number-one rule.”

“Which is what?”

“‘No drama!’ It’s also rule five.”

John thought of that first day on the practice pitch. It seemed so long ago, yet he could still remember the pale blue football shirt Fergus had been wearing, how it brought out the lustrous gray in his hazel eyes, how the patches of sweat had made it translucent over his chest and—

Wait. John blinked hard and fast, trying to clear his brain so it could form an important connection, one that might save him.

The T-shirt.

“That’s it,” John whispered, then turned to Andrew. “Come home with me.”

T
HE
W
ARRIORS
WERE
falling to pieces.

One piece seemed so relieved to have Evan back, they acted as though he were captain again. When struggling with a drill, they looked to him instead of Fergus for guidance. When Fergus gave them instructions—even when he was merely conveying Charlotte’s notes—they’d check with Evan for confirmation.

Another piece seethed openly over Evan’s return. They ignored his calls to pass him the ball, body-checked him harder than necessary, and refused to help him up when he was on the ground.

The third and fourth pieces were Fergus and Evan themselves. Fergus had to give his ex-boyfriend credit: other than a handful of slip-ups, he’d kept his mouth shut and served humbly in the role of follower. Still, the daily sight of his former lover rattled Fergus to his core. It was like seeing a ghost.

All week, John’s messages had tangled Fergus’s thoughts. Each day, he promised himself he’d reply that evening after practice, if only to let John know he wasn’t ignoring him, that he needed more time to cool off. But then each night, the emotional toll of Evan’s presence left Fergus without the strength to reach out. Maybe he was being a coward, or maybe he just needed to heal.

In the midst of this madness, Fergus could barely concentrate on his own play, much less that of his teammates. With each flubbed pass and bottled strike, he felt the Warriors’ confidence in him wane. He soon became reckless, venting his frustration on the pitch.

Friday evening, in the middle of a 5v5 game, Fergus and Evan collided in the air contesting a header. They crashed to the ground, limbs tangled. Instead of carefully extracting himself, Fergus yanked his legs away from Evan like he was on fire.

Evan cried out in pain and rolled over, holding his thigh. Duncan was by his side in an instant.

“Fuck’s wrong with you?” the striker bellowed at Fergus. “You want to hurt our best player?”

Fergus rubbed his own aching knee, resisting the urge to comment on Duncan’s hero-worship. Last year Evan had recruited and mentored the lad through his first season. Next to Fergus, Duncan had been the most devastated at their captain’s desertion.

Liam stomped over, showing no such empathy. “Fergus won the ball before they ever went up for that header. If this was a match, Evan would get a yellow card.”

“Aye,” Duncan said, “and Fergus would get a red card for kicking out at him after!”

Charlotte blew her whistle. “Hollister,” she said, pointing at Evan as she approached. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.” He got to his feet. “See?”

“Good. Go fetch me a coffee. Cream, no sugar.”

Evan looked confused. “Sorry?”

“I need you to leave the pitch for a wee while. So you might as well make yourself useful during that period and fetch me a coffee.”

He lowered his eyes. “Cream, no sugar.”

“Good lad. Now Taylor,” she said to Fergus, “you go and sit on the bleachers.”