Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (4 page)

“But you already knew that when we first met. What’s changed?”

“I talked to the team. They want to help save lives too.”

“Right.” John tugged the cuffs of his navy-blue micro-print shirt, looking unconvinced. “But why’d
you
decide it’s good for the Warriors?”

“Here we are, lads.” The waitress ascended the wee staircase into their snug, her heavy black trainers scuffing the wooden floor.

As she set down their drinks, Fergus took a moment to deliberate. How much did John already know of the Warriors’ downfall? At the time, it had seemed the entire world was watching. It wouldn’t take much digging to discover the truth.

“We need a positive focus after some”—he took a sip of bourbon—“unexpected personnel changes.”

“Does this have anything to do with the ‘No Drama’ rule?”

“It does.” Fergus set down his glass with a sigh. John clearly saw past his facade the same way he’d seen past this restaurant’s. “Our former captain, Evan Hollister, was my boyfriend.”

John looked genuinely surprised. “What happened?”

Fergus could still see the letter, how it shook in his hands, how the looping, erratic script blurred in his vision.
I met someone a while ago. It doesn’t matter when or how. What matters is, he’s leaving tonight, and I’m going with him.

“He fucked off to Belgium,” Fergus said. “Apparently there was another man.”

“Christ. Had you been together long?”

“Four years. We met at Glasgow School of Art—he was an architect too.
Is
an architect, I mean.” He hadn’t meant to speak of Evan as though he were dead. “When we finished our sixth years of study, I went on for my Master’s and Evan worked full-time to help support me.”

“You lived with him, then?”

“No, we were to move in together last month.” Fergus shifted on the snug’s cushion. Sometimes it seemed he could feel in his pocket the weight of the extra key on his fob. When he’d found a replacement flatmate, he’d had a third key made for her so that he could continue carrying what he thought of as Evan’s key. “Both our names were on the lease, so I had to have him removed.”

“He couldn’t do that himself?”

“No, because he just…left. Not a word to my face or even a phone call.” He struggled to keep his face from twisting. “Just a note.”

“What a cowardly wee cunt! He deserves Belgium.” John raised his glass. “Fuck them both. And their waffles.”

Fergus’s laugh was half cough, clumsy from lack of practice. “Right. Fuck all the waffles.” He tapped his tumbler against John’s, then together they drained the rest of their bourbons. As Fergus set down the empty glass, the glow of camaraderie illuminated his insides like a torch in a haunted house.

Their dinner arrived then, an array of small plates to be shared tapas-style. As the noise in the bar swelled with hipster banter, Fergus and John inched closer to their common corner, reaching across each other for food and condiments. Whenever their hands brushed, Fergus felt a hot shiver more delicious than anything he was putting in his mouth.

Perhaps he was finally ready to “get back in the saddle,” as his friends had been urging him for weeks. Perhaps he was ready to forget Evan and move on. At least for one night.

“So you know my sordid backstory,” Fergus said once they’d taken the edge off their appetites, “yet I know nothing about you other than you wear a tie to a football practice session.”

“Och, I don’t normally dress like that. But I’d gone to a—a thing Monday afternoon and didn’t have time to pop home and change.”

“And where’s home?”

“Ibrox,” John said, wiping his mouth.

Fergus had suspected from John’s accent that he was a native Glaswegian. After seven years, his own Highlander’s ear still couldn’t distinguish among the city’s dialects. But he knew enough about Glasgow to state the obvious:

“Ibrox, eh? Home of the Rangers.” He managed to utter the football club’s name without a snarl, an accomplishment given that they were arch-rivals to his own beloved Celtic.

“Aye, we live stone’s throw from the stadium. My brother used to work there, in fact, before he—” John stopped, then started to hack, as though he’d inhaled a bit of food.

“Here.” Since John’s water glass was empty, Fergus shifted his own across the polished wooden table, deciding not to pry about John’s brother. Unemployment was a sensitive issue in the current economy. “What are you studying at Glasgow Uni?”

John took a gulp of water, then gave back the glass. “Economic and Social History, combined with philosophy.”

“Ah.” Fergus had never understood why anyone would enter a program with no clear career path. But perhaps John was considering law. “Then what?”

John beamed at him. “Then I take over the world, of course.”

“Emperor of the universe at twenty-one. Ambitious.”

“Twenty-four. I’m already twenty-one. Took a few gap years to save for fees and books and all, and to give my family a wee financial cushion.”

“Wise.” Fergus was relieved that John was only three years younger than himself—not that this was a date or anything. “What sort of work did you do?”

“Construction labor for the company my father’s a manager at. Mostly paving, piping, concrete work.”

So that’s where he got those muscles.
As an architect, Fergus had visited dozens of construction sites over the last few years. Perhaps he’d seen John at one of them, unaware they’d one day be drinking bourbon and sharing goat-cheese pizza at a restaurant too hip for signage. “You live with your parents, then?”

“Just my dad. Mum left last year, moved back to Ayrshire to live with my gran. The divorce’ll be official soon.”

“Sorry.”

John shrugged. “Honestly, after a decade of shouting, it’s been a relief. I love my dad, but he’s a manipulative bastard.” He leaned his elbows on the table, wearing that wicked smile again. “Case in point? When I was fourteen, he had a heart attack, one of those silent ones which don’t give you chest pains but show up later on EKG. After he saw all the attention it got him, he started faking heart attacks—the
un
silent sort—whenever one of us pissed him off.” John gestured with a skinny fry as though sketching a scene. “The paramedics would come, and the neighbors would gather outside the newsagent across the street, placing bets on whether this one was real. After the seventh fake heart attack, Mum said, ‘Right, then, that’s me away’.”

Fergus chuckled. “Can’t say I blame her.”

“But here’s the funniest bit—directly after, Dad had another real heart attack.”

Fergus nearly choked on his prawn tempura. “How is that funny?” he asked, though he was laughing himself.

“Well, he didn’t die or anything. It was another silent one the cardiologist found during a checkup.” John tilted his head. “Actually, if he
had
died from a real heart attack after all those fake ones, it’d be even funnier. Though not for him, I suppose.”

Fergus watched John return to his food with gusto, seemingly unfazed by his father’s serial cardiac mishaps. The dark, ballsy Glaswegian sense of humor was Fergus’s favorite thing about the city (next to the architecture). No topic—least of all death—was off-limits for a joke.

“Anyway, Dad’s doing better now.” Having finished off the skinny fries, John licked his fingers, then reached for a fresh napkin. “He finally quit smoking, and I see to it he exercises and takes his meds every day. He won’t give up all junk food, but he’s swapped his precious crisps for Wotsits—those cheesy corn puff things? At least they’re mostly air. Plus, I cook decent meals for him. It’s loads of work, but what else can I do? He’s family.”

Inside, Fergus smiled. After Evan, it was good to meet a man who knew the meaning of loyalty.

“Besides,” John continued, “Dad’s been totally supportive since I came out. Says he just wants me to be happy. As long as I don’t f—’ An odd look crossed John’s face. “As long as I don’t ‘flaunt it’ in front of his mates.”

“Right.” It was often the case that
totally supportive
really meant
conditionally supportive
. “My father died when I was twelve.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” John touched Fergus’s arm, but not in the flirty way he’d been doing all evening. This touch was soft, genuine.

Fergus felt himself relax, only now realizing how tense he’d been. John’s openness made him feel he could be honest. “Sometimes I wonder if I would’ve come out at all to my family if Da had still been alive. Not that I’m glad he’s dead, obviously, but it made things easier. No expectations of what sort of man I’d become. My brother and my ma are like your father—they just want me to be happy.”

“And are you?” John’s eyes met his, and like his touch, they had softened, trading their showy animation for a searching sincerity. “Are you happy?”

Fergus hesitated, munching a polenta chip instead of replying. The easy answer to that question these last sixty-three days was a resounding
NO
. Evan had stolen not only Fergus’s favorite scarf and matching knit cap, but also his capacity for joy.

But now that
John
was asking if he were happy—in that unflinching manner that battered Fergus’s defenses—the easy answer wouldn’t come.

So he swallowed the chip and said, “Potentially.”

“That’s all any of us can ask for, isn’t it? Potential? The rest is down to us. It’s like this table, aye?” John spread his hands to the edges, brushing Fergus’s elbow. “Sometimes life gives us an empty plate, and sometimes life puts shite on that plate. It’s our choice whether to eat that shite or say, ‘No, thanks.’ But it’s the same when life gives you a plate of—what’s your favorite food?”

“Blueberry pancakes.”

“So sometimes life puts a giant plate of steaming hot blueberry fucking pancakes on your table. It’s still down to you whether to eat them or say, ‘No, thanks.’ You can walk away from shite or pancakes. Wait for the next course, see if something tastier comes along.”

“But it’s better, you think, to seize the pancakes?”

“Aye!” John raised his empty tumbler to the approaching waitress. “Carpe pancakes!”

She rolled her eyes but brought them another round of bourbons, and then another. As their dinner went on, Fergus realized he’d neither laughed nor eaten this much in months.

They even dared to discuss Scottish independence—a dodgy but unavoidable subject these days.

“I’d be pure sad to leave the Union,” John said, “but I think going our own way is the only path to a better economy, especially for working-class folk.” He tapped his temple. “So I guess I’m voting Yes with my head, not my heart.”

“For me it’s the opposite. I’m scared witless about what could happen to our economy if we break from the UK. But then I hear the opening lines of ’Flower of Scotland’ and—I don’t know, I suppose my mushy patriotic heart takes over, and I think, ‘Let’s do this!’”

“A romantic, eh?”

“All footballers are romantics. No cynic would suffer so much pain for so little gain.” Basking in the warmth of John’s smile, Fergus examined the remains of their meal and realized he was finally full. He sat back against the wall with a satisfied sigh, then glanced at the television above the bar. It was tuned to the news, which at the moment was focusing on Fergus’s least favorite subject.

“Fuck’s sake,” he exclaimed. “Again?”

“What is it?” John asked.

“Orange Walkers,” Fergus said with a growl. “Packs of bigots all over Glasgow this time of year. Might as well be Belfast.”

John shrugged and kept eating. “I’ve been to Belfast. There’s loads more there.”

Fergus glared at the men onscreen marching in their blasted bowler hats and orange sashes. The next shot showed a crowd of Orange Walk spectators, swaying together and punching the air, probably singing lyrics like “Fuck the Pope” or “We’re up to our necks in Fenian blood.” It boiled Fergus’s own “Fenian blood” how such worthless, drunken scum could think themselves superior to him just because he was Catholic.

“Don’t those racists know it’s the twenty-first century?” Fergus’s fist tightened on his fork. “This country’s moving forward without them. Most people don’t even go to church, so why persecute others for their religion? It’s all so un-Scottish, don’t you think?”

John’s expression was inscrutable, like he’d put on a mask that was an exact replica of his own face. Then he blinked.

“Sorry,” John said. “It’s just that, now the light’s changed—” He gestured to the window, then at Fergus. “I cannae stop noticing how your shirt brings out the green in your eyes.”

Fergus stared at him, thinking of all the shirts he’d tried on before selecting this poplin-weave avocado. It wasn’t brand new, but it was still fashionable and exceedingly comfortable.

And yes, it did bring out the green his eyes. A fact Evan had never mentioned.

“Sorry,” John added, “I
was
listening to what you were saying. I disagree about sectarianism being un-Scottish. We’re a very tribal people. Look at all the clans and their ancient rivalries. Factions are in our blood.”

“That doesn’t make it right. We should be more enlightened. Those parades should be banned.”

“Because they’re offensive?”

“Yes.”

“Most people found gay-pride parades offensive when they first began. Some still do. Should they be banned as well?”

“Obviously not.” Fergus rubbed his neck and looked away, regretting he’d started a debate with an aspiring philosopher-politician.

“Funny thing is, the event the Orange Walks celebrate—William’s defeat of King James—was partially financed by the Pope.”

“I didn’t know that.” In school, Fergus had enjoyed studying history until he’d discovered that every “fact” was open to interpretation.

“Aye, at the time it was less about religion and more about stopping James’s French allies.” John shrugged. “One of those ‘enemy of my enemy is my friend’ situations.”

“Then why do the Orangemen commemorate that battle with their stupid marches?”

“It’s a symbol. Like most bigots, they feel hard done-by, that some minority—in this case, Catholics—has got unfairly good treatment at their expense.”

Fergus bristled. “Unfair how?”

“Well, here in Scotland, our taxes fund Catholic schools.”