Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (9 page)

“I can relate,” John said. “I’m constantly fending off short-man-loving suitors. At least I think I am. Sometimes it’s hard to hear what they’re saying from all the way down here.”

Fergus laughed. “You’re not that short.”

“True. I’m taller than Lionel Messi, the world’s greatest footballer.”

“Aye. I mean, ‘Aye, you’re taller than Messi,’ not ‘Aye, he’s the world’s’—oh, fuck’s sake. Again?” The whistle blew as the referee called another foul on Fergus’s team.

“You better not rage-quit on me, bro.” John calibrated his free kick thirty yards from the goal, determined not to miss this time. “What’s the date of this music festival?”

“First Saturday of July. I think it’s the fifth.”

John’s hand spasmed, making his player kick the ball far over the net into the stands.

“That’s what you call a wasted opportunity,” said the onscreen commentator.

“It was more akin to a rugby conversion than a shot on goal,” his companion snarked.

First Saturday of July.
John suddenly tasted blueberry pancakes at the back of his throat.
Fucking hell.

Fergus’s keeper sailed a long goal-kick to his midfielder, who head-flicked it to the forward for an easy break. In his distress, John forgot which controller button did what, and could only watch as Fergus put the ball into the net.

“Get in!” Fergus mimicked his onscreen player’s celebratory dance, minus the cartwheel. Then he clapped John on the shoulder. “Aw, don’t be sad, mate. You’re still up two goals. For now.”

As Fergus admired the slow-motion replays, John stared numbly through the TV. Now his choice was clear—march in the Orange Walk to make his father happy and himself miserable, or go to the concert to make himself (and Fergus) happy and his father miserable.

John paused the game. “I’m not sure about the festival. My dad…” He wanted to tell the truth but couldn’t bear to drive away Fergus. “The fifth is his birthday.”

Fergus’s face fell, but then he nodded. “You should be with him. Especially with your mum and your brother gone.”

“Yeah.” John pulled in a deep breath as the deception threatened to suffocate him. “I’ll talk to him. Maybe we can celebrate his birthday on the sixth, or the night of the fourth.”

“I’ll buy the extra ticket, and if you can’t go, we’ll find someone else. Just do what you have to do.”

“Thanks for understanding.” He swept a quick kiss over Fergus’s cheek.

“Family’s important. Parents can be annoying, but they don’t live forever.” The corner of his mouth angled down, then lifted again. “Can I finish my miraculous comeback now?”

John switched the game on. As they continued, he replayed Fergus’s words—
You’re not your brother
—over and over in his mind, hoping they would make him feel better.

But he didn’t deserve to feel better. He deserved to feel like what he was: a cowardly liar who was about to break a man’s heart.

= = =

When John arrived home after noon, he was relieved to find the house empty. As he showered, he tried to work out how to tell his father he wouldn’t be doing the Orange Walk.

The fact that this sectarian celebration was so fucking
wrong
should have been enough. He’d had enough of hearing “It’s not racism, it’s our heritage.” According to Katie, people in the American South used those exact words to justify the Confederate flags on their porches and pickup trucks.

But the wrongness hadn’t been enough to stop John marching before. It had been easier to swallow the shame and go along with the crowd. It meant being accepted, even by those who knew he was gay. Perhaps they thought his being a bigot made up for being a “bufty.” If John marched, he was a man, pure and simple.

University had shown him it was neither pure nor simple. Real men—real
adults
—didn’t let others tell them what to be. They defined themselves according to their own rules, not the rules of their tribe.

Toweling himself dry, he thought of the asylum seekers he’d met at New Shores. Almost all had been rejected by their parents for breaking traditional morality. Tradition for tradition’s sake made no sense—and yet, why else maintain traditions, other than for tradition’s sake? If something existed only to justify its own existence…

“Och.” He rubbed his face hard with the towel. This mode of thinking was well-suited for his philosophy course, but it was summer now. Time to
do
, not muse.

Pondering the asylum seekers brought to mind the charity match—which, in the fog of first-date infatuation, he and Fergus had neglected to discuss. John dressed and went to his room to compose an email to Fergus and Charlotte.

Just as he’d winnowed the thousand-task to-do list down to a baker’s dozen—he didn’t want to frighten them off during Phase One—John heard the front door open.

His gut rippled with nerves. It was one thing to espouse freedom from tradition in a philosophy essay, but another thing to do it to Dad’s face.

As footsteps trudged up the stairs, John turned in his desk chair and kept his greeting as calm as possible. “All right?”

His father peered through John’s open bedroom door. “Was trying to be quiet. Thought you’d be sleeping off the night.”

“Nah, didn’t drink much. Had plenty of sleep at Fergus’s.”

“Glad your date went well.” He leaned against the doorjamb, looking tired. No doubt he was lying awake at night thinking of Keith’s seven years in prison. “Gonnae be safe, aye?”

“Dad, I’m twenty-one, not fifteen. But aye, safe as houses.” He held a moment of silence for the unused condom he’d discarded. Then he noticed his father’s shirt and tie. “Where were you, all smart like that?”

“Church. I thought your brother could use an extra prayer or two.”

“You can pray at home. Isn’t that the whole point of being Protestant?” he asked with a wry grin.

Dad conceded the point with a nod. “What I really wanted was the company. To be around my own kind. We need to stick together now more than ever.”

John’s stomach began a slow somersault. It was as he’d feared—Dad was learning all the wrong lessons from Keith’s punishment.

“What’s this doing here? It’ll get wrinkled.” Dad picked up the orange collarette from the floor of John’s open wardrobe. Then he sat heavily on the foot of the bed, smoothing the fabric between his fingers. “Talking of which, the Brothers from the Lodge want to know if you’ll carry the banner on the fifth. Ian asked me himself.”

John’s gaze flicked to the photo of his initiation, with the lodge’s Worshipful Master looming behind him. “About that.” He resisted the urge to scoot his chair back so they wouldn’t be within each other’s reach. “What if we have ourselves a wee holiday that weekend, just the two of us? We’ve not played golf in ages.”

Dad stared at him. “Golf?”

“I know that day’s got bad memories for you, what with Mum leaving. Best to get out of Glasgow, aye?”

Dad sighed and took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. “Ian said you might be skittish after what happened to Keith.”

Skittish. Hah.
“Nothing happened to Keith,” John muttered.

“Sorry?”

John straightened in the chair and unstuck his tongue from the top of his mouth. It was time to speak his mind.

“I said, nothing happened
to
Keith, Dad. He brought it on himself.”

“But if that papist bastard hadn’t barged into that pub—”

“Rory Callahan was an idiot, which last I looked, isn’t against the law. What
is
against the law is breaking idiots’ arms and giving them traumatic brain injuries.”

“He’ll be fine. While Keith rots away in—”

“Rory cannae remember his own mum. He has to meet her brand new every day.” John’s voice rose despite his intent to stay calm. “Imagine some cunt had done that to me just for wearing a Rangers scarf and mouthing off in a Celtic pub. It happens on both sides and it needs to stop.”

“I agree. Son, you know I don’t condone violence.”

“Really?” John snatched the collarette from his father’s hands and shook it at him. “This doesn’t
condone
violence, Dad. It fucking glorifies it.”

“That’s a lie! The parades celebrate our cultural heritage. They honor the brave soldiers who helped King William defeat the Catholic scourge.”

“That was three hundred years ago. Can’t we stop fighting that battle? Hasn’t Scotland got more important problems?”

Dad didn’t answer, just pressed his lips together and tried to stare John down. When that didn’t work, he said, “I’ll not have this argument with you again. Now gie’s an answer: Will you or will you not carry the banner in the walk?”

John had to swallow hard before he could get the words out. “I will not carry it.” As gently as he could, he laid the collarette across Dad’s open palms. “I will not walk at all.”

His father’s jaw dropped, the ends of his brows tilting up in surprise. Clearly he hadn’t expected the second half of John’s declaration. The naked hurt in his eyes made John want to add, “I’m sorry, Dad,” but that would’ve been a lie.

His father lowered his chin to stare at the collarette. “I see,” he said quietly, straightening the gold crown, one of six Orange Order symbols pinned to the sash. “You must do what you think is right.”

“Thank you.” John was cautiously pleased at the lack of drama thus far.

“It’s just that…this could be my final walk.”

Ah, here we go.
“You said that last year, Dad, and the year before that.”

“That doesn’t make it not true.”

“That doesn’t make it convincing, either.” John softened his tone. “First of all, you’re gonnae live a long, long time. I’ll see to it. Second, when you do pass from this world, I want to remember you as the peaceful, loving man you really are.”

Shoulders slouched, his father maintained his sullen silence, absently rubbing his solar plexus like he had a case of indigestion.

“Dad, try to see it from my perspective. With my work at New Shores, I need to watch my behavior, and this charity match will raise my profile. I’d hurt everyone involved if I became a distraction by taking part in something so controversial.”

His father’s jaw tightened suddenly. “There’s nothing ‘controversial’ about taking pride in your heritage.” His voice rose to a shout, which was rare for him. “It’s
them
who made it controversial, *them *who profits by playing the victim.”

John’s patience snapped. “Always Us and Them, isn’t it? Why? Do you ever stop to think about it? It’s pure rubbish. Catholic, Protestant, white, black, immigrant, native. Fuck’s sake, Dad, we’re all Scots. We’re all
human
!”

“I know that!” His father lurched to his feet. “I’m not a racist.”

“Then how did you manage to raise one?”

“Don’t you
dare
talk about Keith like that.” He shook a finger in John’s face. “Not after he defended you, took a thousand punches and kicks for having a brother like you. And not just him—the entire lodge. The Order stood up for you before you were big enough to stand up for yourself.”

John gritted his teeth. “I know, but—”

“
Do
you know? Or have you forgotten what you owe them? Have you forgotten what happened to the wee pricks who called you ‘poof’ and ‘bufty’ and ‘jobby jabber’?”

John tried not to flinch at the words, or at the memory of Keith coming home with bruised and bleeding knuckles, sometimes even a black eye. All on John’s behalf.

Dad brandished the collarette at him. “Keith saved
you
, his wee gay brother, from being eaten alive on these streets. Tell me, was that the act of a bigot?”

John fought to reconcile the two warring images. How could people who accepted
his
difference be so hostile to others’ differences?

It all came back to the tribe, of course. Keith and their father—even the men in their Orange Order lodge—cared about gays because John was gay. If he were straight, they’d be as homophobic as anyone.

“It wasn’t the act of a bigot,” John replied. “It was the act of a brother.”

“There. You see?”

“That doesn’t change what Keith is and what you are. What you’re trying to make me.”

Dad’s face darkened. “And what is that?”

John looked him in the eye and spoke clearly. “A racist.”

For the first time ever, his father raised his hand to strike him. John held onto the back of his chair, bracing himself. He wouldn’t duck, wouldn’t block, wouldn’t so much as cringe or close his eyes. He would take the blow like a man.

But it didn’t come. His father froze in that position, left arm raised. Then he let out a choked cry, and the fury in his eyes turned to fear. His right hand clutched at his chest, fingers crawling toward his left shoulder.

John sighed. “Dad, please don’t do this again.”

“Not…pretending,” he gasped.

“You always say that. Seriously, couldn’t you just hit me and get it over with? Whatever you have to do to make yourself feel better. But fake heart attack or no, I’ll not do the Orange Walk again. Ever.”

His father staggered back and slumped onto John’s bed, rolling away from him. “Help…”

This wasn’t even one of his better performances. If anything, it was a bit understated.

John turned back to his laptop. “I’ve loads of work to do, so if you could wrap this up and be on your way…”

His father’s legs went suddenly rigid. He tumbled down, nearly knocking his head against the bedside table. The collarette spilled from his hand, its gold pins rattling on the hardwood floor.

John froze. “Dad?”

He stared at the ghostly pale face, at the mouth opening and closing in its search for breath.

Oh God.

“Dad!” John rushed to his father’s side. He searched for a pulse and found only a weak flutter that could’ve been from his own trembling fingers.
Oh God oh God oh God oh God.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

His father clutched at John’s shirt collar and stared up at him with wild eyes, trying to tell him something important.

“Your meds! Aye, Dad. I’ll go and get your meds.” John tried to peel his father’s fingers from his shirt, but they’d latched on tight. “Just—please let go. Please? So I can help you? Dad, please—”