Playing to Win (7 page)

Forget him
, ordered the voice originating from the part of his brain controlled by—well, by his brain.
He is the one thing in this world you cannot afford.

C
OLIN
’
S
HANDS
TINGLED
with anticipation as he suited up for football practice for the first time in weeks. With an ear-popping Mell Tierra dance mix thumping in his headphones, he sat on his bed to draw up his white sport socks, the top of the left one nearly reaching his black hinged supportive knee brace. Then came his boots, a pair of red-and-black Nike T90s, the sort Wayne Rooney used to wear. Colin was lucky he shared a shoe size with fellow Warriors forward Duncan Harris, who was minted enough to buy new boots each year and give Colin his old ones.

As he dressed, he steered his mind away from the previous night’s rave and near-incarceration by reviewing the new drills his manager had implemented last week. Colin could have stayed home during his rehab, but instead he’d attended every practice session to observe the team’s progress and ensure they didn’t forget him.

A knock came on his half-open door, and his gran stuck in her pink-curler-covered head. “You excited, lad?”

“Stoked!” He gave her a thumbs up, then reached for the loosely wrapped sandwich she offered. “What’s this?”

“Jeely piece with peanut butter. Lots of carbs for energy, but it’ll keep you full.”

“Cheers, Gran.” He got up to kiss her cheek, hiding his wince of pain.

She pulled back and frowned at him. “How’s the knee, then?”

Okay, maybe his wince wasn’t so hidden. He took a massive bite of sandwich so he wouldn’t be able to answer, then simply replied with a vigorous nod.

Colin knew exactly what had aggravated his knee last night. Not dancing, not climbing the storage container, not diving into the crowd. He’d tweaked it when he’d lurched to catch Andrew as they’d left the dance floor, when the toff’s own knees had given out.

“Gonnae no favor it too much,” his gran said, following him down the hall of their flat. “You’ll end up hurting the other as well.”

Cheers erupted from the living room, where Colin found his dad and thirteen-year-old sister, Emma, exchanging high fives. The television showed BBC’s broadcast of the Commonwealth Games from Glasgow’s Ibrox Stadium.

“Samoa beat England in rugby sevens!” Emma shook her arse at the telly screen, taunting their despondent southern neighbors in red-and-white kits. No one in this flat gave a toss about rugby of any sort, but it was always a good day when England lost.

Colin took another bite of the PB&J. “When do Scotland play?”

“We’re up next against South Africa,” his dad replied. “No danger we’ll win.”

On the TV, the BBC presenters seemed eager to change the subject from England’s defeat to a discussion of celebrity attendees, the camera picking out famous folk in the stands. “Who’s that arsehole?” Colin asked.

“He’s on
EastEnders
, ya dobber,” Emma said. “Do you live under a rock?”

“Sorry, I’m too busy having a life to watch shite television.”

“It’s not shite!” Emma grabbed her inhaler off the coffee table and chucked it at his head. He snatched it out of the air with ease and tossed it back to her.

“Nice save,” Gran said. “Maybe you’ve a future as a goalkeeper.”

“If that’s my future, then kill me now.” He turned to the cluttered dining table, where his kit bag sat waiting for a last-minute inspection. When he’d first joined the Warriors, Colin would often forget to bring one piece of equipment or another to practice session. His manager’s
no-eejits-allowed
policy quickly cured his carelessness. Though they were an amateur team, Charlotte demanded they act like professionals.

Behind him, his father scoffed at the television. “State of these wanks, waving their Union Jacks.”

“People cannae have those at Commonwealth Games,” Emma said. “Nae flags of countries who aren’t competing, the rules say. Scotland, England, and Wales have all got their own teams.”

“Don’t forget Northern Ireland,” Dad said.

“I said Northern Ireland.”

“No, you didnae,” Colin said, then repeated the last word over her rising chant of “Did did did did did!” until she broke off laughing.

Suddenly her laughter morphed into a deep cough. Colin kept his focus on his kit bag, rather than rushing over to make sure his sister wasn’t turning blue. If he stressed out, Emma would too, which could bring on a full-blown asthma attack.

“Anyway,” Emma said when she’d caught her breath, “there’s nae Team United Kingdom or even Great Britain, so nae Union Jacks allowed.”

“Rules don’t apply to people with titles,” Dad told her.

Colin froze.
People with—

He turned back to the television to see a familiar face on the screen. The caption read
Lord Andrew Sunderland, King of Selfies
.

Sitting in the Ibrox director’s box, surrounded by a clump of sycophants, was the same man who last night, as slumming hipster Adam Smith, had so eagerly tugged down Colin’s trousers. His hair had returned to its golden-brown tousled heap, and his clothes to a smart light-brown blazer with white dress shirt. Unaware the world was watching (probably), he held his phone at arm’s length as his mates crowded around him. He alone waved the Scottish Saltire, the blue flag with the white St. Andrew’s cross, while his mates brandished the Union Jack or England’s red-and-white St. George’s cross.

Andrew paused to deliver that brilliant, knee-weakening smile for his own camera. Colin turned away again. His hands shook as he rewrapped the sandwich, which now felt like glue in his mouth and lead in his stomach. Last night now seemed nothing but a dream.

Forget him
, he told himself.
He’s already forgotten you.

= = =

Halfway down the long series of concrete steps that led toward the center of Drumchapel, Colin stopped. He turned to examine the trio of high-rise tower blocks, the central one of which had been his home for twelve years, and tried to see them through Andrew’s eyes.

On a sunny day like this, they looked quite decent, save for the tallest one, due for demolition next year. Its sickly gray-brown exterior was stained and dilapidated, just as his own building had been before the refurbishment two years prior. Now, his tower and the one beyond it bore a blue, white, and gray facade that gleamed in the sunshine. From the outside, they looked as smart as any middle-class block of flats.

But Andrew wouldn’t see that. He’d see the tower blocks’ notoriety, for the drugs ring that had been pinched there. Or he’d see their cost to the taxpayer, since the blocks were 100 percent social housing.

He’d see rubbish.

Colin spun on his good leg, then continued down the remaining steps, resisting the urge to look out over Glasgow and wonder which street Andrew belonged to.

He reached the main road just as his bus was approaching. A lass his age waited at the stop, cooing into a blue pushchair stroller.

“Big day for you!” she told her baby. “Gonnae be good for Mummy?”

The bus creaked to a stop, and the girl made her way to the wheelchair entrance. As she boarded, Colin noticed her wide-open diaper bag dangling precariously from her shoulder. He flashed his bus pass at the driver, then hurried over to help her before—

“Och, fucking hell!” the lass cried.

The diaper bag’s contents had spilled all over the wheelchair lift. Two pale-yellow baby bottles rolled off the stair and onto the street.

“Stay there, I’ve got it!” he told her as she wavered, nearly falling back onto the pavement.

“Be careful,” she said to him, sounding on the verge of tears.

He grabbed one of the bottles out of the gutter, then bent down and reached under the bus for the second, watching the rear wheel to make sure he wasn’t about to be pancaked. “Hah!” He stood and waved the bottles as she collected the last fallen diaper.

“You’re a star,” she said, zipping the bag shut with emphasis. “And I’m an eejit.”

Colin looked at the handful of other passengers, none of whom had budged to help the teen mum. He was struck with a memory of riding the same bus long ago with his own mother and baby sister. How Mum had shouted at Emma for crying, then at the other passengers for staring, and finally at Colin for…what, he couldn’t remember. Existing, probably.

He found two seats with room in the aisle for the pushchair. The lass sank down beside Colin and shoved a stray lock of blond hair from her face. “I’ve only just left home and I’m already knackered. Naebody telt me how much work it’d be to bring a baby out, even a quick trip up the town to see a mate.”

“It’s pure meltin’ the day, too.” He handed her the bottles, then tugged the front of his football shirt, hoping he didn’t already stink of sweat.

“I know, but my friend’s only in Glasgow for the Games, so it’s now or never.”

“Couldn’t she come out to visit you?”

“It’s too far. Plus I hate people seeing where I live.”

Colin knew the feeling. “The Drum’s not exactly a happening place.” His phone beeped inside his kit bag. “Just a sec,” he told her as he pulled it out. There was a text from an unfamiliar number.

This time I won’t forget you - A

Colin’s pulse spiked, with glee at the fact Andrew had contacted him, and with anger at the implication that last time, he
had
forgotten Colin.

Sorry, who’s this?
he replied.

The next message contained no words, just a picture of Andrew lounging in a sun-soaked grassy field, his shirt half-buttoned. The photo looked professionally done.

“Nice,” the lass beside him said as she finished cleaning off the bottles. “Mate of yours?”

“More like a mate of a mate. What sort of twat keeps glamor shots of himself on his own phone?”

“Gonnae draw a mustache on it and send it back.”

“Genius, doll.” Colin opened the photo in an editing app, then sketched a crude outline of a penis poking into Andrew’s mouth. “Much better.” He saved the new version of the photo and attached it to a message saying
I remember you now.

The girl giggled. “You’re not really sending that, are you?”

“I just did. I hope his toffee-nosed mates see it when he opens the message.” Colin’s phone rang. “It’s him!” He answered. “Hiya, Your Lordship.” He bobbed his eyebrows at the lass, who gave him a thumbs-up. “Saw you and your mates on the telly. ‘Lord Andrew, King of Selfies,’ the EBC called you.”

“Really?” Andrew sounded pleased. “Wait, what’s EBC?”

“English Broadcasting Company. It’s what we call BBC in our home.”

“Hah. Rather apt at the moment. I’ve noticed that even with the Games being played in Glasgow, and being Scottish-funded, all the commentators are English.”

“If we win any golds, they’ll probably dub ‘God Save the Queen’ over ‘Flower of Scotland’ during the medal ceremony.” Colin offered a wide smile to the baby, who was now fully awake and staring at him.

“Team Scotland already have several gold medals. Have you been living under a rock?”

“You’re the second person to ask me that today. I’m not a fan of Commonwealth Games. Half a billion pounds they cost, and there’s nae football, the only sport which matters.”

The baby gurgled as if in agreement, so Colin gave him an exaggerated nod.

“True,” Andrew said. “The only land-based sport, at least.”

“You fancy watersports, then?” Colin asked, and watched the lass’s eyes widen with scandalous horror.

Andrew gasped. “You are wicked.”

“Is that a yes?”

His laugh was low and sultry. “More like a ‘No, but I fancy other things you might like.’”

Colin’s breath stopped. “Such as?” he asked, hearing the roughness in his own voice.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

His face warming, Colin turned away from the girl, into the barrier between the seats and the wheelchair lift. “Are your mates listening in?”

“No, I came inside to ring you. Scotland are getting hammered by South Africa, so I’m not missing much.” He paused. “Where are you?”

“On the bus to football practice.”

“Seems an awkward place to be if I start talking filthy.”

Colin swallowed, digging his fingers into the edge of the seat. “I can handle it.”

“Good, because the photo you sent reminded me how much I enjoyed last night. Before the arrival of law-enforcement personnel, that is.”

“Aye?” Pressing a finger to his other ear to block out the bus noise, Colin fixed his gaze on the speckled black-rubber floor.

“I loved the way you filled up my mouth, the way my lips had to stretch to take you all in.” Andrew’s tone was matter-of-fact, like he was describing a room’s decor. “And the way you felt rubbing the back of my throat? My mouth is watering at the mere thought.”

“Is it?” Colin whispered.

“Yes, it’s very wet in there right now. You’d fancy it, wouldn’t you?”

“Aye, I would.” His own mouth was turning dry from his quickening breath. “Where else would I fancy?”

“Mmm. Lots of places, I imagine.” Andrew paused, then inhaled softly. “We could start with Edinburgh.”

Colin hesitated. Was
Edinburgh
code for some mysterious body part? Perhaps he should play along to find out. “Okay…”

“Brilliant!” Andrew said. “Meet me Saturday morning at Queen Street Station, oh-nine-thirty. Pack an overnight bag.”

Colin nearly dropped the phone. “Wait—sorry, what?”

“I’ve yet to truly make amends for ditching you in January.” Andrew paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost all arrogance. “Will you let me?”

I
T
WAS
THE
towel warmers that did it.

Not that the hotel’s ten-foot-high crystal chandeliers didn’t make Colin feel out of place. They staggered him, as did the polished brass and wood inside the lift, and the green marble arch at the entrance to their hallway, and the gleaming chrome of the bathroom he sat in now.