Playing With Fire (Glasgow Lads Book 3) (11 page)

“Huh.” Robert paused while Brandon turned Kevin around and bent him over the massage table. After a quick cutaway to Kevin’s happy face, the shot went wide again as they were suddenly fucking, thanks to the magic of cinema. “Is this common knowledge?”

“I don’t know,” Liam said. “Some porn studios, like this one, specialize in the fantasy of turning a straight guy gay.”

“Is that one of your fantasies?”

Liam hesitated. “Are you asking the porn me or the real-life me?”

“Either. Both.”

“Then…yes and no. In real life, I know it never happens. Learned that the hard way.”

“You mean with Tom?”

Liam swallowed. This was the first time that name had been mentioned since he and Robert had become…whatever they were now.

“Tom’s not straight,” Robert said. “Just like I’m not straight.”

“I know that,” Liam snapped. “I wasn’t talking about either of you.” He checked the computer’s clock. “I won’t have time to watch the whole thing. The Scotland-Ireland match is tomorrow, and there are already loads of Irish tourists pouring in. So I need to leave for work early.”

“Uh-huh.” Robert sounded distant, perhaps entranced with Brandon and Kevin. Liam remembered what it was like discovering gay porn. When he was younger, he’d consumed it all, hoping to learn new sex secrets. The biggest secret, of course, was that porn got a lot of stuff wrong.

Then Robert spoke softly. “I’m not like Brandon.”

Liam felt himself stiffen at the sound of Robert’s dreamlike voice. He began to stroke his cock again through his sleep trousers, only half-watching the actors. “How so, mate?”

“You know.” Robert’s voice softened further. “I’d bottom.”

Liam’s prick gave a swift jerk, as though ready to unfasten itself from his body and hop on the Number 60 bus to accommodate Robert this moment.

“You still there?” Robert asked.

“Sorry. I just almost came when you said that. The thought of…”

“The thought of what?” Robert spoke low and smooth now. “The thought of fucking me?”

God yes. Yes yes yes.
The idea of being someone’s first—anyone’s first—turned Liam on to no end. But to be Robert’s? To give such soul-shattering pleasure to the most important man in his life?

It would rip Liam to shreds. Each of those shreds would fall straight into Robert’s hands. And if he ever left, he’d take every piece of Liam with him.

So as much as he wanted to lose himself inside Robert, and have Robert lost inside him, it was too great a risk to take. That was one border they could never cross.

“Liam?”

“Aye. I’m just—I’m having lots of thoughts.” He tried to focus on the screen in front of him rather than the images in his head. The actors were still fucking on the massage table, but now they were face-to-face, Brandon holding Kevin’s ankles, spreading his legs wide as he thrust into him. “Christ, look at those abs.”

“I know,” Robert said. “The way his whole body ripples every time he moves? I wish I could watch it in slow motion.”

“I wish I could watch it with you.”
Och, that came out wrong.
It sounded so romantic.

“You are watching it with me,” Robert said.

“I mean sitting beside you. And by ‘beside you,’ I mean on your face.”

Robert laughed. “Forwards or backwards?”

“Does it matter?”

“Nah. Either way your balls are in my mouth.”

Fuck.
Liam shoved down his sleep trousers, then lay back on his pillows, closing his eyes to Brandon and Kevin and opening his ears to Robert. Just for today, he’d live in this fantasy world, where nothing could ever tear them apart. “Tell me more.”

“F
IRST
RULE
OF
center-backs?” Liam shouted.

“Don’t fuck up!” Robert answered on cue. “Second rule of center-backs?”

“Stick together!”

As they performed their secret handshake, the one they did before every kickoff, Robert noticed the sun seemed to glint off Liam’s red hair more brilliantly than ever. Everything seemed brighter this afternoon, and not just because the two-day rainstorm had stopped a few hours ago.

The first half of the Warriors’ match at Drumchapel had seen the return of Liam and Robert’s lifelong synchronicity. They could once again read each other’s subtle motions, knowing which of them was taking on an attacker and which was to slip behind as backup. They’d moved as one to keep their line perfectly even, throwing their opponents offside, stifling the momentum of every Drumchapel attack.

Together, they could stop anything.

Not only were the Warriors keeping a clean sheet, but Robert had also headed in Fergus’s powerful corner kick to give them a one-goal lead just before the halftime whistle. He could still feel the spot on his forehead where he’d struck the ball.

The whistle blew to begin the second half. Warriors midfielder Evan passed quickly to Jamie, their right fullback, whose ball-handling skills kept him in the starting eleven despite his lack of pace. Robert often had to take up the slack for Jamie’s slowness, filling in the gap if an opponent got past him. He didn’t mind—they needed Jamie’s attacking skills more than ever after losing their star forward, Colin MacDuff.

The team’s extra-high spirits were due in part to Colin himself, who sat in the stands today, attending his first match since his life-threatening injury nearly six weeks ago. It had inspired Robert to see his ferocious, raven-haired mate sitting amongst the Warriors’ raucous fan club, the Rainbow Regiment, along with his unlikely boyfriend, Lord Andrew Sunderland.

“C’mon, Jamie, you’re a pure cheetah!” Colin shouted. At least Robert thought that’s what he said. He and Colin were from different—though equally poor—areas of Glasgow, so sometimes words got lost in translation.

At the next break in play, Liam hurried over to Robert. “Looks like they made some adjustments at halftime.”

Robert nodded, tugging the front of his shirt to cool himself. “Their wee striker, Irvine, he’s playing out in front of Hughes, their big forward.”

“Aye, which means watch out for long passes. Cannae let that quick little bastard get onside behind us.” He yanked on the hem of Robert’s violet-and-white-striped jersey. “You look extra hot today, by the way.”

“Very professional!” he called as Liam jogged back into position.

Still, Robert didn’t stop grinning until the next Drumchapel attack, which saw the red-jerseyed Irvine streak down the left side, taking a diagonal pass from their own center-back. Warriors Katie and Alisdair closed in on the striker, but Irvine passed the ball between them, then surged ahead to take his midfielder’s return pass.

In the blink of an eye, Irvine was inside the penalty area, invading Robert and Liam’s sacred space.

Liam darted up to challenge him one-on-one. Robert wanted to spring to the rescue to help him, but that was Fergus’s job, not his—especially with an unmarked onrushing Hughes to deal with at the goal’s far post. Trusting his teammates, Robert stayed in front of the towering blond forward, matching him step for step, ensuring he’d get no easy chance on a cross or a rebound.

“Steady, lads!” Colin called from the stands. “He’s nothing but a wee—” Their teammate’s last word was lost in the wind.

Irvine zipped back and forth, getting closer to the goal, no doubt hoping Liam would foul him for a penalty kick. But Liam held off just enough, waiting for his chance to intercept or block.

At Fergus’s approach, Irvine hesitated, then darted toward the endline, looking for a chance to send in a cross. Robert felt Hughes trying to jostle in front of him, but he shouldered him back easily.

Irvine took his shot. No sooner had the ball left his foot than Liam slid to block it, sending it bouncing across the endline to safety.

Momentary safety, at least. Now Drumchapel would get a corner kick, since the Warriors had been last to touch the ball before it went behind the goal.

“Nice one!” Heather helped Liam off the ground and patted him on the back. “Thank you.”

Wiping mud and wet grass from his face, Liam beamed at their keeper, then at Robert.

“Our big yin Carroll with the saving block!” Colin shouted. “Puttin’ his body on the line for Warriors. Yaaaaas!”

Robert moved into his designated zone to defend the corner kick. Because of his height and aerial skills, he was placed at the edge of the six-yard box, bang on the center of the white line. It was the most dangerous area, where players loved to rush in for glorious headers.

Colin called out again. “Naebody scores corners on the Great Wall of McKenzie. Naebody!”

It was true. Even with his otherwise crap performances recently, Robert had kept his good form in defending set pieces like this. No team had scored against the Warriors from a corner kick all season.

Liam moved into the zone in front of Robert, using his shoulders and hips to shove aside a Drumchapel winger trying to edge into the box. The winger took no offense but simply made another unsuccessful attempt to get in front of Liam.

This jockeying for position before a corner kick was common. Bodies met bodies in a cramped space, testing one another’s strength, attempting distractions, striving for the slightest advantage that could mean the difference between a goal scored or not.

But the way Liam’s arms came up, shoving the weaker man aside with ease, took Robert back to Wednesday night, how his best mate had pushed him against the bathroom wall before undoing his jeans. He watched Liam’s bare, freckled forearm press the other man’s shoulder and remembered how that muscle had bulged as Liam clutched Robert’s thigh, thrusting his head back and forth to swallow him whole.

Robert jerked back to reality when the Drumchapel captain struck the ball from the corner flag. As it sailed straight for him, he bent his knees to leap.

But he was too late. Already the diminutive forward, Irvine, was rushing him, leaping up, practically climbing Robert to reach the ball first. As Robert lost his balance and fell, he saw the ball zip toward the net.

Fuck, this is all my fault.

Irvine’s header hit the bottom edge of the crossbar. It ricocheted down, into the melee in front of the goal. Heather leapt onto the ball, curling her body around it, coming to a sliding stop with her face inches from Robert’s.

“Sorry,” he told her, moving to shield her from the players tumbling beside them. “Good save.”

“Give the woodwork a thank-you kiss.” She rolled to her feet. “Then don’t ever fucking switch off like that again.”

“Crossbar 1, Drumchapel 0!” shouted Colin from the crowd.

Liam bent over to help Robert up. “What happened?”

“Dunno. Irvine beat me.”

Liam watched the frustrated striker stalk up the pitch with one of his teammates, his palms an inch apart to show how close he’d come to scoring. “That wee man? Did he sprout fairy wings?”

“He’s just fast.”

“Good to know.” Liam pointed at Robert’s leg. “You’re cut.”

Sure enough, there was a small gash where the studs of Irvine’s boots had met Robert’s leg, just below his knee.

Robert cursed and hurried to the touchline for a quick treatment, signaling his intention to the referee.

As the physiotherapist cleaned and sprayed the cut, Robert watched Heather take a long goal kick, starting another Warriors attack. The wound on his leg stung, but not as much as his pride.

Forget it and move on
, he told himself. Dwelling on the mistake would distract him and drain his confidence, and soon he’d be second-guessing every move.

But as he returned to the pitch a few minutes later, Robert couldn’t help wondering, for the first time, if his and Liam’s relationship could hurt the team. If so, would one of them quit? Would
both
of them quit? Or would they put football and their friends first, somehow becoming just mates again?

After only a week, the last option already seemed impossible. How could they force such an unnatural amnesia upon their bodies and minds?

When the final whistle blew, Heather let out a whoop. “We did it!” She draped her arms around Liam and Robert, drawing them into a three-way hug. “Clean-sheet days are here again, lads.” She let them go and ran off to embrace Jamie and Katie.

Liam pulled Robert close to murmur in his ear. “Clean sheet on the pitch, maybe, but an hour from now, the sheets on your bed’ll be pure filthy.”

He gripped Liam’s shoulders, wishing they could drag each other to the grass and begin right now. “Excellent odds. Tell the bookies to place your bets.”

Liam laughed and softly cuffed his cheek. It was a casual gesture of triumph, common among footballers and coaches, but when Liam’s hand held on after the third pat, Robert was certain he was about to be kissed. For a moment they stood frozen, Liam’s green-flecked eyes sparking with the battle between hunger and caution.

Then he let go of Robert entirely. “Sportsmanship time.”

They separated so they could shake the hands and pat the backs of their opponents. Drumchapel FC were one of the few teams whose players rarely uttered homophobic or sexist comments, perhaps out of respect for Colin, who was from this part of Glasgow.

“Oi, McKenzie!” called the man himself near the fence.

Robert jogged over to Colin and gave him a careful hug. “All right, mate?”

“Aye, not bad, not bad.” He flashed his signature daft grin. “Still breathin’ most days.” Three weeks after his most recent surgery to mend his scrambled insides, Colin looked a bit pale. But survival alone was a right accomplishment.

Robert waved to Lord Andrew, who was standing twenty or so feet away, chatting to Fergus and John but glancing nervously at Colin.

“I cannae step foot outside our flat—
his
flat—without him hovering over me like a mother hen. I swear sometimes I can hear him clucking.” Colin bobbed his eyebrows. “It’s kinda sexy.”

“I’m sure. So, what’d you think?” Robert gestured to the pitch behind him. During his previous injury, Colin had still attended every practice session, sometimes offering as many insights as their manager and captain combined.