Playing With Fire (Glasgow Lads Book 3) (17 page)

As the Star captain’s foot descended, Robert bent his knees, then jumped with all the power in his legs. The ball whistled straight toward him. He slammed his forehead into it, heading it hard up the pitch toward Evan, who chested the ball down, then took off on a blistering counterattack. Duncan was waiting for him upfield, and between the two of them, the ball was soon in the back of the opponent’s net.

Robert pumped his fist in triumph. Out of habit he turned to celebrate with Liam.

But his best mate had turned away, bending over to adjust his shin pads. “We dodged a bullet there,” he said without looking at Robert. “Well, not me, of course, as I got a yellow. Had to take one for the team, because you wouldn’t listen. That’s twice in five minutes I’ve mopped up after your pathetic excuse for an arse.”

Robert stared at him. Liam finally looked up, then blinked, as if hearing his own words. “Sorry, Rabbie,” he said. “You know I don’t mean it. You’re a good player.”

Robert snorted. “How can I tell when you mean anything? You’re always talking pish.”

The halftime whistle blew just then. Liam and Robert headed for the bench, but not together.

Inside the dugout, Robert went straight to the end of the bench and took a seat beside Evan so that Liam couldn’t sit with him. It was juvenile, he knew, but he needed to put space between them before he exploded.

Liam hesitated, then went to the opposite end of the bench to sit next to Heather.

“Everyone brought dry socks, I hope?” Charlotte asked, passing out towels.

“Ugh, so many wet man feet.” Katie took a deep breath and pretended to hold it.

“Remember that one time we had a proper dressing room?” Duncan said as he removed his soggy boots. “That was cool.”

Evan leaned over to Robert and whispered, “Did you and Liam break up?”

Robert froze, his left sock half off. “Break up from what?”

“From whatever you were a week ago, when you were practically snogging in front of the goal.”

“We were not.” Robert shook his head. “How did you work out that we—”

“With my eyes. Look, I don’t care what you are to each other off the pitch, but in a match you need to put it aside, like Fergus and I always did.” Evan shifted to face Robert, turning his back on Duncan beside him. “You used to be the most disciplined member of our squad. Now you’re acting like a one-man defense unit instead of part of a team.”

“I don’t need your opinions,” Robert snapped at him. “You’re not my captain anymore.”

“So? You won’t listen to your
current
captain or vice-captain. What’ll it take for you to defend Boyd properly, an edict from the Queen?”

Robert gripped his towel with both hands to keep from punching Evan in the neck.

“Gonnae listen up,” Charlotte said, swiping back clumps of damp brown hair from her face. “Good work going forward today. Peach of a goal, Harris and Hollister,” she said to Duncan and Evan with a smile, then turned to Fergus and the two wingers, Marcelo and Alisdair. “Midfielders, you’re my fucking heroes. I know it’s tough keeping possession when the weather’s pure dreich like this. Now, the defense—” Their manager glanced at Robert, then frowned. “Where’s Carroll?”

Liam raised his hand. “Over here.”

Charlotte swiveled her head between the two of them, no doubt confused at the separation of her so-called conjoined twins. “What’s going on at the back? McKenzie? Any ideas?”

Robert focused on drying the spaces between his toes. “I switched off a few times. Won’t happen again.”

Charlotte gave a skeptical grunt, which Robert agreed with. His problem was more than a momentary lapse of concentration. Evan was right—he’d lost all discipline and self-control today.

Liam cleared his throat. “It’s not Robert’s fault,” he told Charlotte. “Hard to hear anyone over that rain and wind. I’ll shout louder.”

“Not sure that’s humanly possible,” she said. “Look, the two of youse get your communication sorted, pronto. Try and recapture the magic you had at Drumchapel, okay?”

A cold drop of water fell on the back of Robert’s neck. He looked up to see a crack in the ceiling of the wooden dugout. As he swiped his neck dry with the towel, he wished he and Liam could follow Charlotte’s orders, that they could “recapture” how they’d been during that brief time.

But those days—those seven days of hope and passion—were nothing but a memory Robert needed to forget.

= = =

“What’s going on with you and McKenzie?”

Liam paused, gripping the pick he was using to dislodge the mud from the studs of his boots. Then he glanced at Heather beside him on the bench. “Nothing.”

“Pish,” she said. “I spend ninety minutes a week, plus training sessions, watching the two of you from behind.”

“Terrific view, aye?”

“I’ve seen better.” She stuffed her wet boots and socks into her kit bag, then picked up her gloves. “My point is, no one knows you lads like I do—as footballers, at least. I know what you and Robert are supposed to be, and you’re not it.”

You have no idea.
Liam watched Charlotte and Fergus conferring outside the dugout, their faces etched with worry, no doubt about the state of the Warriors defense.

The whole first half, he’d wanted to reach out and pull Robert close, tell him he was sorry, that maybe they could give it a go, try a…romance or something. Whatever Robert wanted.

But if this was how things were after they’d been hooking up for only a week, how much worse would it be if they became boyfriends and then broke up? At least now they had a chance of being friends again, once Robert discovered there were other, better men to be had.

“What do you want me to say?” Liam asked Heather. “I won’t put all the blame on him.”

“Even if that’s where it belongs?” She slipped on her gloves, adjusting the Velcro at the wrists as she spoke. “He’s not listening to you. He’s barely even looking your way.”

Liam had noticed. He’d never felt so alone on the pitch. “I’m to blame too. I’ve had a short fuse lately.”

“Yeah, I heard you tearing strips off Robert. You never yell like that, not even at the rookie substitutes. Not even at Jamie.”

“Huh?” Jamie turned to them. “Not even me what?”

“Nothing.” Heather waved him away, then grasped Liam’s arm with her thick glove. “If you need to talk…”

“Thanks, I’m all right.” He thought about how Heather had transitioned over the last few years, all the changes and challenges she’d had to deal with. “But maybe you could talk to Robert? He’s got some…issues just now. It’s not my place to say what.” Liam managed a smirk. “He could probably use advice from a wise old woman like yourself.”

“Hey, just because I’m turning thirty next year doesn’t mean I can’t take you.” She squeezed his arm hard. “Mind, I’ve still got man hands.”

Charlotte stepped back inside with Fergus. “Okay, here’s the plan for the second half.” She pointed to Jamie and Katie. “You two—along with Taylor here—are gonnae drop back, help Carroll and McKenzie defend. Shettleston’s attackers are exposing gaps in our back line. We need to get more compact.”

Liam looked down the bench to see Robert sitting with his elbows on his thighs, head hanging low, eyes on the muddy dugout floor. He wondered how he could get through to Robert in time to save the match—and their friendship.

When the teams headed back out onto the sodden pitch, Robert stalked straight toward his position on the right side instead of waiting for Liam near the penalty spot like always.

Liam approached him. “Aren’t we forgetting something? It’s nearly kickoff.”

“And?”

“First rule of center-backs?” Liam shouted.

Robert sighed. “Do we really have to—”

“First rule of center-backs?” Liam grasped Robert’s shoulders. “Come on, mate,” he whispered. “They expect this.”

“Don’t fuck up,” Robert said in a dead voice. “Second rule of center-backs?”

Liam could barely get the words out. “Stick together.”

“Right.” Robert started to turn away, skipping their secret handshake.

“I’m sorry about what I said before.”

Robert looked at him from the corner of his eye. “
Which
before?”

“Before halftime.”

“Ah.”

Liam moved toward him. “We can talk about the other stuff later.”

“The other stuff. Okay.” Robert turned away.

Liam gritted his teeth. He’d had enough of the sullen treatment. “Listen—whatever happens between us, we need to be all business on the pitch.”

“Is that one of your
policies
?” Robert spat out over his shoulder. “Along with no-anal-between-mates and don’t-suck-and-tell?”

Liam looked around, relieved to see no one in hearing distance, thanks to the driving rain. “I cannae believe you’re bringing that up now. The whistle’s about to blow.”

“And who else have
you
blown on this team? Fergus? Evan?”

“No! Obviously not them.”

“I already know about Colin.” Robert swiped the dark, dripping curls off his forehead. “So who else? Duncan? Marcelo?”

Liam bit his lip, unwilling to confirm or deny those long-ago encounters.

“What about Jamie?” Robert asked.

Liam turned away. “This is not the time.”

“Jamie, too? How did I not know this? I’m allegedly your best mate, yet I’d no idea you’d wrapped your lips round half the cocks in our starting eleven.”

Liam whirled on him. “My sex life is none of your fucking business!”

Robert stalked forward, bringing them chest to chest. “It became my fucking business that night at Loch Lomond.”

“Lads!” Heather seized them with her formidable goalkeeper’s grip and pulled them apart. “Don’t make me knock your heads together like a couple of weans, all right?” Grasping their jerseys, she tugged them toward each other again. “Now hug it out real quick-like so Shettleston don’t see our weakness.”

Liam gave Robert a brief, back-patting embrace, feeling his mate flinch in his arms. Then they let go and turned away from each other.

“Remember, you’re to stay tight.” Heather clapped her hands, her rubber gloves making a sharp, thick sound. “I need my big, beautiful lads to protect my wee lassie self.”

As Liam turned to smirk at her, he saw Robert do the same. Their eyes met, and their smiles faded.

The whistle blew to start the second half. Liam took a deep breath to center himself, thinking about one thing—keeping that little round ball out of the penalty area to protect Heather’s “wee lassie self” (even if she was over six feet tall and had the leap of a leopard).

Usually at moments like this, Liam could convince himself that only football mattered. Everything else—the crap weather and his family worries and the strife between him and his best mate—got locked in a drawer at the back of his mind.

Why couldn’t Robert do the same? Why couldn’t he separate the personal and professional? Why was he so fucking emotional about everything?

Liam shook his head, realizing he was doing it too.

Gonnae stay switched on
, he commanded himself.
You’ve got to focus enough for both of you today.

Up the pitch, the Warriors midfielders had firm control of the ball near the halfway line, but Shettleston were hanging tough, not letting them progress. Fergus and the Warriors central midfielders patiently kept possession, searching for a seam to pass through to an attacking player.

But then their opponents started to press, so Fergus made a back pass to Liam, luring Boyd into chasing it. With his left foot, Liam swiped the ball over to Robert, who neatly chipped it to Jamie on the right. When a Shettleston winger closed down on Jamie, the fullback did some of his magical footwork and slipped around him. He returned the ball to Fergus, shouting, “Man on!” to signal that their captain had someone bearing down on him from behind.

Under pressure, Fergus one-touched the ball back to Robert. Boyd followed the pass again but seemed to be tiring of this cat-and-mouse game already. Liam watched the bearded striker’s shoulders sag in frustration, noticing just now that his face looked a bit familiar.

In the distance behind him, there came a rumbling. Assuming it was another train, Liam let it pass through his awareness without a second thought.

The Warriors were doing exactly what they needed—slowing the game, rebuilding their own confidence, exhausting their opponents’ bodies and minds. Liam took the pass from Robert, feeling that familiar calm settle over him like a warm blanket. At moments like this, he felt connected to every teammate, and to the squelchy earth beneath his boots.

The rumbling came again, louder, rolling like…thunder? In
November
?

Liam snapped his focus back to the pitch as Fergus passed him the ball. He one-touched it to Robert, realizing too late that instead of facing up the pitch, Robert was half turned toward the goal—perhaps because of the thunder. Boyd was swiftly bearing down on him from the outside.

“Man on!” shouted Liam, along with every other nearby Warrior and half the Rainbow Regiment.

But it was too late. With no time to react, Robert’s first touch was too soft. Boyd dealt him a crushing tackle, sending him to the ground and stealing the ball. Years of training told Liam to make for the goal, put his body between the net and the striker any way he could. But he was frozen to the spot, staring at Robert’s prone form.

The whistle blew, and the ref sprinted over to book Boyd for his reckless tackle. Frowning, the striker stomped back to the scene of his crime and reached down to help his victim up. Slowly Robert got to his hands and knees, then leaned on Boyd to stand. As they rose together, the smirking striker spoke in Robert’s ear.

Liam saw his best mate’s eyes go blank with shock. As Boyd jogged away, Robert watched him go, surprise turning to rage. He took a step forward as if to charge, but the referee blocked his path, palms out in warning.

Before he could stop himself, Liam ran up to Boyd. “What did you say to him?”

The striker gave Liam the once-over. “Just that seeing you today gave me a nice wee walk down Memory Lane.”

The bottom dropped out of Liam’s stomach. That’s why this lad looked familiar. Maybe he’d been mates with one of the guys at Liam’s school, or maybe he’d been a Hannigan’s customer. Liam wasn’t exactly sure.