Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (14 page)

“But these are the same teams we play all season, aye?” Colin asked.

“Because they’ve nae choice,” Liam shouted. “We’re in their league, so they play us or forfeit.”

“And this charity match will have more publicity than any league game.” Fergus glanced at John. “At least, that’s the plan.”

“And well it fucking should be.” Colin raised his glass. “We’re saving the world, lads.”

“I was thinking,” John said. “If we cannae find an opponent in your division, why not ask one of the teams in the gay football league?”

Colin and Liam turned to Fergus, their eyebrows rising to comical levels.

“What am I missing?” John asked.

Fergus sighed. “Our former captain made some disparaging remarks about the quality of play in the gay leagues.”

“He was right,” Colin said. “I played for one of those sides before I joined Warriors. Good times, good lads, but not good skills.”

“It wasnae just the things he said,” Liam pointed out. “He’d scout the gay clubs for the best players, then recruit them for Warriors.”

“Poachers, they call us,” Colin told John, “and that’s one of their nicer words.” He leaned back against the barstool and scanned the dance floor. “So I wouldnae put much hope in—” He froze, his pale green eyes fixed on the far side of the club. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Fergus turned to see a svelte young man with golden-brown hair sweep onto the dance floor, followed by what looked like an entourage of sycophants. “Who’s that?” he asked, trying to keep the stark admiration out of his voice.

“‘Who’s that?’” John echoed. “Only Lord Andrew Sunderland, second son of the Marquess of Kirkross. He studies at Glasgow Uni. He was in my UK Economic History lecture, among others.”

Colin snorted. “Did you study how many millions of pounds his family’s stolen from the poor over the last few centuries?” He rubbed the fierce-looking unicorn tattoo on his right arm, a habit Fergus hadn’t seen him do in weeks. “When that fucking toff had his big YouTube coming-out, he acted like he was doing us plebe poofs a favor. Meanwhile he blethers on Twitter about how government austerity programs haven’t gone far enough, how benefits should be slashed again. I’d like to see him live off food-bank handouts for a week.”

Fergus frowned, knowing working-class folk like Colin had it rougher than ever these days, between the sluggish economy and government cutbacks. For Colin, a night out with his mates was a rare luxury.

John nudged Fergus with his glass. “You trust me, aye?”

“Erm…” Fergus hadn’t meant to hesitate. “Of course. Yeah. Why?”

John rose on his toes to kiss him. “I’ve an important mission that could change your life.”

= = =

“Is this bloke bothering you, Lord Andrew?”

“No, but you certainly are.” Without looking at his bodyguard, Andrew—or “Drew” as he’d insisted John call him—flicked his fingers in a shooing motion that made his silver rings catch the light over the bar. “Now, John Burns, enough uni talk. Tell me, what are your plans for the summer?” Like all Scottish aristocrats, Andrew’s accent was pure English, and though it was still fairly loud here at the bar, his voice rang clear and strong. It was a voice clearly accustomed to being heard and obeyed.

“I’m working on a football project with the LGBT club at uni. But it’s still a secret.” John glanced away, hoping Andrew would take the bait.

“Football project?” Andrew practically purred as he scooted to the edge of his barstool, his toes and fingertips brushing against John. “Do you play?”

John smiled.
Gotcha.
The tabloids had connected Lord Andrew to various pro footballers in the English, Spanish, and Italian leagues. Never confirmed, of course, since none of the players dared come out.

“I don’t play myself,” he told Andrew, “but I’m mates with some members of this gay football club here in Glasgow.”

“And?” Andrew tilted his head, his cheekbones at an angle no doubt calculated for maximum appeal.

John peeked over both his own shoulders, then leaned closer. “All right, I’ll tell you. We’re organizing a preseason friendly to raise money for charity—and raise awareness, because society’s still got this archaic idea that gays can’t be athletes and vice versa.”

“Well done!” Andrew squeezed his hand. “Who’s the unlucky opponent?”

“That’s one of the details we’re trying to sort. You know, if you want… ” John interrupted himself to take another long sip of the melon-flavored cocktail Andrew had ordered for him. “Speaking of football,” he added, dragging out the suspense to pique Andrew’s interest, “aren’t England playing a World Cup match against Italy tonight?”

“Yes, it starts in forty minutes. So you were saying? If I want…” He prompted John with an impatient wave of his hand.

“Right. Yes. If you wanted to be involved somehow, we’d be honored to have you.”

“Of course!” Andrew nearly hopped into John’s lap. “I adore football—and worthy causes, of course. How can I help? I could pay for kits, equipment, advertising. Name it.”

“It’s not money we need. Well, yes, we do need money, lots of it.” John didn’t want to seem a beggar or like he was after his mate’s wealth. “But what we could really use is your stature.”

“Stature?” Lord Andrew asked guardedly, his silver-blue eyes narrowing with wariness.

“If someone like you were to publicly support the match, say, via social media, then we’d have massive attention and the money would see to itself. You wouldn’t need to donate a pound. Also, the more attention we get, the more the message spreads.”

“The message?”

“That gays can do sport.”

“Right.” Andrew tapped the end of his cocktail straw on the bar as he thought. “Of course, I must be choosy about which causes to endorse publicly.”

“Absolutely. You don’t want to dilute your brand.”

Andrew’s shoulders sagged in gratitude. “Oh John, if only more people understood my difficulties the way you do. Now remind me, what’s your lovely charity called?”

“New Shores.” John reached into his shirt pocket. “Here’s my card.”

Andrew took the card and examined it. Then he pulled out his phone, whose silver case was etched with
Keep Calm and Ring Carson for Tea
.

John waited while Andrew tapped his screen, no doubt doing a quick background check on New Shores.

“Oh dear.” Andrew slid off the barstool and took John’s arm. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” John searched in vain for Fergus as Andrew dragged him toward the back of the club, his bodyguard following close behind.

They approached an unmarked, unremarkable door obscured by the shadows of a deep recess. A hulking man in an expensive suit stepped out and opened the door without hesitation. As Andrew ushered John inside, he turned to his bodyguard and said, “Stay here.”

Wondering whether he was on the verge of an initiation or assassination, John stepped into a small, dimly lit lounge playing soft electro-jazz. It had its own bar, where crystal decanters were arranged in front of a gilded mirror. Lining the perimeter of the lounge were snugs featuring red velvet cushions and gold throw pillows. From the bar where he stood, John looked across the intimate parquet dance floor to see a trio of ivory-inlaid snooker tables.

So this is where the other half drinks
, he thought.

Among the men sitting in the snugs, a few were paired off, laughing and flirting, but most were in groups of three or four, wearing business suits and serious faces. They looked as though they could be discussing plans for world domination. In contrast to the fawning from the rest of the club patrons, Lord Andrew received nothing but casual nods here.

“We’ll sit at the bar.” Andrew perched on one of the stools. “Do you enjoy brandy?”

“Never tried it. Hey, isn’t that—” He started to point at one of the snooker players.

“Shhh!” Andrew smacked his arm down. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I thought I recognized—”

“Yes, you did.”

“I didn’t know he was—”

“Now you do. And if you tell a soul you saw him here, I won’t be able to protect you from the consequences. I wouldn’t want to, either.” Andrew turned to the bartender. “Two Camus Cuvee, please, Dominic.”

“Will the 3.128 suffice?” Dominic asked.

Andrew sighed. “If that’s all you’ve got.”

As the bartender poured their drinks, John noticed he wasn’t young and hot like the ones in the rest of the club. He’d no doubt been hired for his discretion and loyalty, like the staff at all the aristocratic great houses.

 
When Dominic set the delicate glass in front of him, John was almost afraid to touch it. But he imitated the way Andrew cradled it in his palm, swishing the amber liquid around the bottom of the bowl.

“First of all,” Andrew said, “please know that I support your cause wholeheartedly. In here.” He tapped two fingertips against his heart, then took a sip.

John nearly tapped his own chest before sipping, thinking it was part of some arcane brandy-drinking ritual. Luckily he stopped himself in time.

“I appreciate your moral support.” John took a small sip, then stared at the glass. “Good God, this is…phenomenal.”

“Yes. John, listen. I fully acknowledge that New Shores are doing a noble thing by helping poor souls escape those backwards countries and their primitive beliefs concerning sexuality.”

John decided not to point out that many of those “backwards countries” had been quite open and tolerant about sex until countries like Great Britain had gone and colonized them.

“The thing is…” Andrew leaned closer, and his voice lost all affect. “Your organization tends to oppose the operations of the UK’s Home Office.”

“Only when the Home Office treats asylum seekers poorly, which is often. Do you know the sorts of questions they’re asked in interviews, how our esteemed government determines if someone is as gay as they claim to be?”

“I don’t—”

“Example. ‘Did you put your penis in his backside?’ Or ‘How do you know you’re a lesbian if you’ve never been with a man?’ Or ‘How many times did you use your mouth to—’”

“Stop!” Andrew passed his hand over his forehead like he might faint. “I get the picture, thank you.”

“We try to save the asylum seekers’ dignity from a full-on assault by the agents of the United Kingdom. Not to mention find them decent homes to live in while their applications are being considered, and keep them out of rat-infested government detention centers where they’re treated like criminals.” His voice threatened to break on the last word, as he thought of Keith. “So, aye, in that respect, we do oppose the Home Office’s operations. Or you could say we’re trying to offset their excesses.”

“Look, I’ll be the first to admit Her Majesty’s agencies aren’t perfect, but someone like me can’t be publicly involved in any anti-government undertaking.”

“Why not?”

“It just wouldn’t—” For a moment, as he groped for words, Andrew looked half as old as his twenty years. Then he took a deep breath, another sip of brandy, and pulled himself into a haughty posture. “It just wouldn’t do for someone in my position, especially as I’m already courting controversy by being out and proud.”

John couldn’t believe his ears. “Proud?”

“However, I am happy to make an anonymous donation.” Andrew turned his head to Dominic, who was either eavesdropping or psychic, as he immediately withdrew a large brown-leather wallet from beneath the bar and passed it over. “Now, John, how much do you need? Will a thousand be enough?” Andrew counted out a stack of rose-hued hundred-pound notes, which he then pressed into John’s hand. When John didn’t answer on account of not being able to breathe, Andrew said, “No, adverts are expensive. Better make it two thousand. I’ll have my people take you to a bank machine.”

“No.” John willed himself not to close his fist on the biggest stack of cash he’d ever held. “I told you, it’s not your money we want.”

“It’s all I can give. Take it or leave it.”

John tried to set down the pile of notes, but his arm felt paralyzed. He spoke his mind anyway.

“You say you’re out and proud, Lord Andrew. But if you were truly proud, you’d stand up for all gays, not just rich white ones.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Must you turn this into some tedious class-warfare debate? Oh wait, yes, it’s what you Glaswegians thrive on, with your working-class nobility and your fetish for underdogs. As if being
lesser
is something to take pride in.”

John gaped at Andrew. For a fleeting moment, the lord seemed to flinch at his own harsh words. Then he arched one tawny eyebrow, daring John to retort.

“You want to see what real pride looks like?” John dropped the cash on the bar as he got to his feet. “That’s what pride looks like.”

“No, love, that’s what stupidity looks like.” He tucked a white-linen business card into John’s shirt pocket. “My private number, for when you come to your senses.”

“Fuck you. And your money. And your wee private lounge with its secret gay Tories and its overpriced brandy.” He picked up the glass. “Which I will now take with me, because I’m not
that
stupid.”

“Bye,” Andrew sang as John headed for the door.

Out in the club’s main section, John went to the railing overlooking the dance floor. He spied Colin, Liam, and Fergus amid the mass of sweating, bouncing, grinding bodies—an easy task, given the latter two’s height and red hair. An Adam-Lambert-looking lad in a faux-fur vest sidled up behind Fergus, then retreated when the brawny Liam took a single, intimidating step toward him. Fergus swayed on, eyes closed, oblivious to his mate’s intervention.

Making a mental note to buy Liam a drink later, John leaned on the railing and watched Fergus dance. His body was as precise and graceful here as it was on the football pitch, without a single wasted motion. Confident, in control, hiding the fear and hurt that lay deep within.

The rest of the club seemed to fall into shadow, as though Fergus were at the center of a photograph with blurred edges. John could almost taste the drop of sweat as it descended from Fergus’s temple, down his neck, beneath the open collar of his black Napa-leather shirt. Knowing that later tonight he
would
taste it, would taste as much of Fergus as he wanted—which was all of him—filled John with a joy he’d never known before.