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

“I know all that. Tell me about the players.” Lifting his chin, John tugged his maroon-and-blue-paisley tie to loosen the knot. “And yourself,” he added with a sideways glance as he undid his shirt’s top button.

Fergus rubbed the side of his neck, which had grown suddenly warm. He couldn’t assume John was gay; those LGBT organizations were full of straight allies. Gay or straight, John wouldn’t be above flirting to get Fergus’s cooperation.

“So, erm, I’m the captain and usually play deep midfield—that’s the part closest to the defense,” he added, unsure how much John knew about football. “Colin, the one standing on the far touchline, he’s our new attacking midfielder—what some call a ‘playmaker’ or ‘number ten.’”

“You’ve lasses on your squad?” John nodded toward the Warriors’ keeper, who was jogging toward the goal at the end of the pitch, her long bronze ponytail sweeping her back. “That’s rare.”

“Heather Wek is one of the team’s founding members. She was a lad at the time.”

“Well, strictly speaking, she was always a lass. She just happened to be born in a male body.”

Fergus rubbed his neck again at the way John said
body
. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

“It’s the correct way of looking at it.” John cast a sly smile to soften his chiding, then turned back to the pitch. “Now who’s that lad with the shaggy brown hair? He looks familiar.”

John’s tone made Fergus oddly jealous. “Robert McKenzie, and he’s straight.”

“Oh?”

“We don’t discriminate. Besides, we had to take him if we wanted his best mate, Liam. They’ve played together their whole lives and seem to share a brain, which makes them a dream central-defending unit.”
Am I babbling? It feels like I’m babbling.
“Robert studies at GU, so perhaps you’ve seen him there?”

“Maybe. Och, it’s pure meltin’ today.” John undid another shirt button. “That’s better. So what about you, same as Robert?”

Fergus’s eyes locked onto the smattering of dark chest hairs revealed by John’s open collar. “No, I’m not straight.”

John laughed. “I meant, are you a Glasgow Uni student?”

“Oh!” Fergus’s face heated, which usually meant it was turning as red as his hair. “Yes—I mean, no. I just sat my final RIBA exam—that’s Royal Institute of British Architects. Seven years of uni, over at last.”

John’s eyes widened, accentuating their chocolate-brown irises. “Well done! It’s like you’re a real adult or something.”

“If only I felt like one.” Needing to focus on anything but John, Fergus scraped the sole of his right shoe against the toe of his left, dislodging mud from between the studs. “I still have that student’s nightmare. Where it’s exam day and you’ve never attended a single class?”

“Och, that’s the worst. Whenever I have that dream, I always seem to be naked.”

Fergus coughed, then adjusted the waistband of his shorts. “Well…” He flailed for a snappy comeback, sorely out of practice when it came to banter.

“Ah! I know who Robert looks like. This American actor Brandon, from the Dakota Wyatt films. You know the one I mean?”

Fergus gaped at John. “The porn star?”

“Aye. It’s the hair, and the body type, and the…you know.” John sculpted the air with his hands. “Everything. Oh, here he comes!” He gave Fergus’s arm a quick squeeze. “Look casual.”

The hulking, square-jawed defender was trotting over, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat from his cheek. “Fergus, Charlotte wants us to play a possession drill in five minutes, so we’ll need you on the pitch.” He nodded hello to John, then went to the bench and started counting out yellow and blue vests for the two sides.

On a whim, Fergus said, “Hey, Robert? John here thinks you’re the spitting image of this American actor he’s seen.”

Robert brightened. “Aye? Which one?”

“Braden Dakota Wyatt,” John said.

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s done mostly indie films.” John nodded vigorously. “Gonnae Google him, see for yourself?”

“I will. Cheers!” Hugging the vests to his chest with one arm, Robert hurried back onto the pitch.

Fergus covered his own mouth to muffle his laughter. “I hope his girlfriend’s not with him when he Googles.”

John shrugged. “He plays for an LGBT football club. If she’s not secure about his sexuality by now, a wee gander at gay porn shouldn’t make the difference.”

“She might even find it inspiring. After all, straight lads love watching fake lesbian action, so why wouldn’t it be the same for straight lasses and us?”

John’s smile vanished. He stared up at Fergus, whose stomach dropped in horror.

Oh God. What did I say?

“Are you implying—” John whispered with a trembling lower lip. “Are you telling me…porn’s not real?”

Keeping a straight face through his relief, Fergus laid a funereal hand on John’s shoulder. “Young man, I’m so sorry. The truth is a hard, hard thing.”

This set them off, cackling like schoolboys. Fergus couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard his cheeks hurt.

When Charlotte blew her whistle, Fergus straightened up and wiped his eyes. “Sorry, I must do football now.”

“Right, right. So, about the charity match?”

And there he is, trying to close the deal.
Fergus’s mood sank again as he realized John was only flirting to get what he wanted. “I’ll talk to the team and get back to you.”

“Let me give you my card.”

“Sorry, I’ve nowhere to put it.” Fergus lifted his arms to display his lack of pockets.

“Aye, you do. Here.” Before Fergus could react, John went down on one knee before him. Placing a steadying hand behind Fergus’s left calf, he slipped the business card into the top of the long white sport sock. Then he looked up at Fergus through thick, dark lashes. “How’s that, then?”

Fergus swallowed, unable to speak. The picture before him was sending waves of electric desire to his now painfully confined cock. John’s fingers, poised inches from the sensitive bare skin behind his knee. John’s wide eyes, gazing intently at him from below. John’s full lips, parting and curving in a knowing smile.

How’s that, then?
Fergus repeated in his head.
It’s fucking paralyzing, that’s how it is.

John stood, brushing the dirt from his midnight-blue trousers, then lifted his hand into the narrow space between their bodies. “It was good to meet you, Fergus Taylor.”

Christ, the way he said that name…

Fergus grasped John’s hand, with breath for only one word. “Aye.”

= = =

John watched Fergus’s swift, graceful gait as he ran toward the center of the pitch for the kickoff. Halfway there he stopped. John hoped the tall, lean ginger would turn back with one last word or smile for him.

Instead, Fergus wrapped the captain’s armband around his upper left arm, then gave his biceps a quick flex to check the fit. Finally he laid an almost reverent palm over the white letter
C
, his expression inscrutable.

When Charlotte had first handed Fergus the armband, he’d stiffened suddenly, as if his back had spasmed. Then, as he and John chatted, Fergus had fidgeted with the piece of black cloth, stroking, stretching, and squeezing it like a stress toy. But once they’d laughed together, he’d seemed to forget he was holding it at all.

Kind of like how John had forgotten he was trying to persuade Fergus to play the charity match. What had started as a charm offensive had turned into genuine flirtation. His fingertips still tingled where they’d brushed the smooth skin behind Fergus’s knee.

As he sat down on the bench to wait for Charlotte, he pondered Fergus’s inexplicable—and rather annoying—reluctance. What did he think he was protecting his team from? Doing a good deed? Attracting hordes of new fans?

The wind drooped to a bare breeze, letting in the sounds of nearby traffic and accentuating the sun’s heat. John unbuttoned his cuffs so he could roll up the sleeves of his ghastly Oxford shirt, the sight of which brought to mind his afternoon in court. At least the Fergus Taylor Enigma was proving a distraction from
that
nightmare.

The manager blew her whistle to start play, then walked backward off the pitch, watching the team intently. “Well? What’d he say?” she asked John when she reached the bench.

“That he’ll let me know.”

“Riiiiight.” Charlotte sat beside him with a sigh, smoothing back pale-brown wisps of hair too short for her ponytail. “Listen, if Fergus refuses to do the charity match, it’s not because he doesn’t want to help or doesn’t care. It’s because he
does
care—about his players. He wants this club to be seen as a serious sporting organization, not a sideshow or a source of scandal.”

He watched Fergus slipping effortlessly among his players, directing their actions like a conductor with an orchestra, and marveled that he had such command on his first day as captain. “Why would this match cause a scandal?”

“A gay football team raising money for a gay charity? It calls attention to, you know, the gay.”

“And?”

“And it could lead to distracting drama. Personally, I think
more
attention is what we need.” Straightening up, she propped the end of her battered clipboard atop her thighs like a shield. “Attention means supporters, which means money. Can you guess my primary goal for this season?”

“Getting promoted to the top division?”

“That’d be nice. But no, my primary goal is not to lose a single player because they can’t afford proper shoes, much less membership fees. I want to provide those things.” Charlotte lifted her chin, which looked sharp enough to chisel ice. “This club’s a source of pride and hope for Glasgow’s working-class gays. It’s one thing growing up different in the West End, but in the poorer areas—”

“I know. I live in Ibrox.” Even the straight lads on John’s street had to earn one another’s respect with punches and kicks. Once he’d come out, he’d had to be twice as tough as the rest—and twice as good at finding allies—just to survive.

“Then you understand why this is important.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t tell Fergus, but I’ve already made a list of possible opponents. I’ve known most of the local managers since we played youth football together twenty years ago. The sooner we get this scheduled, the sooner you can start selling tickets.”

Charlotte clicked her ballpoint pen and returned her focus to the pitch. Before she could start scribbling, John asked, “What’s with the ‘Rule One, No Drama’ thing? Whose idea was it?”

“The rules are a new thing,” she said, sketching a formation with rapid, slashing strokes. “Doesn’t matter whose idea. Fergus and I are of one mind on that matter.”

Sensing he’d worn out his welcome, John stood and thanked Charlotte for her support. Then he added, “Just one more wee thing. About your captain—”

“Aye, he’s single.” Charlotte raised somber eyes to John. “But grievously wounded.”

T
HE
CHANGE
IN
John’s posture as he stepped out of the subway station wasn’t subconscious. Walking through the shadow of the majestic red-brick Ibrox Stadium, he deliberately clenched his fists, broadened and hunched his shoulders, and slowed his pace to a swagger.

One day, John promised himself, he’d live north of the River Clyde. He’d be free to walk however he wanted, be the sort of man he wanted, twenty-four hours a day. Until then, to survive, he’d be an Ibrox lad. At least on the outside.

On the inside, he mulled over Charlotte’s warning about Fergus. She hadn’t given details, but it was clear her new captain was on the rebound. John had always avoided heartbroken men, since he himself couldn’t offer anything more meaningful than a casual hookup. Not while he had so much to hide.

So north of the Clyde he was gay, and south of the Clyde he was…something else. Something secret. Something shameful. Something necessary.

Still, as he made his way around a busy roundabout, trying not to get run over by cars exiting the circle, John couldn’t stop thinking of how that haunted chill had melted from Fergus’s hazel eyes as they’d laughed together. How his voice, with its sweet Highland lilt that made John’s toes curl, had come to life. Not to mention how those legs, when seen from below, went on and on and on.

Reaching his own quiet side-street, he saw three men his father’s age sitting on a low, grimy concrete wall in front of a terrace home that belonged to no one.

“All right, mates?” John said as he passed through their collective cloud of cigarette smoke. As a boy, he’d spent many a summer afternoon at this makeshift streetside pub, listening to these men dissect the latest Rangers match over a bottle of tonic wine. He’d thought they were so cool, having every day off and all.

“Wee Burns!” said Jimmy Stokes, who’d taught John to play pool when he was six and poker when he was ten. “Gonnae do the walk the weekend?”

“Nah, I cannae.” John pivoted to answer without actually stopping. “Got an exam.” His last exam had been ten days ago, but Stokes wouldn’t know that.

“Good luck, ya clever wee bastard!” Stokes smiled as he blew a cloud of smoke in front of his sunken, stubbled cheeks. Seeing him in the harsh sunlight, John realized how much older he looked than Dad.

“Cheers.” John opened the small iron gate in front of his house. Its squeak almost covered Stokes’s next words:

“Shame about Keith,” he said. “Fuckin’ travesty of justice, punishing a man for the thoughts in his heart.”

John pretended not to hear him.

Inside, the house was eerily silent, without the usual blare of TV. John found his father sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of whisky, still wearing his suit from today’s sentencing.

“You’ve not changed yet?” John asked him as he opened the refrigerator.

“Just got home. My mates took me out for a pint and a pie after.” He stared at the upside down
Daily Record
in front of him. “I wasnae hungry, though, so there’s leftovers in there if you want it.”

“Yaldy, I’m starving.” John grabbed the polystyrene takeaway container and a bottle of Tennent’s. “You shouldnae be eating pub food anyway. Cholesterol, mind?” Instead of sitting at the table, he popped open the box on the worktop beside the sink. The steak-and-ale pie was vaguely warm inside, though its crust had gone all cold and soggy. “I went to see about the charity match,” he said with a full mouth.