Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (20 page)

“If that’s your wee man,” Liam remarked with a grunt, “tell him I said to change positions more often next time. Your hamstring’s tighter than a nun’s fanny.”

“That’s not his ring tone.” Fergus pulled out his mobile. “Besides, I told you—”

His heart stopped when he saw the name on the screen:

EVAN

“Aye, you told me,” Liam said. “‘John’s not so wee.’”

Fergus fought to breathe. It felt like his lungs were being squeezed by a cold, merciless fist.

“Does it still hurt?” Liam asked.

Fergus remembered how getting a text from Evan had once filled him with joy, and how in their final days, he’d opened every message with apprehension, waiting for the bomb to drop. “Aye.”

“Where?”

He shook his head. “Sorry?”

“Where’s it hurt now?” He lifted Fergus’s foot to bend his knee, then lowered it again. “Feels looser, but if it’s still sore, it could be referral pain from your glutes or lower back.”

The leg was still quite sore, but Fergus needed to be alone to read this message, and he needed to read it now. “It’s, erm, much better, actually. Cheers, mate.”

“Nae bother.” Liam leaned over. “Who’s the text from?”

“Nobody.” He turned over the phone to hide the screen. “My brother. Wants to know if I’m getting a car or taking the train home to Ma’s fiftieth birthday party Saturday.” In truth, Malcolm had sent that very text yesterday, so it was an easy lie. “I should answer him, if you don’t mind. Need to check train schedules and such.”

Liam gave him a suspicious look, but got to his feet. “Are you taking John to your ma’s party?”

“I haven’t asked.”

“Ask him. He’s a good yin.” Liam gave Fergus’s arse a quick slap. “For an Ibrox man.”

When Liam headed back onto the pitch, Fergus tapped a trembling finger against the phone screen to read Evan’s message:

I miss you. Considering coming home.

Fergus’s lungs froze up all over again. He rubbed the spot where his breastbone met his collarbone, hoping his throat would open enough to let air inside.

Not now,
he thought.
He can’t do this to me, just when I’m starting to stand again.

He lifted his eyes from the phone in his hand to the players on the pitch. Colin had the ball and was weaving through the midfield with his typical flair and bravado. He lobbed the ball to Shona, then streaked forward to support Duncan. The Warriors offense was slowly turning into the well-oiled machine it had once been under Evan.

But this was
Fergus’s
team now. They’d elected
him
captain, unanimously. In a few short weeks, he’d earned the trust and respect the club had put in him.

“You can’t have them back,” he growled. “You can’t have
me
back.”

Deep down, Fergus had known the day would come when Evan tried to waltz back into his life. He’d dreaded it the same way he’d dreaded their breakup. He’d wondered if he would have the strength to turn Evan away.

Perhaps you should consider going to hell instead,
he replied.
You’ll fit right in there.

Fergus hit send, and just like that, he could breathe again. He drew a deep inhale through his nose, then blew it out slowly through his lips. Then he put his phone back in his bag and stood up, legs limber and head clear. He’d been strong and calm and totally in control. He was going to be okay.

That was when Colin screamed.

= = =

John arrived home from the New Shores office to find his parents bickering. Again.

“It’s Belgium versus Russia,” his mum was saying as John opened the front door. “How is that even slightly interesting?”

“Loads of Belgians play in Britain,” Dad replied. “Fellaini, Lukaku, Chadli. I want to watch them in the World Cup.”

So do I.
John set his overnight bag on the foyer floor and hung his tuxedo kilt on the wall peg.
But not if it means starting a rammy with Mum.

“I’ve let you have the remote control all weekend. Is it too much to ask for one hour of my own programs?”

Their large white cat, Milk, trotted down the stairs into the foyer. John scratched under Milk’s chin and whispered, “Shall we escape now, just the two of us, get a swanky flat in the Merchant City?”

“C’mon, Janet.” Dad’s voice turned cajoling. “The World Cup only comes every four years. This could be my last.”

“Och, God willing.”

Feeling guilty for leaving them alone together for twenty-four hours, John swept into the living room and raised his arms. “Who wants to see pics of me in a kilt?”

“I do!” they both shouted, smiling and applauding. This seemed to unite them, at least for the moment.

John plopped onto the sagging center sofa cushion and pulled out his phone. They shifted in closer to him, Dad emitting a grunt of discomfort, one hand to his chest. It pained John to see his once-robust father laid low like this. Though his recovery from the bypass was thus far on schedule, the doctors had warned of the lasting effects of open-heart surgery, including fatigue and depression.

Mum let out a squeal at the sight of the first picture, a full-length shot of John and Fergus in their kilts. “You look so grown up,” she told him.

“I am grown up. Dad, did you notice I’m in the Royal Stewart tartan?”

His father nodded, a gruff smile touching his sea-blue eyes. “The same I wore at my wedding.”

“‘Your’ wedding?” Mum asked. “It was mine, too.”

John’s father nudged him. “Hope this kilt brings you better luck than it did me.”

“It was more luck than you deserved,” Mum parried.

John’s stomach tightened, but only partly because of his parents’ barbs. He would need all the luck in the world to keep things right with Fergus. After hearing about the quarterfinal breakup humiliation, John was more loathe than ever to betray his boyfriend’s trust by doing the Orange Walk.

But the alternative was breaking his father’s equally fragile heart. Last night, John had tossed and turned for hours in that hotel bed. Three times he’d nearly woken Fergus to tell him the truth, and three times he’d regained his sanity. If Fergus knew what John was, it would be the end of them.

John just had to walk this tightrope for two more weeks, and then he could be himself with both men, be a good son and a good boyfriend.

“This Fergus,” Dad said, “he looks Irish.”

“You think?” John tilted the phone and squinted at the screen. “I’ve always thought he looked Canadian.”

Mum laughed. “Whatever he is, he’s proper handsome and a good man. William, did you know Fergus came to be by John’s side the day you went into hospital? After only one date.”

“Hm.” Dad rubbed his gray stubble and gave his signature frown that said
I’m impressed but won’t admit it out loud
.

John flipped to the next photo, a selfie he and Fergus had taken with a quartet of toothpicked rice balls.

Mum laughed and reached for the phone. “Let me have a closer look.”

“No, I’ll not hand this over. You’ll start swiping through the pics, seeing things you can never un-see.”

She shielded her eyes. “Good point. I’ve suffered enough trauma from my students’ phones. The things these kids show each other—they’ve no concept of privacy.” She sighed in the direction of the wall clock. “Time to start dinner.”

“Aye, and I’ll do it, Mum. You’re officially off duty the rest of the day.”

“In that case, I’ll have a bath.” She ruffled John’s hair as she stood up. “I’m glad you and Fergus enjoyed last night. Makes all this worth it.”

When she went upstairs, John turned to his dad. “Makes all
what
worth it? Are you being a terror?”

His father waved a dismissive hand. “You know how it is.” He pointed at John’s phone. “Gonnae be careful, keeping those sorts of photies on your person. Someone finds it, they’ll know more about you than you want them to know.”

“I’m careful, Dad.”
Believe me.
There were no pics on John’s phone of himself as an Orangeman. That was one closet he kept padlocked shut.

His phone rang in his hand, startling them both. It was Fergus.

“Hiya,” John answered.

“Hey.” Fergus sighed. “Apparently it’s my turn to phone you from a hospital waiting room.”

John’s heart lurched. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“It’s Colin. He’s torn his MCL—that’s the medial collateral ligament in his knee. Your mate Katie, it turns out, has a mean sliding tackle.”

“Oh no.” John put a hand to his face, awash with guilt over indirectly breaking the Warriors’ star playmaker. “Is she all right?”

“She’s inconsolable. It was an accident, of course. Even Colin blames himself for not checking his shoulder. That’s Rule Four, after all.”

Milk jumped onto the sofa and dropped a furry toy mouse beside John.

“Still, she’s just joined the team and now injured your best player—second best, I mean, after you.” John checked to see the mouse was in fact a toy and not real, then tossed it across the room for Milk to chase.

“No, Colin was our best. He’s made such a difference of late.” Fergus sounded despondent. “But yeah, you should phone Katie. She’s a mess.”

“I will.” John glanced at the telly, where his dad had just switched on the Belgium-Russia World Cup match. “How long is Colin out for?”

“It could’ve been worse. We all feared it was his ACL, which would’ve needed months of recovery. MCL tears usually mean six to eight weeks, so Colin should be back in time for the season.”

“But not the charity match.”

“Right.” Fergus paused. “It’s strange how important that thing’s become to me. It’s just a friendly, so it doesn’t mean anything, and yet it feels like our biggest match ever. We’ve got something huge to prove.”

John’s chest tightened at Fergus’s tone, with excitement that his boyfriend was finally one hundred percent enthusiastic about the charity match, and with fear that Fergus was staking his self-worth on the game’s outcome.

After they hung up, John explained the Colin development to his father.

“Och, that hurts,” Dad said. “Have they got much depth on the bench?”

“I don’t think so. I imagine it’s not easy finding cracking good LGBT footballers, even in Glasgow.” On the TV screen, the countdown-to-match clock showed twenty minutes. John patted his dad’s knee and got to his feet. “I’d best see to dinner now so I won’t miss kickoff. Need anything?” he asked on his way to the door.

“Fergus doesn’t know about you being in the Orange Order, does he?”

John stopped in his tracks. “I’ve never told any man,” he said without looking at his father, “or anyone at uni.”

Dad muted the television. “You’re ashamed of us.”

“It’s not that.” John kept his eyes on the cracked wood of the living-room doorpost. “I just like to keep things separate. Like the way you hate taking calls from your job on days off, or how you’d rather stay late at the office than bring work home with you. It’s different worlds, you know?”

“Pish. I don’t hide the fact I’m a construction manager from my family. But you hide half of what you are because you think people up there won’t approve.”

And I’m right. In the real world, people see Orangemen for what they are.
John turned to his dad at last. “What’s it matter, when I’m quitting the Order after the walk anyway?”

“It matters because it’s part of you. You think you can just bury it, like a cat shiteing in a litter box.” He gestured to Milk, who was now lying on his side, reaching under the sofa for the lost toy mouse. “You think you can skulk away and hope nobody notices the big pile of sand you’ve left behind. Maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll never know. But you’ll know. Cos you cannae deny your blood.” Dad turned back to the TV. “You’ll always be Orange.”

J
OHN
PEERED
THROUGH
the rental car’s window as he and Fergus drove out of a rain-soaked Glasgow, bound for the Taylor family home in Perthshire. “I hope you wrapped up the shoot before it started pishing down,” he told Fergus, feeling guilty he couldn’t be there to help with the Warriors’ big promo-video production.

“We nearly did. The final group shot was a wet mess.” Fergus turned the wipers on high.

“People expect to see rain in Scotland. It’ll make you look intrepid.”

“Aye, you should’ve seen Colin dancing in puddles on his crutches.”

John smiled, playing along with Fergus’s brave front. The Warriors had not only lost their lead goal scorer, but they were once again without an attacking midfielder.

“Have you found a replacement yet?” he asked Fergus. “What about your other midfielders, or your substitutes?”

“They’re too inexperienced. Which wouldn’t be an issue if we were only preparing for the season—that’s two months away. It’s the charity match I’m worried about. I want to win.” Fergus’s lips formed a determined line. “So either we change formations, which isn’t easy for players at this level, or I go back to being the number ten, like I did after—like I did last time.”

After Evan left.
“And what’s wrong with that?” John asked him.
Besides resurrecting old traumas.

“As captain, I want to be as far back as possible, so I can get the big picture.” He spread his long, freckled fingers, holding the steering wheel with his thumbs. “When I’m on the pitch in deep midfield, it’s all so clear. I can see every link between our offense and defense. I can see our opponent’s offense like I’m reading their minds. It reminds me of looking at a blueprint and envisioning the building it could be.” He glanced at John. “Does that sound daft?”

“No, it’s beautiful. I wish I could see the world that way.”

“I’m glad you don’t, or I’d never beat you in FIFA Nintendo.”

“But wasn’t—” For some reason, John stopped himself from saying Evan’s name. “Your last captain was the number ten, right?”

“Yeah, but frankly, he wasn’t much of a captain. Too busy being the star.”

“Then you’re all better off without him.”

Fergus didn’t reply. John looked over to see the corners of his mouth tighten and turn down.