Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (25 page)

A flood of warmth flowed down John’s spine. He wanted to continue where they’d left off, but he also wanted to savor this rare glimpse of stars in a Scottish sky. So he stayed where he was, while reaching down to reposition Fergus’s cock. It had softened slightly, but once it slipped inside John again—this time with little resistance and no pain—it stiffened in an instant.

John planted his hands and feet on the blanket beneath them and began to move his hips, taking Fergus in and out at his own pace. The pleasure ballooned within him, making his prick rise and swell. The stars above seemed to stretch and distort, like he was approaching them at near-light speed. This time, his climb toward orgasm took a swift, smooth, unstoppable trajectory.

Fergus swept the blanket off of them, then slid his hands up over John’s chest until he found his nipples. John moaned louder as Fergus’s thumb and fingers tweaked and twirled over the hard nubs, sparking twin jolts that catapulted John toward the edge. He rode Fergus faster and faster, desperate for this delicious release.

With nothing touching his cock but the cool night air, John came in a mind-blowing, body-rocking rush. Every muscle clenched, and time seemed to stand still. His vision and hearing pulsed with each furious surge of cum.

“Yes…” Fergus seized John’s hips, holding them aloft as he pumped into him with short, swift strokes. “Oh God, yes!” He gave one last thrust and held it as he cried out. “Can you feel it?” he gasped. “Feel me come inside you?”

John could feel Fergus’s cock pulsating within, his shaft alive with the flood of cum. The sensation gave John’s own orgasm new life, and though he’d released every last drop, the ripples of pleasure swept on and on.

Eventually even these waves ebbed, bit by bit, until they both lay utterly still. With his last ounce of strength, John rolled off Fergus onto the blanket. His limbs had turned to jelly.

Did I die?
he wondered.
I’m pretty sure I died.

They gazed at each other for what must have been several minutes, or possibly a year. Then Fergus said, “Thank you, John. For your trust.”

John wanted to reply with banter like
Thank you for your cock
, but he couldn’t. He could only lie there and watch Fergus’s chest rise and fall with his slowing breath.

Finally he said, “I feel different.”

Fergus’s eyes crinkled. “I know.”

“I feel…more. I feel…I just
feel
. It’s kinda terrifying. But in a good way.”

“I know.”

John regarded the stars again. “I don’t, however, feel any less of a man.”

“Why would you?”

He couldn’t say it. He wanted to kick himself for bringing it up at all. “Forget it, it’s ridiculous.”

“It may be ridiculous, but lots of people believe it.”

“I know.” John edged closer and tugged the blanket up over their bodies. “Like my dad.”

“But you said he was supportive. That he just wanted you to be happy.”

“Aye, as long as I didn’t—”
Fuck any Catholics, or…
“He said, ‘Don’t let any of those lads make a lass out of you.’”

Fergus scoffed. “First of all, that’s misogynistic.”

“My dad’s misogynistic. That’s why he’s divorced.”

“Second, how would he ever know?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Ah. So it’s not about what
he
believes, but about what he made
you
believe. That it’d make you less of a man.”

“Perhaps.”

Fergus tensed a bit. “Did you think me less of a man because I let you fuck me?”

John thought for a moment, wanting to give an honest answer. “No,” he said finally. “It was never about you or anyone else. It was always about me.” He considered all the things that had made him feel “masculine” these last several years: lifting weights, working construction, marching in those blasted Orange Walks.

Strangely, fucking other men wasn’t on that list.

John lifted Fergus’s arm and curled it around himself so he could rest on his chest. “Listen, my noble Highlander. When I was inside you, and vice versa, I didn’t feel like a man or a woman or anything in between.” He pulled Fergus close and shut his eyes. “I felt like myself.”

= = =

Far too early the next morning, Fergus was awakened by Isobel’s ear-splitting demands for breakfast. Sunshine blasted through the panes of the cottage windows, which sadly lacked blackout curtains.

John stirred beside him. “What time is it?”

“You don’t want to know.” Fergus’s stomach growled, in apparent agreement with his niece. “Might pop over to the house and see if anything’s cooking. You can stay and sleep.”

Izzy let out a wail that made Fergus check the windows to see if they’d shattered.

John sat up. “Food it is.”

They dressed and went to the main house, where they found Fergus’s mother frying sausage in the kitchen. “I had enough of being fed by others last night,” she said. “Hope you’re up for a full Scottish breakfast.”

“No argument here.” Fergus reached around John for the teapot on the worktop, not-so-accidentally bumping into him. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” John shifted over, brushing his bum against Fergus’s crotch. “I’m not.”

Fergus moved away quickly before he ended up with a raging hard-on in front of his mother. He tried not to picture John’s naked body arching against his, or hear the sounds he’d made as Fergus filled him up. But the saucy look John was flashing him over his teacup told him that would be impossible.

To ease the torture of keeping his hands off his boyfriend, Fergus moved to the table, dodging Ma’s three Border Collies—Jack, Bobby, and Teddy—who were milling about in search of fallen food. As he slumped into a kitchen chair, Fergus felt the weight of his phone in his front trouser pocket. He sneaked a glance at his mother, who frowned on workaholic habits such as checking email on Sunday mornings. But she and John were standing over near the cooker, chatting about the pups.

“Have you any pets yourself?” Ma asked him.

Fergus set his phone on the table, blocking it with the teacup, then opened his email app.

“We’ve just the one cat,” John told Ma. “His name is Milk.”

“Lovely! Named after Harvey Milk?”

“No.” John sounded confused. “After…milk.”

Fergus saw the message at the top of his inbox. “The video!” He leapt to his feet. “Heather finished the video!”

“Already?” John rushed over, sloshing tea onto his fingers.

“It’s just the rough cut. She wants our feedback so she can do the final edit tonight.” He clicked on the private link in Heather’s email as Ma and John gathered close to peer at the phone. The streaming rate here in the countryside was brutally slow, so Fergus hit pause while waiting for it to fully load.

Malcolm entered through the side door, dragging his feet like a zombie. “Why do babies eat so much?” He staggered to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of breast milk, which he took to the microwave. “What’s everyone looking at?”

“Warriors’ publicity video for the charity match.” Fergus resisted the urge to bounce on his toes. “We filmed it yesterday morning.”

“Cool.” Malcolm joined them, nicking a cooked sausage from the plate near the sink.

Finally the video finished loading. Fergus set the phone sideways on the table and hit play. The four of them crouched down to see the screen.

“Oh aye, that’s the stuff,” John murmured at the opening shot.

A wave of heat swept up Fergus’s neck as he saw a close-up of his own legs, one boot atop a scuffed, grass-stained football, his bare knee visible beneath the hem of a kilt. It wasn’t his family’s tartan, but rather the Heritage of Scotland, featuring a range of purples from the deep violet of a midnight summer sky to the pale shade of thistle, the country’s national symbol. The fact it matched the Warriors’ violet-and-white-striped home kit was pure serendipity.

On the music track, their fullback Jamie began to croon a new version of the James Curran classic “Football Crazy,” a song literally as old as the sport itself:

Youse all know my mate Fergus

A Highlander sae braw.

He came to bonnie Glasgow

For he’s mad about football.

As the song continued, the camera panned up, revealing Fergus wearing not his football shirt, but one of the brand new T-shirts displaying the Warriors’ sword-and-ball logo. He smiled, remembering how John had wanted them to add a suggestive-looking second ball.

He found a home with Warriors,

A team of ill repute.

The other sides were loathe to play

This bunch of tasty fruits.

Onscreen, Fergus turned to show the back of his shirt, featuring one of the Warriors’ new mottos:
Real Men Play With Balls
. As the chorus began, he sailed a free kick into the goal, past a life-size cardboard Vladimir Putin.

“Get in!” Malcolm high-fived Fergus. “Belter of a shot.”

“Thanks, only took eight tries.”

The camera panned to show the rest of his team, similarly clad, jumping and cheering throughout the chorus.

Cos we’re football crazy,

We’re football mad.

The football, it has robbed us of

The wee bit sense we had.

And when we all come out together

We’ll pay nae mind to snubs.

For none can handle balls quite like

Our Warriors football club.

Malcolm and Mum burst into laughter, and John gave Fergus a wicked grin. He’d helped Jamie write that final couplet.

The setting changed to George Square, at the heart of Glasgow’s City Centre. The rain had kept the square less crowded than usual, allowing the Warriors to arrange themselves near the base of the center attraction, a towering column topped by a statue of Sir Walter Scott. Jamie sang the second verse, about Charlotte. As their manager glowered at the camera in the foreground, arms folded, the Warriors jigged behind her.

Near the end of the second chorus, the team gathered into two clusters at the base of the Scott column, making it look like a giant cock and balls.

“Oh my God,” Fergus murmured. He touched his ears to see if he was blushing. Sure enough, they were burning hot.

“You should see your face, lad,” John said. “It’ll be that color forever now, won’t it?”

“I knew this would be cheeky, but seeing it now, all put together?” Fergus watched as he and his teammates ended the dance by turning their backs, bending over, and flipping up their kilts to reveal rainbow-colored briefs. “It’s so…so…”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘awesome.’” John laughed with Fergus’s brother and mother as the Warriors fled the square, chased by police. In real life, the police had merely shooed them away, but Heather had edited the footage to make it seem hilariously dramatic.

The third verse’s lyrics told the story of Colin’s knee injury in practice, but its onscreen “reenactment” was dramatized for effect. Instead of executing her sliding tackle on the pitch, an American-flag-bandana-wearing Katie ambushed Colin in a bus stop shelter, whacking his leg with a pipe wrench. He went down hard, at which point Katie reared back and fake-slammed her foot into his groin. With a satisfied smile, she crossed her arms and turned her back to the camera, displaying the lasses’ version of the T-shirt:
Real Women Kick Balls
.

Fergus’s mother clapped extra hard at that. “Ha! I love it!”

John gave Fergus a thumbs-up. Though Katie was new to the team, John wanted her to have a prominent role in the video so that it would appeal to women and Americans.

Throughout the rest of the song, the Warriors danced and camped through various Glasgow landmarks: Kelvingrove Museum, the Necropolis, the Clyde Arc bridge, the statute of the Duke of Wellington (famously wearing an orange traffic cone), ending at the entrance to Firhill Stadium.

As the credits rolled (including the disclaimer “No footballers were harmed in the making of this video”), Fergus, John, Malcolm, and Ma sang the final chorus together, with the dogs barking along almost on key.

“Show it again!” Fergus’s mother hopped up and down, waving her spatula. “I want to watch it again!”

Lainie came through the side door with Izzy. “What’s all the shouting, then?”

“You’ve got to see this, it’s brilliant.” Malcolm reached for his daughter. “I’ll feed her while you watch.”

“Talking of food,” Ma said, “I need to turn the sausage and start the eggs. Oh, and the tattie scones!”

Fergus plucked the spatula from her hand. “I’ve got it. You watch the video again. I’ll be seeing it a thousand times this week.”

He crossed the kitchen, sparing a wink and a smile for John. The music began again with Jamie’s rapidly strummed guitar intro.

As the eggs cooked, Fergus paused for a moment to watch John and his family laugh and sing. He wished he could freeze in his memory everything he saw, smelled, and heard right now—the sunlight streaming through the butter-yellow kitchen curtains, the sausage sizzling in the pan beside him, and the voices of those he loved tumbling over one another.

Tomorrow, life would change. There’d be press conferences, interviews, and ticket-sale drives, not to mention near-daily practice sessions. The thought of all that attention and pressure still made Fergus queasy, but now, he felt he might be up to the task.

Still, he couldn’t help wishing this moment of Perthshire peace would last forever.

“I
T
WON
’
T
GO
viral if you keep checking it,” Gillian said as she drove John home from the New Shores office Wednesday afternoon. “A watched pot never boils, you know?”

“I’ve watched lots of pots boil.” He slipped his phone into his pocket with a sigh, then nodded to his boss. “But I’ll try it your way.”

It would do him good to take a brief pause from obsessively following the views, tweets, and posts of the Warriors’ “Football Crazy” video. Interest had built steadily since its release yesterday morning, but it had yet to go truly viral. John knew the first two days were critical, so he’d stayed up until the wee hours last night with the team, creating a new list of high-profile people to send the video to. One retweet or share by the right celebrity could skyrocket the Warriors to stardom.