Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (27 page)

“Aye, Jamie’s strong but not quick, and his stamina’s not up to par yet.” Charlotte had told the husky fullback to start spending more hours in the gym than in the pub. “Sadly, he’s the best we’ve got.”

John considered this for a moment as he chewed. “You could have Jamie mark space instead of trying to go man-to-man. That way he won’t wear himself out chasing Sinclair.”

Fergus nodded, swishing a chunk of naan bread through the spinach paneer with one hand and using the other to scribble a few thoughts on his notepad. Later he’d enter everything they’d discussed into his tactical software to present to Charlotte Sunday.

“Luckily,” John said, “Sinclair’s such a prima donna, he hates to defend. Leaves his own fullback on a fucking island.”

Fergus jotted this down as well. “I’ve also heard he fouls a lot.”

“That’s because he doesn’t keep the ball in front of him on defense, so he has to foul to stop the play. And also because he’s an arsehole.”

Fergus chuckled. “Their captain seems a bit of a prick too.”

John rolled his eyes. “Oh my God, the arrogance. Forbes told me, ‘We’ve not had much practice time this summer, as naturally most of us have been away on holiday to Majorca and such.’”

“Naturally.” Fergus grinned at John. To find a man who not only believed in him, made him laugh, and set his body afire, but who
also
understood football? It seemed too good to be true.

Fergus’s laptop dinged with the fifteen-minute alert.

“Don’t look.” John turned the screen his way and refreshed the charity-match seating diagram. He pulled in a soft breath.

“Well?” Fergus asked, his heart pounding.

John met his eyes. “Tickets are half gone.”

Fergus gave a victory whoop, quickly swallowed by John’s deep, hard kiss. Their embrace obliterated the space between them, and in a moment John was in his lap, straddling him, hands roaming over Fergus’s chest.

“How long before Abebi’s away?” John whispered against Fergus’s ear before giving it a nip that made him shiver.

“Ten minutes, maybe?”

“I cannae wait that long.” His palm slid down over the front of Fergus’s painfully thin cotton shorts. “C’mon, we can be quiet.”

“I don’t want to be quiet. I want to hear you scream my name.”

John groaned, tilting his head back, giving Fergus access to his warm, pulsing throat. They ground together, and the pressure of John’s arse atop his balls made Fergus wonder if he could wait even ten seconds, much less ten minutes.

John’s phone rang at the far end of the sofa, making him groan again, this time in frustration. “I should answer that.”

“You absolutely shouldn’t.” Fergus gripped the back of John’s waistband to hold him down.

“It could be Mum.” He wrested himself away from Fergus and got to his feet. “She probably wants me to fetch something from the Asda on my way home tonight. Dunno why she cannae just send a text.”

Fergus’s euphoria deflated. “You’re not staying?”

“Not all night. I need to—” John’s face froze when he saw the screen. With a quick left swipe, he silenced the ringing.

“Who is it?”

“No one.” John gave a nervous laugh. “Well, obviously it’s someone, but I don’t recognize the number, which means they’re not important enough to interrupt our evening. They can leave a voice mail.” He went to set down the phone, then seemed to change his mind and started to slip it into his pocket. Then he shook his head and placed it back on the arm of the sofa, precisely where it had been before.

As John let go of the phone, it bleeped to signal a new voice mail. His hand jerked back as if the device had bitten him. After a deep breath, he shrugged and turned back to Fergus, his face eerily blank.

A cold fist formed around Fergus’s stomach. John’s furtive phone behavior was a replica of Evan’s in those last few months. The months he was cheating on Fergus.

This is not happening. Not again.

“You don’t want to listen to that?” he asked John.

“Later. Right now I want only one thing.” He sat beside Fergus and kissed him.

Fergus pulled away at the touch of John’s cold lips. “Maybe we should just keep working until Abebi leaves.”

“All right,” John said with an apprehensive look.

They finished their dinner, exchanging analysis and banter as if nothing had changed between them. Fergus wanted to pretend this was true, wanted to stick his head in the sand, enjoy what he had of John, and not worry about secrets.

But when John went to use the loo, Fergus stared at the phone he’d left behind.

Don’t look up his calls
, he told himself as he stood and crossed the living room.
Don’t be that guy.

But if Fergus had discovered Evan’s cheating sooner, things would’ve been different. He might not have saved the relationship, but a private breakup would have at least salvaged his pride. He wouldn’t have been left weeping like a wee lassie in front of a Cup quarterfinal crowd.

Fergus picked up John’s phone.

The most recent call wasn’t from an unrecognizable number, but from someone named Ian. A man John was hiding from Fergus. A man John was lying about.

Fergus tapped the name, then the message icon to see if they’d texted. At the bottom of the thread was a message Ian had sent earlier today:

Sat 830.

“What are you doing?”

Fergus jumped, nearly dropping the phone. He turned to see his roommate glaring at him near the front door. “You scared the piss out of me,” he told her.

“That’s not yours.” Abebi stalked over and snatched the device from him. “You’re going through John’s texts? What’s wrong with you?”

“He lied to me.” Fergus’s voice shook. “Why do they always lie to me?”

“Get a hold of yourself, lad.” She set down the phone and hurried to pick up her purse. “I’m late for work. Talk to him, okay? Find out the truth.”

“Okay.”

Abebi opened the front door, snatching her umbrella from the rack as she passed. “Promise me!”

“I promise,” he said to her retreating figure. He meant it too. He paced in front of the sofa, struggling for words to confront John with, barely resisting the urge to check the phone again to find out what exactly was happening at eight-thirty Saturday morning.

The bathroom door opened. “I’ve a new idea!” John shouted on his way down the hall. “Want to hear it?”

Fergus held his breath. If he asked for the truth, John would know he’d searched his phone. After jumping the gun with that rage-text the morning after their first date, Fergus had to be careful. He didn’t want to look a complete fucking loon again. Not until he had more evidence.

So he said, “Sure. What is it?”

“We could propose a second match between Warriors and the Magnificence, over in Edinburgh,” John said as he entered the living room. “Perhaps during the season, after Colin returns? Then the overall winner would be the side with the most aggregate goals, like they do in big tournaments. That way, even if you lose the first match, you might still come out ahead in the end.” He held up his hands. “Not that I think Warriors’ll lose. But this might take some pressure off you. And God knows there’s demand for tickets.”

Fergus wiped the cold sweat from his palms onto the front of his T-shirt. “Maybe. Can we just get through the first match before we talk about a second?”

John looked dismayed. “Okay. Just thought I’d put the idea out there before I forgot.”

“No, that’s—thank you.” Fergus picked up a small white envelope from the side table, wanting to give John one more chance. “This is yours.”

John opened it, brows pinching together. “A ticket for Retrofest? I told you I cannae go.”

“I bought it anyway in case your plans changed, remember?” Fergus curled his arm across himself to rub his shoulder, stiff from the tension rising within.
Please say yes. Please choose me over this Ian person. Please choose me over everything. Please.

“I told you I need to be with my dad.” John held out the envelope.

Fergus didn’t take it. “Right, because it’s the day your ma left last year. But she’s with him now.”

“That just makes him feel worse. They’re not getting back together. She’s leaving when he recovers, or at the end of July, whichever comes first.” John sat down heavily on the sofa and rubbed his eyes. “Also, she’s away for the weekend. I cannae leave him alone.”

“His surgery was almost a month ago. Surely by now he can look after himself for a day.”

“You don’t know him.”

“No, I don’t,” Fergus snapped, “because you’ve never invited me home.”

John’s voice rose to match his. “You wouldn’t like my home. It’s in a shite area.”

Fergus felt a twinge of guilt, remembering how he’d Google-Street-Viewed his boyfriend’s address. “Is it your home you’re ashamed of, or me?”

John gaped up at him. “How can you even ask that?”

“I’m just wondering where your priorities are.” Fergus folded his arms tight, flailing for some rational point to attach his feelings to. “Did you forget
we
have an anniversary Saturday as well? One month since our first date?”

“Our first date was the seventh. Saturday’s the fifth.”

“Aye, it’s our four-week anniversary.”

“That’s not even a thing!” John lifted his palms. “Why are you acting like this all of a sudden?”

Fergus hesitated, hearing Abebi’s voice in his head:
Talk to him. Find out the truth.

But was that really what Fergus wanted? No, he wanted to
know
the truth without anyone, least of all John, seeing him cope with it. He would have his pain in private this time, thanks very much.

“I’m just so…shattered.” Fergus slumped onto the sofa, two full cushions away from John. “I’ve barely slept this week, and now I’ve got this scouting report to process. My mind’ll be spinning all night.”

“Then let me occupy it for a wee while.” He slid over next to Fergus, pressing their hips together. As he nuzzled Fergus’s neck, his hand glided up his thigh, under the hem of his shorts. “I heard Abebi leave, so now we can—”

“No.” Fergus stood quickly and backed away, before he could give in to the pleas of his skin and blood and cock. “I’m sorry, but like I said, I’m completely drained after this week with the cameras and emails and always being ‘on’ for people.”

“I’m not
people
, I’m your
boyfriend
. You don’t have to be ‘on’ for me. We can sit and watch the telly or play video games or—or—” He picked up the container of coconut chutney. “Or eat exotic condiments off each other’s genitalia. Like an old married couple.”

Fergus wanted to laugh, but it came out as a choked cry.

“I could give you a massage,” John said. “No sex unless you want it. Just let me look after you.” He held out his hands, palms up. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to come to the concert.” Fergus winced at the vulnerability in his own voice. “Please?”

John’s face crumpled. “Anything but that.”

Fergus turned away from the sight of John’s anguish. Perhaps Ian was no one important, or merely a friend of John’s—or even a friend of Mr. Burns, someone who planned to help John lift his dad’s spirits on Saturday. But then why would John lie about him?

Fergus pressed his fingers to his throbbing temple, trying to calm the whirlwind of paranoid speculation. At the moment, anything seemed possible, and nothing made sense.

He turned back to John. “I’d love to have that evening with you. The massage, the telly, the chutney-covered naughty bits. How about Sunday?”

By then, he’d know whether John was cheating or not. If he wasn’t, then Fergus could happily take the shelter he offered. If John
was
cheating, then nothing else mattered.

“Sunday’s perfect,” John said. “Buy the ingredients for whatever you want, and I’ll cook it for you. And we can make plans for Monday’s anniversary date.” His bright smile faded. “You want me to leave now, don’t you?”

“I—sorry, we both need sleep. Since you can’t stay over…”

“Maybe I could. I’ll ask my mum if she—”

“No. I don’t want to come between you and your parents. You’ve spent so much time with the Warriors this week.”

“All right.” John stood slowly and went to pick up his phone. His hand paused over it for a heartbeat before grasping it and slipping it into his trouser pocket.

Fergus walked him to the door, where John turned suddenly and reached up to grasp his face.

“Listen to me.” His dark gaze pierced Fergus. “
You
are my priority, above everything in this world. I’ll prove it to you. Soon.”

Then John stood on his toes and kissed him, with such intensity that Fergus nearly cast aside his doubts once and for all. He wanted to heed his love, not his fear, and let faith and trust take hold for good. But he couldn’t, not yet.

Come Saturday morning, Fergus would see the truth for himself.

J
OHN
WAS
NO
artist.

He saw that as an asset, though, in this case. A few rough edges would make this project seem authentic and spontaneous. Which it was.

Following instructions he’d found on Pinterest, John printed out the design he’d created, taped the printout inside a plain white T-shirt, then hung the shirt on his bedroom window. The early evening sunshine glowed through the material, creating a sort of lightbox that brought the design’s pattern into sharp relief.

“Cool. It worked.” He sent a mental thank-you note to the clever lass online who’d come up with this idea.

Keeping the shirt’s surface taut, John traced the letters with a black fabric pen, trying to ignore the insistent rub of soft fur against his bare calf. “Why do you only want my attention when I’m busy?” he asked Milk, who responded with a chirpy meow and a swish of tail. “Aye, you know exactly how charming you are.”

After outlining the design’s first two words, John took a break to stretch his back and rotate the tension out of his wrist.

A knock came at his door. “John?” his mum called softly. “I’m leaving now.”