Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (31 page)

Then he smacked that curiosity back down. None of those details mattered. “Sorry isn’t good enough,” he croaked.

“I know.” Evan fell silent, shifting his feet on the square’s gray-resin surface. Fergus stared at the College of Building and Printing’s towering facade, entirely covered in a rose-colored vinyl wrap with the words PEOPLE MAKE GLASGOW in twenty-foot-tall white letters. He thought of that night in the glade when he’d told John that this city’s people were its beauty. Including John himself.

“I can’t believe after all these years of hype,” Evan said, “the Commonwealth Games are finally about to happen.”

“Is that why you’ve come to Glasgow?”

“I came because I missed you. I said so in my text, remember?”

“I missed you too.” Venom curdled Fergus’s voice. “But not recently.”

“You found someone else.” It wasn’t a question. Perhaps Charlotte had told Evan about John.

“I did find someone. Then I un-found him when he turned out to be a manipulative lying bastard like you.” He sipped the water again, dribbling some down his chin. “Obviously I attract that sort of man.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not telling you, of all people.” In fact, he planned to tell no one why he and John had split. He wouldn’t repeat the embarrassing mistake he’d made after Evan left, when Fergus had shared his feelings and the details of their breakup with anyone who’d listen—and even those who weren’t listening.

Besides, saying
John is an anti-Catholic bigot
out loud would make it hurt that much worse.

Evan cleared his throat. “To be completely honest—”

“Careful, don’t strain yourself.”

“—I decided to come home when I saw the Warriors’ video.”

Fergus gave a hoarse laugh, but stopped when it nearly became a heave. He’d hate to vomit at the feet of Queen Victoria, though he’d be far from the first. “I see,” he said. “Now we’re famous, you want a piece of that.”

“No! I saw Colin was hurt and thought perhaps you needed me. Fergus, I’m not asking you to take me back as a boyfriend, though God knows that would make me happier than I ever deserve to be. But I’d like to be your friend. And I’d like to serve the team any way I can. I’ll carry the equipment, I’ll bring the water. I’ll be anything you need.”

In a moment of dark perversity, Fergus recalled John’s Operation Burrito. The thought of hooking up with Evan for the purpose of farting in his face seemed strangely hilarious right now. Perhaps Fergus had finally been infected by Glasgow’s sick sense of humor.

“What we need is an attacking midfielder,” he said finally.

Evan leaped to his feet. “Thank you. You won’t regret—”

“On two conditions. First, the team have to agree to take you back. I won’t jeopardize our new cohesion. They no longer trust you.”

“I’ll earn back their trust, and yours.” Evan moved to Fergus’s side of the statue. “I’ll never forgive myself, but I hope one day you’ll forgive me. For your own sake, if nothing else.”

Fergus looked up into Evan’s sky-blue eyes, glistening with unshed tears. He knew he should feel
something
. Fury. Triumph. Perhaps even attraction, as Evan was wearing that Tyrian-purple football shirt that set off his tanned arms and face, and the sun was glinting off those soft, golden waves of hair.

But nothing could cut through the shroud of despair John’s lies had swaddled him in.

“Condition number two,” Fergus said. “Don’t ever touch me off the pitch. We are not friends and we never will be. And unless it’s necessary to the game, don’t touch me
on
the pitch either. No hugs, no back slaps, no shoulder pats.”

Evan nodded sadly, then reached down to Fergus. “Does this condition apply to a handshake of agreement?”

Fergus stood, swaying slightly, and faced Evan eye to eye. “Yes. It does.” With what little dignity he had left, he turned and walked away.

= = =

John limped down the chipped pavement, away from a place he would never return to.

He’d always thought he’d feel triumphant—or at least relieved—on the day he quit the Orange Order. He’d pictured himself walking out of the local lodge with a spring in his step, buoyed by the knowledge he’d done the right thing.

But it had come a day too late. So instead of triumph he felt defeat. Instead of relief he felt anguish. And thanks to the literal ache in his ribs and the metaphorical ache in his heart, his steps were heavy, slow, and one-hundred percent spring-free.

He phoned his mother first. “It’s done,” he said when she picked up.

Mum let out a soft sigh. “Did Ian give you a hard time?”

“He sent a deputy to meet me and do the paperwork, so I guess he doesn’t want to see my face just now.” He spied old Mrs. Robertson near her front door, bringing her Pomeranian, Jinx, in from his walk. John waved to her, though it hurt like hell to raise his arm. Mrs. Robertson glanced at him, then went inside without responding. “The usual Sunday afternoon fellowship gathering was on in the main hall, but I didn’t go in, and I don’t think anyone saw me.”

“Probably best you did it quietly.”

“I thought my departure would be more ceremonial, you know? I pictured it like that old
Star Trek
episode when Worf got officially shunned by the other Klingons.”

She chuckled. “When they all stood in a circle around him, then turned their backs one by one?”

“Aye. This was pure anticlimactic. But I imagine they were glad to finally be shot of the wee Craigton Road bufty.”

“John, for all the local Orangemen’s faults—and they are legion—none of them saw you that way. At least not out loud. Believe me, I would’ve known.”

“If they respected me, it was because of Dad and Keith.”

“No, it was because of
you
. They could see you were a man of honor.”

John caught her use of the past tense. “I’m certainly not one now.”

“Well…that’s a matter of debate.”

He caught sight of the supermarket up ahead. “I’m near the Asda. Do you need anything?”

“No, just come home. Your dad’ll be awake soon. It’s nearly time for our call with your brother.”

John picked up the pace, holding his side. “Don’t let him tell Keith about yesterday.”

“He knows you want to tell him yourself in person on Friday. Nicole knows too.” She spoke calmly. “It’s all going to be okay, John.”

He shook his head.
Nothing will ever be okay again. I’ve seen to that.

F
ERGUS
ARRIVED
HOME
after practice to find Abebi sitting on the couch with a cup of chamomile tea and a plate of shortbread, her black-silk sleep mask pushed up on her forehead. The stereo was playing soothing New Age tunes, possibly something by Yanni.

“Insomnia again?” he asked, dumping his keys next to the television instead of on their designated hook beside the door. He lacked the strength to lift them that high.

“It’s so fucking sunny,” she said in the direction of the balcony. The thick, fern-green curtains were drawn shut, but light leaked in around their edges. “Even with the blackout blinds in my room, I can feel that massive ball of gas lurking out there in the sky. Feels wrong to be awake.”

Fergus didn’t envy his flatmate’s insane hospital schedule. “Maybe the sun is practicing for the Commonwealth Games.”

“Don’t mention the Games. This city’s already a nightmare. Every day a new street closure. No doubt the drunken tourists will keep us busy with emergencies.” She set down her plate. “Talking of the Games, I know it’s late notice, but my cousin in Nigeria has some time off work, and she wants to come visit. Hotels are all booked up.”

“Of course she can stay here.”

“You don’t mind?”

“It’s not as if
I
haven’t had a regular guest here of late.” He sank down onto the couch beside her. “Though not anymore.”

Abebi caught her breath. “You and John split up?” When he nodded, she said, “I wondered, seeing the empty Jameson bottle in the recycling bin. You hadn’t touched that stuff in weeks.” Her voice softened. “What happened?”

He opened his mouth to say, “I don’t want to talk about it,” like he had with Liam, and Robert, and Colin, and everyone else who’d asked today why he looked pure shite. But the strain of pretending he wasn’t disintegrating had finally worn him down.

So he told Abebi everything, despite his shame at not following her advice—or rather her command—to have an honest talk with John. Instead of saying
I told you so
, Abebi made him a cup of peppermint tea for his churning stomach and just listened.

“I feel like I never knew him,” Fergus said. “Like I was dating an actor who was only playing a part. Playing it brilliantly.”

“It must feel quite a shock.”

“I just don’t get it. How can John—or any gay man—be part of the Orange Order? They’re no more tolerant than the Catholic Church.”

“But you said his father was supportive.”

“That’s what he told me. Could’ve been a lie. Maybe he’s not out at home after all, other than with his mother. No wonder he didn’t want to bring me to his house. He was ashamed of me.”

“Or he was ashamed of what you’d see.” She took her sleep mask off her forehead and squinted at it, as if just now realizing it had been on all this time. “Another possibility is that his friends in the Order did know he was gay and were fine with it, the same way your Catholic friends and family are fine with you.”

“Maybe, but still.” Fergus put his head in his hands, trying to imagine John chanting all the insults that Protestants routinely hurled at him and other Celtic fans at Old Firm matches. “The Orange Order is a hate group. They exist to oppose and suppress Catholics. Yet I’ve never known a less hateful man than John.”
Or so you thought. You’ve been fooled before, by your heart and your prick.

“Then there must be another explanation.” Abebi stood and crossed the room to the balcony doors. She tugged back the curtains a few inches, letting in a blast of sunlight that made Fergus’s headache return with a vengeance. “When I first moved to the UK from Nigeria, I felt such an outsider. I still do sometimes. Every time a patient looks at my name badge and asks the nurse for ‘a doctor who speaks English,’ every time some random pedestrian says, ‘Blackie go home!’”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re an outsider too, Fergus,” she said, her pajama-clad figure silhouetted against the late afternoon sun. “It’s just easier for you to hide it. But inside you know you’re different, so you found people who make you feel less different. You found the Warriors.”

And John had found the Orange Order. Or it found him.

Fergus fished his phone from his kit bag’s outside pocket. He held it gingerly in his palm, as if it were a grenade. “I should listen to his messages, shouldn’t I?”

Abebi turned to him. “You really need me to answer that?” When he shook his head but still didn’t switch on his phone, she added, “Want me to stay with you while you listen?”

“No, I need to be alone for this.” He stood on shaky legs and picked up his mug. “Thanks for the tea, and for—well, for being right.”

She shrugged. “I am a surgeon, which pretty much makes me God.”

Alone his room, Fergus lay down to ease his throbbing head, wondering if he even had the strength to hear John’s voice, or the mental capacity to discern between the truth and a lie. Probably not, but he retrieved the first message anyway:

“Fergus, I’m so sorry.” John’s throat sounded rough with tears. “It’s not what it looks like. It’s the opposite to what it looks like. Please give me a chance to explain.”

Fergus’s stomach tightened to a near-cramp at the sound of John’s voice. He moved on to the second message:

“I know you’re angry. You’ve every right to be. I lied to you, and I’m sorry. But if you’d just hear what I have to say, you’ll understand.”

The next voice mail had come Saturday night, when Fergus was already passed out drunk: “It’s been twelve hours now,” John said, “so clearly you don’t want to hear from me. But I’m worried you got jumped on the subway and never made it home. Please just let me know you’re okay. Please.”

Fergus clutched his pillow, remembering John’s battered face as he shouted “Run!” How those dark eyes, framed by trickles of blood, had stared up at Fergus as his train pulled out of the station. Yet John was the one worrying about
him
.

The last voice mail had come just an hour ago, while Fergus was at practice. “Okay, then, I’ll just tell you here. Aye, I was marching in the walk. I was a member of the Orange Order’s Ibrox Lodge, just like my dad and my brother. But I was gonnae quit today forever. Which I did, by the way. And yesterday, before you called to me, I was gonnae stage a protest against their hate, there in front of my dad and my nephew and all the elders of the Lodge.”

Fergus sat up. “What?” he whispered. In his agitation, John was running his words together, speaking faster than Fergus could understand. He rewound the message a few seconds.

“—elders of the Lodge. I should’ve told you my plans, should’ve told someone, but…I didn’t. I guess I thought this way you’d be prouder of me. I’m such an eejit. Please, please, please forgive me. I lo—”

Fergus’s pulse thumped in his ears as he waited for the end of that sentence.

“I cannae lose you,” John finished in a whisper.

Fergus slowly lay down again. He replayed all the messages twice, then read John’s pair of emails, which were too riddled with pain and desperation—not to mention uncharacteristic typos—to provide much clarity.

He wanted to believe John’s heart wasn’t in that march. But the way he’d smiled, walking down the road carrying that cursed banner, still made Fergus feel sick. And even if John were telling the truth now, it didn’t change the fact he’d lied before, so many times. He could lie again—if not now, then someday, about something even more important.

Fergus put his hand on the pillow where John had laid his head so many times. “I love you,” he whispered. “But I can’t trust you, not ever again.”