Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (35 page)

Fergus took a deep breath, then dropped his hands. John was sitting up now, his hair mussed from Fergus’s fingers, his lips flushed from Fergus’s mouth.

“The truth is,” Fergus said, “I see you as many things now. And I don’t know which is real, because of the lies you told.”

John’s face crumpled. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Let me finish. When I look at you, ‘Proddy—” He couldn’t say it. “The terrible thing I called you is not one of those things I see.”

“Are you sure? Even now, after stepping into my shabby wee house and being greeted by a portrait of Queen Elizabeth? After seeing pictures of me wearing orange since I was a wean? After seeing this—” his fist closed around the Rangers fleece as his voice curled with sarcasm “—knowing that every night I sleep swaddled in the mantle of the enemy?”

“Yes, even now!” Still, Fergus moved away, backing up against the door. “And your house isn’t shabby. It’s lovely.”

“For Ibrox, you mean.”

“No, for Drumoyne.” He shifted his feet. “Technically you live in Drumoyne.”

“I know that, but how do you? I never gave you my address, yet you somehow found me last Saturday.”

Here it comes. My own reckoning.
“I saw it on your father’s hospital form. The one the nurse asked you to initial.”

“And that’s where you saw his birthday was the tenth of December rather than the fifth of July.”

Fergus looked down at the tarnished brass doorknob, then nodded.

“Yet that day you feigned ignorance to try to trap me in another lie.” John got to his feet. “And you went through my phone that night at your flat, right? How else would you know where I’d be Saturday morning?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you ask me why I’d lied about Ian’s call? What were you hoping to find by stalking me?”

“I thought there might be another man.”

“So you’ve never had a drop of faith or trust in me?”

“I did at times,” Fergus said, “but it turns out you weren’t worthy of it.”

John stared at him. “Fair enough,” he said finally. He picked up his beer from the floor, took a long sip, then wiped his mouth. “How do we fix this, Fergus?” He started to pace between the bed and the desk, holding his side like it was sore. “How do we start again?”

“I don’t know—” He forced out the rest of the sentence “—if we can.”

John took in a sharp breath. “You cannae mean that.”

“It’s not that I don’t care about you. I do, more than you could possibly guess. But I don’t know if I can get past all…this.” He gestured to the stack of photos on the desk. “I spent my whole life hearing how your people wished my people had never come to Scotland and taken all the jobs, taken taxpayers’ money for our parochial schools to indoctrinate children to worship the Pope.” Fergus felt his coherency slipping away. “Or whatever it is you believe about us.”

John slammed his beer on the desk. “You want to know what I believe?” He grabbed the photos and tossed them onto the center of his bed. Then he yanked up the corners of the Rangers blanket, forming a bundle with the pictures inside. “Take this.”

“What for?”

“To burn it. To throw it into the Clyde. I don’t care. I don’t care about any of it.”

“Yes you do.”

“Not as much as I care about you.” He pushed the bundle against Fergus’s chest. “Take it!”

“I can’t.” Backed into the corner, Fergus held up his hands. “I can’t ask you to be someone new. We can’t ask it of each other.”

“Why not, if that’s what it takes to be together?”

“Because to
stay
together, we have to be the men we are. If we try to erase our pasts and meet on some mythical neutral ground, we’ll end up hating each other. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but in a few weeks or months. I need more than that.”

“I don’t understand!” John’s voice pitched up, high and tight. “I’m offering everything you want!”

“No, you’re offering what you
think
I want.” Fergus stepped closer and took John’s reddening face in his hands. “I want the real you. But you have to show me who that is.”

“I’m doing that now! You just won’t admit you hate what you see.” John threw down the bundle, the blanket muffling the sound of glass breaking inside. Then he winced and turned away, holding his side again. “Please go now,” he said through gritted teeth. “I cannae bear your disgust, no matter how I deserve it.”

Fergus wanted to swear that he felt nothing but love and respect for John. But no words could convince either of them of that, not while so much hurt lay between them.

He opened the bedroom door, then stopped. “This wasn’t inevitable, you know. If we’d not kept so many secrets from each other, perhaps we’d never have broken up.”

“Och, ya big numpty,” John said with the saddest voice Fergus had ever heard. “Without those secrets, there’d have been nothing to break up in the first place.”

= = =

Fergus pondered John’s words during the long walk to the subway station. He could’ve found a taxi, but some perverse part of him wanted to see the spot where he and John had fought, where John had risked his life to save Fergus’s. Not to relive the ordeal, but to search for answers.

Perhaps John was right. The truth would have destroyed them no matter when it came out. If John had said to him that night in the restaurant, “By the way, I’m one of those Orange Walkers you despise,” that would’ve been the end of them. No kisses, no hours of laughter, no long nights and mornings of passion. Probably not even dessert.

Standing on the subway platform now, Fergus could see John in front of him, begging him to listen, trying to show him that T-shirt. But Fergus wouldn’t hear him, any more than he could hear Evan’s pleas for forgiveness.

Fergus had learned all the wrong lessons from
that
breakup. If he’d not been so knee-jerk defensive, he would’ve given John half a minute to explain. If he’d not been so terrified of humiliation, he would’ve asked John about the call from Ian. If he’d not been so mistrustful, he never would’ve searched John’s phone to begin with.

The train arrived, and Fergus stepped on. There was no going back now, only forward. He had to find a way to salvage the pieces of their relationship, use them to create something new and beautiful. Something he could transform into one last chance.

= = =

From: Katie Heath

Sent: 16 July at 6:28 AM BST

To: John Burns, Fergus Taylor

Subject: SELLOUT!!!!!!!!!!!! (pretend I held down the ! key for an hour there)

YOU GUYS. It’s official. As of two minutes ago, tickets to the charity match are G-O-N-E. (See attached screenshot of Firhill Stadium’s 100% GRAY seating chart.)

WE DID IT. Now all we gotta do is win the damn thing. See ya tonight at practice, Fergie!

xoxo,

Katie

Lying in bed Wednesday morning, four days before the match, John scrolled down the email thread to read Fergus’s reply:

From: Fergus Taylor

Sent: 16 July at 7:57 AM BST

To: John Burns, Katie Heath

Subject: Re: SELLOUT!!!!!!!!!!!! (pretend I held down the ! key for an hour there)

Unbelievable! Thank you, Katie, for your phenomenal ticket pimpage. Please stop calling me Fergie.

John, the Warriors are having a party at Liam’s after the match—win, lose, or draw. I hope you’ll join us. None of this would’ve happened without you, so you deserve as much celebration as anyone. I’ve something to show you then, regarding our conversation.

All the best,

FergUS

John put down the phone and stared at the ceiling, waiting for elation to sweep over him. His lofty vision of six weeks ago was becoming a reality. A sellout would give New Shores the funds to provide legal aid—plus subsidies for food, housing, and transport—for more asylum seekers than ever.

Plus, the match had raised awareness, which in the end might be more valuable than any funds. Petition signatures supporting LGBT asylum seekers had skyrocketed, and the Home Office was starting to take notice. There was even talk of a moratorium on deportations until the process could undergo a full review. To think that one wee football match could make such a difference.

John rolled over in bed, facing the cardboard boxes stacked beside his empty bookshelves. All his triumphs felt meaningless without Fergus to share them. Aye, they would see each other after the match, perhaps share a drink and a bit of civil conversation (as well as whatever Fergus wanted to show him—what was
that
all about?). But he’d slaughtered any chance he’d ever had of winning Fergus’s love.

Right?

All week, John had replayed their entire relationship in his head. There must have been a moment when he could’ve told Fergus the truth without driving him away. Otherwise, they’d been doomed from the start, and
that
he just couldn’t accept. It had to be his own fault.

He dragged himself to his laptop to answer the email. After a quick celebratory reply to Katie, he began composing a longer message to Fergus. It took nearly an hour to find the right words—or if nothing else, the least wrong words.

From: John Burns

Sent: 16 July at 10:28 AM BST

To: Fergus Taylor

Subject: Re: SELLOUT!!!!!!!!!!!! (pretend I held down the ! key for an hour there)

Fergus,

I replied to Katie separately to say congrats and thanks for the miracles she hath wrought. What would we do without her?

But I also wanted to tell you privately how much I appreciate the party invitation. It means so much to know that you consider me part of the team. I’d love to celebrate with you and the other Warriors.

The thing is, see, my mother’s moving back to Ayrshire that night, and I’m going with her. Harry and his mum, Nicole, will be moving into this house, as things have got bad at her mother’s place. They’ll be safe with Dad, plus he’ll have someone to keep him company better than I ever could. It’s a win-win situation, for them at least. I’ll still attend uni, as I can do lots of homework on the eighty-six-minute train ride each day and night.

This isn’t a totally selfless act. I thought about what that asylum seeker Beatrice told us about Uganda, how home isn’t home when you’re surrounded by hate. Better to make a new home, she said, and find peace there. Or something like that. Anyway, I can’t live in this house, listening to my father’s vicious, ignorant words. Especially when the one he hates is the one I love.

I’ll see you Sunday at the match. The loudest cheers you hear will be mine.

John

= = =

As Fergus stared at John’s email, his office seemed to fall silent around him. Not silent, exactly—more like the muffled roar created when one’s head is underwater. When the world blurs and time stands still.

…and I’m going with her.

Fergus’s lungs ached as he fought to find the surface. He was going to lose John on the very day he planned to win him back.

Now what? Now what, now what, now what, NOW WHAT???

“Ready for the meeting?”

At the sound of his assistant’s voice, Fergus pulled in a saving breath. He looked up at Gavin. “Yes. Absolutely. Which meeting?”

“Bane account. Who else?” Gavin handed him a binder. “Bane of our existence, more like.”

Fergus’s gaze went back to the screen, to the end of John’s message:
Especially when the one he hates is the one I love.

“Aye, that joke’s an ancient one,” Gavin said, “but you could at least pretend to laugh.”

Fergus blinked up at his assistant. “Sorry, I’m a bit glaikit.” He closed his email. “The charity match just sold out.”

“That’s fantastic! Glad I bought the firm’s tickets early. The partners would’ve flayed me alive if I’d missed out.” He looked at his watch. “Talking of them, let’s hurry you to that meeting. You know how they get if we’re not all there before the client arrives.”

Fergus followed Gavin out of his office and down the hall to the conference room, barely feeling his feet as he moved.

If John was leaving Glasgow, he must have given up on the two of them ever working things out. Had Fergus squandered their last chance by insisting they not change who they were in order to be together?

He still believed it was the right decision, and out of that belief had come an idea—a genius idea, if he did say so himself. After the match he would prove to John, in a gorgeously symbolic way, that they could be themselves with each other. More importantly, he’d show John he understood him and loved him for who he was.

But what if it were too little, too late? He needed something more, something
real
, to keep John by his side.

As the Bane meeting neared the end of its second hour, Fergus’s thoughts raced faster and faster. His mind replayed the email, reading the despair between the lines. Fergus had crushed John’s blithe optimism, the very thing he loved the most. Now he had to dig deep to find his own daft, irrepressible hope.

When the answer came to him, he nearly leapt from his seat. The only way he could restrain himself was to make a few frantic calculations on his notepad, working out his idea’s details. This had the added benefit of making it look as if he were taking meeting notes.

The moment the meeting broke for lunch, he slipped out of the room and down the hall to his office, where he shut the door and dialed his flatmate. Only after her phone began ringing did he realize she’d probably gone to bed an hour before.

Abebi answered with a sleep-slurred voice: “This had better be important, love.”

“It is,” he told her. “It’s the most important question I’ve ever asked.”