Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (37 page)

“Ho, everyone cover up!” Max said when he spied John. “Poof on premises.”

John curled his finger at the captain, since it would’ve been counterproductive to punch him. “Got a minute?”

“Certainly.” He drew a hand through his chin-length waves of dark hair, which he no doubt thought glorious. “It’s not as if we need a halftime conference to adjust our play.”

“Right.” Actually, John thought, if Morningside were clever, they’d switch to a more attacking formation to penetrate the wall of Warriors defenders.

Maximilian followed John into the hallway outside the dressing room. “In case you’re unaware of how football works,” the captain said, “three goals is an insurmountable lead even for competent teams to overcome, much less a hot mess like your darling boyfriend’s side.” Max gave an exaggerated wince as he lounged against the wall. “Oops. I mean, darling
ex
-boyfriend. Shame, that.”

“That’s what I wanted to discuss—not me and Fergus, but your lead. True, things are going poorly for Woodstoun, but the match itself has been an enormous success.” Focusing on that happy fact, John managed a genuine smile. “So I’d like to thank you personally for helping us raise money for New Shores.”

“Our pleasure.” Max swept his arm out in a graceful half-bow. “This wee gambol about the pitch on a sunny Sunday has helped get us into form for our own league. And our supporters are having the time of their lives. Did you hear them singing?”

“Aye, it’s a thing of beauty. You know what would make them really happy? A replay between the two teams in Edinburgh.” John spread his hands like he was displaying a marquee. “The New Shores Derby, we could call it. The winner would be the team with the highest aggregate goals between the two matches.” When Max looked at him like he’d lost his mind, John added, “Obviously we’d wait a while after this match to make it official, so you can fully enjoy today’s victory.”
Not that you’ll win today,
he thought, refusing to believe the Warriors were finished.

“Why would we want to give those fannies a chance to even the score? You know as well as I, neither side can fit in another preseason match. By the time we’d meet again, Colin MacDuff’s knee will be healed.” The captain clapped John’s shoulder. “Nice try, mate. But we’ll quit now while we’ve won. Enjoy the rest of the match.” He stepped back into the dressing room. “If you can.” He gave a mocking laugh as he kicked the door shut in John’s face.

A few moments later, the dressing room erupted in hoots and cackles, as Maximilian no doubt shared the derby idea with his teammates.

“Wankstains,” John muttered. Across the hall, shouts of recrimination were breaching the door of the Warriors’ dressing room. He wanted to barge in and pull Fergus close, give him strength when he needed it most.

But if there was one thing Fergus didn’t need now, it was John.

= = =

Fergus needed a miracle. Before the match, he’d planned what to say if the Warriors were down at halftime and their morale needed a bit of a boost. Considering their disciplined, determined standoff the last thirty-five minutes, he’d expected a dressing room filled with hope and fighting spirit.

He hadn’t expected them to turn on one another.

“Do you need a written invitation to pass to me?” Shona screamed at Evan, drowning out his feverish apologies. “You’re the most selfish wee shit I’ve ever played with. Always trying to grab the glory.”

“Wait a minute.” Duncan got in her face. “Who scored more goals last season, you or Evan? How many of your shots went wide in practice this week? Tell me, cos I lost count.”

“Shut it, Duncan, she’s right,” Colin said. “A ten-year-old would know to pass in that situation, the moment the keeper committed.”

Meanwhile, the defense had formed a similar circular firing squad.

“Jamie, I swear to Christ,” Robert said, poking the right fullback’s chest. “If you don’t move your fat arse faster to challenge, I will light it on fire with a rocket launcher.”

“Get to fuck! Nothing got by me after the tenth minute.”

“Yeah,” Katie said, “once Duncan and Marcelo fell back to rescue you.”

Charlotte was trying to calm everyone down, but her voice was lost in the chaos.

Fergus knew he should’ve seen this moment coming. Evan’s return had driven the Warriors apart, and Fergus had done nothing to stop it, thanks to his own resentment.
He’d
caused this catastrophic rift. Which meant only he could mend it.

He mounted the bench beside the wall of the wide-open dressing-room. The added height made him nearly nine feet tall, which caught his players’ attention instantly. One by one they fell silent as they turned to face him.

“So…” he began. “I wrote this proper inspiring,
Henry-the-Fifth
-once-more-unto-the-breach type speech for such a moment.” Fergus smoothed down the front of his shirt, feeling an itch underneath. “But we don’t need fighting spirit. We’re fighting plenty hard, mostly among ourselves. What we need is—”

He stopped, utterly wordless. This was their last chance.
His
last chance. If he didn’t unite the Warriors now, he would lose them, and he’d deserve to. Fergus had to lead them, not with strength or speed or thunderous voice, but with wisdom.

Yet he was no philosopher-politician.
Unlike John
, he thought, rubbing his stomach, trying to scratch the itch without appearing even uneasier than he felt.

His fingers froze on his shirt as he remembered what lay beneath it.

A picture’s worth a thousand words, aye?
So he would give them one thousand and three.

“What we need is unity,” Fergus said, and peeled off his shirt.

The dressing room gasped as one.

“Whoa,” Colin breathed. “That’s…commitment.”

Fergus had taken John’s T-shirt design and, with a bit of artistic embellishment, turned it into a full-torso tattoo. The words WE ARE ONE were stacked on his chest, while the orange hand and the green hand clasped each other across his stomach. He’d even reproduced—tastefully, of course—the pale brown patches of dried blood.

He told them the entire story, of John and his involvement with the Orange Order and how he’d tried to turn his march
for
them into a protest
against
them. How Fergus had called him “Proddy scum” and left him on the platform at the mercy of hooligans. How John had sent him the shirt when Fergus failed to return his calls.

Fergus saw the Catholic and Protestant players eye each other uneasily at the mention of sectarian hatred. He welcomed their tension, because he had an answer for it.

“John’s goal was a lofty one,” he told them. “Uniting a city that’s been divided along sectarian lines for over a century? Is this a fool’s dream, when that line has been drawn in blood”—he pointed up and out, his finger nearly scraping the ceiling—“then retraced in Celtic Park and Ibrox Stadium, and in every street and pub in Glasgow?

“It is a dream,” Fergus continued, lowering his arm, “but not a fool’s one. Because you, and you, and you, and you, and I, and
all of us
are the future of this city. A few of us came from elsewhere in Scotland, or even farther.” He looked at Evan, then Katie. “But we’re here to stay, because of people like you. You are Glasgow, mates. We are Glasgow. And today, Glasgow is out there standing up for us
as one
. Today, there is no orange and no green. Today, there is only unity.” He pounded his bare chest, right over the word ONE, and raised his voice to a shout. “And if we can believe in one another, help one another, and come together for forty-five minutes to beat the living fuck out of those posh Edinburgh prats, then maybe there’s hope for us all!”

They leapt to their feet in a yell befitting their warrior name. Out of the chaos, Liam’s voice boomed, “We! Are! One! We! Are! One!” The whole team joined him, waving their forefingers in the air as they leaped up and down.

As Fergus stepped off the bench, Charlotte approached him. “That was pure brilliant, lad. You’re a true captain now.” She examined his tattoo up close. “Airbrushed, aye?”

“Of course. You think I’d get a real tattoo any time but the offseason? That’s just begging for pain and infection.”

“Be sure to remind this lot of that fact, before they get any daft ideas of their own.” Charlotte turned with Fergus to watch the Warriors bouncing, shouting, pumping their fingers at the ceiling. “But don’t tell them until after the match,” she added. “For now, let them think their skipper’s got baws of steel.”

He smiled as he slipped his shirt back on.

“Here,” came a soft voice to his left. “You dropped this.”

Fergus popped his head through the shirt hole to see Evan holding up the captain’s armband, which must have come off when he’d removed his top. “Oh. Thanks.” He took the band and tried to rewrap it around his sleeve, but his hand was still trembling from the speech’s adrenaline rush.

“Let me do it. Hold your arm down and relaxed.” Evan demonstrated, and Fergus obeyed without speaking. Evan wrapped the black band straight and secure, keeping his promise not to touch Fergus. “How’s that fit?”

“Good.” Fergus bent his elbow to check. “Literally, at least. Not sure if it’ll ever fit metaphorically.”

“It fits you better than it ever did me.” Evan put his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry I bottled that breakaway.”

Fergus shrugged. “I forgive you.” He started to turn away, then stopped, hearing his own words. He looked back at his ex. “I mean it. For everything.”

Evan’s eyes widened. “What—what are you—”

“You were right,” Fergus said. “I need to move on for my own sake, and for the team’s.” He reached out and clasped Evan’s shoulder. “Bygones?”

His former lover and captain nodded, sky-blue eyes shining with gratitude. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I won’t let you down again.”

Yes, you will
, Fergus thought, with no bitterness at all.

T
HE
W
ARRIORS
RAN
onto the pitch a new team.

John could tell in their postures, the set of their chins, the energy vibrating among them, that something big had occurred in that halftime dressing room. From here in the stands, they looked like more than a squad of footballers. They looked like an army.

His hope was borne out eight minutes later, when Duncan executed a perfect corner kick, which Robert headed into the top right corner of the goal.

The crowd went mental. John let out a “YAAAAAAAAASSSSS!” that seemed to tear the lining from his throat. The Rainbow Regiment shot off confetti cannons, littering the seats with paper shreds of every color.

John’s mum picked a purple piece out of her hair. “Seems a bit premature, no?” she asked him.

“Maybe the Regiment thinks that’ll be Warriors’ only goal. Either that or they’ve got an entire arsenal up there.”

John noticed, though, that aside from a quick group hug, the Warriors themselves had reacted to the goal with a cool confidence bordering on businesslike indifference. Returning to his position for the kickoff, Robert gave a brief wave and head-shake to acknowledge the crowd’s chants of “TAPS AFF! TAPS AFF! TAPS AFF!” Then every player’s posture returned to its intense, intimidating solemnity.

Fergus’s Rule One,
No Drama!
was holding sway. For now.

= = =

As Fergus took his place for the ensuing kickoff, he watched Maximilian and Reece standing at the center spot. Reece had his foot atop the ball and a smug grin on his face. “Of course the straight lad would score your only goal!” he shouted.

Fergus quickly scanned his teammates to ensure none of them reacted to the barb. While the Magnificence players shared laughs and fist-bumps, the eyes of every Warrior stayed on the ball. Fergus had stationed his nimblest, most aggressive players at the edge of the center circle, ready to capitalize on their opponent’s first lapse in concentration.

The referee blew his whistle to start play. Max tapped the ball forward a few inches to Reece. Still laughing to himself, Reece turned his back on the Warriors to make a slow, lazy pass.

Evan leaped to intercept it, sending it to Duncan. The Warriors surged forward, shrieking a battle cry that Fergus swore eclipsed the roar of the crowd.

Max and his fellow midfielders were nothing but a blur in the corner of Fergus’s eye as he swept past them. The Magnificence defenders rushed forward, shouting in alarm, but their once-disciplined line disintegrated in the face of Duncan and Shona’s surgical passes. As Shona closed in on the goal, a Morningside center-back made a desperate, poorly timed sliding tackle.

Shona crashed to the ground, screaming. The whistle blew, and Fergus was at his fallen forward’s side in an instant. “Shona, you all right, mate?”

“Ulrrgh…” She rolled over, one hand clutching her knee while the other pounded the turf in agony. Fergus waved toward the bench for the trainers.

“Did we get the penalty?” Shona choked out.

He looked up to see the referee setting the ball upon the white mark twelve yards in front of the goal line. “We did.”

“Who’s taking it?”

Fergus’s mind spun. Last season he or Evan always attempted the Warriors’ penalty kicks. As captain, it was his own call. He could stroll up to the penalty spot and no one would argue. He could grab the glory of a near-guaranteed goal in front of ten thousand spectators. Including John.

The two trainers arrived, kneeling beside Shona with their medical equipment. She ignored them, her green eyes laser-fixed on Fergus.

“Who’s taking it?” she repeated.

“I’ve got it,” he told her.

“Good—ow!” She winced as the trainer took hold of her foot to extend her leg.

Fergus signaled Charlotte to send on a substitute forward. Then he turned to the rest of the Warriors, who stood near the edge of the penalty area, half of them eyeing the ball. Fergus studied each face, lingering on the last, the one that still held so much hunger for the game.

When Evan lifted his eyes to look at him, Fergus raised his brows, tilting his head toward the penalty spot. An eager smile broke across Evan’s face, and he trotted forward to set up for the kick. As they passed each other, Fergus held out his hand to give a quick high-five of encouragement.