Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (38 page)

“That’s you putting your money where your mouth is,” Liam said to Fergus when he arrived at the edge of the penalty area. “All that halftime unity pish was for real, aye?”

Fergus said nothing, just watched the Magnificence as they waited for Shona to leave the field so Evan could take the penalty kick. The Morningside players paced in silence, wiping their hands on their shirts, their mouths set in tight lines. Their composure was being stripped away like a peel from an overripe banana.

After all the suspense, it was over in an instant, as Woodstoun’s former captain rocketed the ball past the keeper for their second goal.

Leaving the jumping and shouting to their fans, the Warriors simply gathered into a close huddle.

“They’ll be desperate now,” Fergus told his players. “That makes them dangerous. So let’s stay patient, stay disciplined, and most of all, stay together. Remember, we win, lose, or draw as a team.” He thrust his hand forward. “We are one!”

They put their hands out to meet his and shouted, “We are one!” Evan’s voice was the loudest of all.

“Right, let’s do this.” Fergus broke the huddle. As they jogged back to their positions for the next kickoff, he kept his face stoic. But inside, hope was beating its wings against his chest, frantic to fly.

Nothing could stop them now.

= = =

The world’s most unlikely comeback was underway, yet John saw no drama erupt on the field, aside from the Magnificence flailing about and screaming at one another.

To their credit, they calmed down quickly and were back to form in no time, protecting their one-goal lead. The next thirty minutes saw the Warriors rarely cross into enemy territory. Morningside pressed and pressed, keeping Fergus and his teammates teetering on the edge of disaster.

Harry tugged on John’s sleeve. “Do you think Warriors’ll win?”

“I don’t know, wee man. But in a matchup like this, a draw’s as good as a win. Because when you’ve got the lead, see, and the other side steals that from you, it hurts really bad.”
Besides, a draw will make Morningside more likely to agree to a replay match, raising even more funds for New Shores.

John glanced at the clock. Five minutes remaining in full time. Something had to give.

Fergus had the ball now, dribbling across the midline, down the center of the pitch. Reece Sinclair swept inside to challenge him, but with a graceful stutter-step move, Fergus shifted just enough to sweep past. Panicking, Sinclair darted out a leg and took Fergus down.

Fergus fell hard, and for an instant, John’s heart stopped. Behind him, the crowd roared with rage, but he could manage no more than a whimper. Somewhere a whistle blew, and the crowd’s shouts turned jubilant, but John couldn’t tear his eyes from Fergus, pale hands stark against his long black sock as they clutched his left leg.

“John, that’s Sinclair’s second yellow card!”

“Okay,” he replied, not really hearing his dad’s words. On the pitch, Duncan was helping Fergus to his feet. After a few tentative hops on the afflicted leg, Fergus gave a quick nod, then joined his team for the free kick.

“This game will be the death of me,” John murmured, then asked his father, “What did you say?”

“The yellow card was that Sinclair lad’s second. He got one in the first half for time wasting.”

The full meaning hit John. “Yaldy!” He turned to Harry. “See, then? Two yellow cards in one match means he gets a red card, which means he’s sent off and cannae play anymore.”

“Forever?” Harry asked.

“No, but today is all that matters.” He watched as Sinclair was dragged off by two of his teammates to keep him from punching the referee. Maximilian was running from player to player, trying to calm them down.

The Magnificence were a man short now. For four whole minutes, plus stoppage time.

Warriors were smelling blood.

= = =

The next four minutes passed in a flash for Fergus. After a quick formation shuffle to make the most of their one-man advantage, the Warriors went on attack, maintaining possession in the middle third of the pitch. But the Magnificence wouldn’t give way. Having lost interest in humiliating Woodstoun, they were now hell-bent on not humiliating themselves.

As full time ended, Fergus looked over toward the assistant referee, who was lifting his board to show how much time would be added to the end of the half.

“Two minutes!” Fergus shouted to his teammates. “Stay patient!”

A Morningside fullback cleared the ball out past the midline, but Liam and Robert tortured the midfielders with some canny passes.

When the time was right, Liam lobbed the ball forward to Fergus. He brought it down with his thigh, dribbled around the left wingback, then passed it forward through the tiniest of seams to Evan in the center. Seeing space near the goal’s near post, Fergus slipped through unmarked, staying just onside.

At the edge of the penalty area, Evan kept dribbling artfully, searching for his shot. Wanting to be the hero again.

Pass it, Evan
, Fergus thought as he raised his arm to signal he was open.
Please, this time, fucking pass it.

Evan drew back his foot as if to shoot, but then, without looking at Fergus, arced the ball in his direction, over the heads of two defenders. Fergus took a single step, planted his left foot, then volleyed the shot with his right, past the outstretched fingers of the off-balance keeper.

As the net stretched back with the force of Fergus’s strike, something boiled up within him, like the potion that turned Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde.

“YAAAAAAAAAASSS!” He sprinted toward the corner flag, reaching for the hem of his top.

A timid voice inside said,
Rule One: No—

Fuck Rule One
, Fergus thought, and ripped off his shirt.

M
ADNESS
, J
OHN
THOUGHT
.
Delicious, utter, beautiful madness.
He hugged his mum, his dad, Harry, Nicole, then started hugging complete strangers.

Warriors had done it.
Fergus
had done it.

Technically, there was still a fraction of a minute to play, but when the Magnificence keeper hurled the ball up into the crowd—a real-life “rage quit”—the referee blew the final whistle.

One by one, the Warriors picked themselves off Fergus’s celebration pile, then sprinted into a victory lap, high-fiving the crowd. At the center of the pitch, Heather did a triple cartwheel and finished with a backflip that put the Morningside cheerleaders to shame.

At long last, John saw Fergus get to his feet, helped up by Evan. Then the traitorous bastard pulled Fergus into a hug. The embrace lasted only two seconds, but it was two seconds longer than John could stand.

He hoisted himself up onto the barrier, swung his legs over, and dropped to the pitch. No sooner had his feet hit the ground than he was tackled by Robert and Liam. They wrapped him in a double-barreled bear hug.

“We did it!” Robert bellowed in John’s ear. “We all fucking did it! Thank yooooooou!”

Their embrace sent sparks of pain through his torso from his still-healing rib, but he was glad that at least two Warriors still loved him. “Why thank me? What’d I do?”

Looping one thick arm around John’s neck, Liam turned him to face the stands. “Look at that crowd. Listen to them. You did that, mate. You made this happen.” He put his mouth to John’s ear. “Fergus told us everything at halftime, by the way. About the Orange Walk and the protest T-shirt you made.”

“WE ARE ONE! WE ARE ONE!” Robert did a spastic pelvic thrust, shoving his index finger at the sky. “Best motivational speech ever.”

“Rab!” Liam turned to his pal with bugged-out eyes. “We should have Fergus reenact the whole thing so we can record it. The world needs to see his chest.”

John’s head was spinning. “What about Fergus’s chest?”

“You saw him go taps aff after he scored the equalizer, aye? Oh, there’s my mum!” Liam blew a kiss into the crowd. “Hiya, Ma!”

John craned his neck to look for Fergus. “I didn’t see that part. Too busy screaming my head off and hugging everyone.”

“You missed his tattoo?” Robert seized John’s shoulder. “C’mon, quick, before the reporters get to him.”

“Ow!” Clutching his aching side, John hurried to keep from being dragged. “What tattoo?”

The pitch was getting crowded as more spectators joined the party on the field, while security folk tried to keep them in the stands. Through the mass of sweaty humanity, he heard Fergus shout his name.

“I’m here!” he called back.

Clearing John’s path, Liam plowed through a cluster of dancing Rainbow Regimenters, then stepped aside. “There. Gonnae no fuck this up again, okay?”

John nodded numbly, his eyes fixed on Fergus, who stood with Maximilian near the Morningside dugout. Both were bare-chested, having traded shirts per captains’ tradition. But on Fergus’s torso was John’s own crude design, made indescribably beautiful.

He just stared, barely hearing the Magnificence captain’s words:

“See, we’d play the second leg at Edinburgh and let aggregate goals determine the winner. We could call it the New Shores Derby.”

“That’s a brilliant idea, Max.” Fergus met John’s eyes. “Whoever thought of it is a genius.”

“Thanks, mate,” Max said, the tightness of his jaw belying his resentment of today’s result. “I figured this way we could raise more money for the charity. Always looking to help.”
 

“Lovely of you.” Fergus guided Maximilian toward Charlotte and the Morningside manager, who were standing along the touchline talking to reporters. “Now go and tell our bosses, so they can share the news with the world pronto.” Then he turned back to John, taking a tentative step forward. “Hi.”

“You…” John lifted a trembling hand to point at Fergus’s chest, just out of reach.

“Oh, this? It’s only airbrushed.” Fergus swiped a rivulet of sweat from the center of the ONE. “But I’m thinking of getting a real tattoo just like it once the season’s over. Smaller, though, and somewhere else on my body.” He paused. “With the original artist’s permission, of course.”

John stopped staring long enough to realize Fergus was talking about him. “I’d be honored.” He lowered his gaze back to the hands clasped over Fergus’s abs. “The media will have a field day, you making a political statement at the end of the match.”

“This whole match was a political statement. A statement that athletes like us aren’t to be mocked or trivialized. That we can be as good as anyone.”

“Ah, you’re a crusader now.” John couldn’t hold back a smile. “I’ve corrupted you.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.” Fergus smiled back, looking more alive than John had ever seen him. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something more.

If that something-more was goodbye, John wanted to get it over with. “Anyway, Mum and I need to take Dad home and then…we’re already packed, so…” He reached out without stepping closer. “I’m glad we knew each other, Fergus Taylor.”

They shook hands, but when John went to turn away, Fergus didn’t release him. Instead he wrapped his other hand around John’s and whispered his name.

John made himself meet Fergus’s gaze, wondering if his own eyes were as full of regret. He knew only that his heart was unbearably heavy with it.

Fergus’s voice choked with emotion. “Can you ever forgive the things I said?”

He placed his other hand over Fergus’s. “If you can forgive the things I didn’t say.” John knew he had to walk away so he’d never hurt this man again. But it was so fucking hard.

“Please don’t go.”

Fergus’s words and tone matched those he’d uttered that first night in his bedroom, when John had almost run away in fear and shame. He’d stayed then, but with all that had happened since, how could he dream of staying again?

“I cannae live with my father,” John said, “Not after—”

“Then live with me.”

John’s heart stopped again. “Sorry?”

“Live with me. In my flat.” Fergus tugged John closer. “I want you to share my bed, my kitchen, my life.”

John stared at him, unable to breathe, much less speak.

“Abebi says she’d love to have you.” Fergus’s words rolled out faster. “If it’s the cost you’re worried about, she says she’ll pay all but a hundred pounds of your third of the rent if you cook her three breakfasts a week. So what do you say?”

John said nothing. This couldn’t be real. They came from different worlds. How could they build a new one together?

“Please don’t leave Glasgow,” Fergus whispered. “Don’t leave me.”

John lowered his chin and saw their hands clasped in front of Fergus’s body, shadowing the ones painted upon it.

Maybe it was possible. Maybe change could start with them.

“Tell Abebi,” John said, “if she pays all but fifty pounds of my rent, I’ll cook her three breakfasts
and
three dinners a week.”

“I believe she’ll accept that.” Fergus touched John’s cheek. “And what will I get out of this arrangement?”

Speechless again, John pulled Fergus close and answered him with a kiss.

= = =

Fergus tried not to limp as he walked hand-in-hand with John off the pitch. “That went shockingly well, don’t you think?”
 

“Aye. I never thought our families would get on so famously, but I suppose victory is the ultimate social lubricant.” John gestured to the spectators leaning over the banisters flanking the tunnel. “Wave to your fans, love.”

Fergus lifted a hand to the remnants of the 10,000-strong crowd. His own smile felt twice as goofy as those of the giddiest among them. “Technically it wasn’t a victory,” he said, just to be pedantic. “But it does feel like one.”

The moment they stepped into the dressing room, John was swarmed by all the Warriors who’d missed the chance to hug him earlier. Fergus reluctantly let go, happy to see John welcomed back into the team’s embrace, but not wanting to share him, even for a second.

As the adrenaline began to wear off, Fergus suddenly felt every pain the game had inflicted upon his body. He staggered over to collapse on his bench beside Colin, who peered at him in amazement.