Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (40 page)

Fergus was waiting for him on the wee balcony.

John stepped out into the warm evening air. “Not bad for our first party.”

“It’s been fab. When are they leaving?”

“About thirty seconds after they learn these are the last two beers.” He handed one to Fergus. “
Sláinte
.”

They tapped their bottles in a toast, then stood side by side, gazing out as Glasgow’s lights began to wink on, one by one. The city was even more alive than usual, now that the Commonwealth Games were underway in the East End.

“You know what?” Fergus slid his fingers between John’s and pressed their palms together. “I love you.”

John’s blood turned to warm syrup. In this serene, domestic setting, the weight of those words seemed more staggering than any utterance in the heat of passion. “Do you, aye?”

“Aye.” Fergus’s voice was as soft as his gaze. “I love you.”

“Then I love you too.”

“Good.”

They bent their heads together for a tender kiss, then parted their lips just enough to let their tongues dart out and meet. The sensation shot straight down John’s spine, and suddenly he was as eager as Fergus was for the party to end.

“Finished at last!” Abebi’s voice rang out behind them.

“She’s done it!” John led Fergus through the crowd in the living room, where their flatmate was climbing onto the sofa holding a giant pile of fabric.

“Here, you, take this end.” She handed one corner of her masterpiece to Robert, who stood with his girlfriend near the end of the couch. “Voilà!” Abebi marched down the sofa, unrolling her housewarming gift to John and Fergus.

With her surgeon’s stitching skills, their flatmate had sewn together John’s Rangers fleece with Fergus’s Celtic one to create a single enormous blanket. A united blanket.

The living room filled with a mixture of cheers and boos, the latter from the more passionate fans of either club.

Liam pushed John and Fergus forward. “Go on, you know you want to.”

Hand-in-hand, they stepped together in front of Abebi. She draped the blanket over their shoulders. “This feels like a coronation,” she said. “Or a wedding.”

The cheers turned to catcalls. “Kiss the bride, Fergus!” Katie yelled.

“Hey, why am I the bride?” John looked up at Fergus. “I’m not the groom either.”

“Aye, too soon. But I’m kissing you anyway.”

John pulled him close. “You’d better.”

As they kissed, Abebi stepped off the couch behind them. “My work here is done,” she said. “Now it’s time for me to dash to the real job.”

“And time for us to go to the dancin’.” Liam came over to Fergus and John as everyone migrated toward the door. “Sorry, but you’ve nae beers left.”

John clicked his tongue. “Aw, what a shame. Wish you could all stay. Bye!”

Ten minutes later, he and Fergus were alone. At home. Their home.

They took their hybrid Celtic-Rangers blanket—undoubtedly the first and last of its kind—down the hall to where it belonged: Fergus’s bed.

Their bed.

They lay under the blanket’s center seam, and though they lacked a surgeon’s technique, together they did what they could to mend the wounds of their city and the wounds they’d given each other. The healing wouldn’t happen in a day, or a week, or a month, but it would happen.

Starting tonight.

Thanks for reading!

I hope you enjoyed Fergus and John’s story. Though it’s the second in the series chronologically, it was the first I wrote, so it will always hold a special place in my heart.

If you enjoyed this book, please consider introducing the Lads to others—online, offline, or anywhere in between. Thanks.

• Review
  Playing for Keeps
  on Amazon
  
• Review
  Playing for Keeps
  on Goodreads
  

Want more Warriors all to yourself? How about exclusive bonus material, including early sneak peeks at Colin and Andrew’s novel,
Playing to Win
, weeks before its September release? Then sign up for my mailing list at
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You’ll receive loads of Glasgow Lads stuff found nowhere else in the world—deleted scenes, author commentary, development diaries, and more. It’s like having a wee window into my brain (there’s loads of empty space in there to make yourself comfortable).

You might even learn a few Scots curse words, which could be pure dead useful one day.

Author’s Note on use of the word “racist”

At several points in
Playing for Keeps
a person or group is referred to as “racist” because of their anti-Catholic or anti-Irish beliefs, words, or activities. Readers in the United States who define racism strictly as prejudice against people of a different skin color may be confused by this use. They may even take offense at what they consider an overly liberal definition.

As much as I sympathize with that reaction, I chose to use the word, when necessary, in order to remain true to the characters and setting. In British law, the phrase
racial group
means “any group of people who are defined by reference to their race, colour, nationality (including citizenship) or ethnic or national origin.”

While religion is not specifically listed, anti-Catholicism in the UK—especially in Western Scotland—tends to go hand-in-hand with anti-Irish sentiments. Therefore in practice, the word is often applied to members of the Orange Order. (It’s also frequently used to describe those who discriminate against Travellers; as well as English people who use derogatory language against Scottish, Irish, or Welsh folk.)

Sadly, it was all too easy to draw parallels across the Atlantic. Even in this day and age, there are those who remain proud, defiant bigots. “It’s not racism, it’s our heritage” is an excuse used, word-for-word, by Confederate-flag wavers and Orange Walkers alike.

Glasgow Lads Series

More Warriors are on the way! Each stand-alone novel features a new couple, with prominent appearances by other characters we’ve come to know.

• Play On
  (novella), May 2015
  
• Playing for Keeps
  , June 2015
  
• Playing to Win
  , September 2015, now available for preorder—see a sneak peek at the end of this book!
  
• Play It Safe (short story), November 2015
  
• Playing with Fire, January 2016
  

…and much more to come.

I can’t wait to share all the Lads’ stories with you. Sign up for my mailing list at
www.averycockburn.com/signup/
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About the Author

Avery Cockburn (rhymes with Savory Slow Churn—mmmm, ice cream…) lives in the US with one infinitely patient man and two infinitely impatient cats.

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.

C
OLIN
M
AC
D
UFF
NEVER
said no to a challenge. That’s why he was currently standing on his head, sucking down a two-liter bottle of Irn Bru through a jumbo pink curly straw.

To be sure, he had other motivations. Truth, for instance—busting the myth that one could get blootered by guzzling “Scotland’s other national drink” whilst upside down. Or curiosity—what would it feel like to consume such a massive amount of sugar, caffeine, and orange food coloring at once? Or even simple economics—hey, free Irn Bru!

But mostly he did it because his mates dared him. He’d a reputation to uphold, after all.

“Halfway there.” John Burns, one of the party’s hosts, was crouched next to him, timing the stunt. “Liam, move the bottle closer,” he told Colin’s football teammate, a central defender whose ginger hair nearly matched the drink itself.

Colin ripped his eyes from Liam, knowing his friend would try to make him laugh, and stared straight ahead into the forest of partygoers’ feet. He tried to focus on the stereo’s blaring music and the TV’s bleeping MarioKart, and ignore how fast his brain was spinning from the rush of blood and sugar and caffeine.

“You can do it! Wooooooo!” cried the Warriors’ left back, Katie Heath. She started singing the theme song from
Rocky
, then abruptly broke off in the middle of the crescendo. “Oh my God, it’s Lord Andrew!”

Colin choked. Bubbly liquid surged into his sinuses, searing the inside of his head.

“Drew!” John leaped up and pushed through the crowded living room to greet his new guest.

Spitting out the straw, Colin tumbled over, barely getting his feet beneath him in time to avoid slamming his injured knee against the hardwood floor.

“All right, mate?” Liam thumped Colin on the back, which made his head throb harder. Colin nodded as coughs ripped his throat and panic splintered his mind.

Behind him, he heard a crowd gathering around the newcomer. Colin had lost his audience—to
that fucking guy
, of all people.

“Did it work? Are you drunk?” Katie peered at Colin. “You were supposed to give us the signal so we could help you down. You gotta watch your knee, dude.”

“Of course I’m not drunk, it’s Irn Bru! And my knee’s fine.”

“It’ll get a lot less fine if you’re not careful.”

He wiped his eyes and tried to grin at her. “When am I ever careful?”

“Now would be an awesome time to start,” Katie said as she pulled Colin to his feet. It had been nearly a month since the American lass’s sliding tackle during practice session had torn his medial collateral ligament, and she still hadn’t forgiven herself. Seeing the constant regret in her eyes was sometimes more painful than the injury. “Hey, come meet Lord Andrew. He’s smokin’ hot, and I say that as a totally impartial lesbian.”

“Not now.” Colin tapped his chest with his fist. “I feel an Irn Bru belch coming on, and I’d hate to rift in the face of an aristocrat.” Actually, he would love to rift in the face of an aristocrat—just not this particular one.

“Okay, but soon!” She darted toward the front door, almost as fast in her stack sandals as she was in her football boots.

“Gonnae try again?” Liam asked, holding up the half-empty two-liter bottle.

“Naw, I need to—”
Crawl into a hole and hide. Better yet, crawl into a time machine, travel back six months to the end of January, and run far away from Lord Andrew Sunderland.
“—get a real drink.”

Colin sidestepped through the party—keeping his back to the clump of admirers surrounding the magnetic son of the Marquess of Kirkross—and slipped unseen into the empty kitchen.

He pulled a beer from the fridge and drank nearly half the bottle before pausing to examine the label. Another posh craft brew he’d never heard of. At home it was whatever brand was on sale at Farmfoods, and always in cans.

Colin took a slower sip. This ale was pure quality, tasting nothing like piss. He set the bottle on the polished black-marble worktop beside the stove. Despite the fact he was surrounded by friends, it was mundane moments like this—standing in a bright, clean, middle-class kitchen—that always made him feel a stranger in a strange land.

He scowled down at the frayed hem of his black Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt. “Vintage” clothing was trendy at the moment, so his thrift-shop wardrobe didn’t trumpet his poverty. He could pretend he preferred the grunge/hipster/punk look, since he’d never be able to afford designer clothes like—

“Drew!” John’s voice rang out. “Gonnae fetch us two lagers while you’re in there.”

No no no.
Colin spun on his heel, tweaking his sore left knee, and hurried to the sink, putting his back to the kitchen door. Perhaps by doing the washing up he could make himself invisible. People like Lord Andrew always ignored the “help.”

The sink was empty, so he snatched two clean bowls from the chrome dish drainer, then turned on the hot water.

High-pitched laughter greeted his ears as Andrew entered the kitchen. “No,
you
are too much!” he shouted to someone in the foyer.

The refrigerator opened, and Colin heard the clink of beer bottles. Hands trembling, he focused on scrubbing nonexistent food off the bowl.

Please don’t look over. Please don’t notice me.

“Oh. Hello there.”

Fuck.

Andrew drifted into Colin’s peripheral vision, setting the beer bottles on the worktop. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said in his oil-smooth voice, devoid of a Scottish accent despite his family being one of the oldest in Scotland.

“Why don’t you believe it?” Colin asked, rinsing the bowl so thoroughly, one would think the dish soap was toxic.

“It’s just an expression.”

Colin slammed the bowl onto the dish drainer, then turned to face him. “But do you believe it,
Adam
?”

As their eyes locked, Colin felt the same head-to-toe, alternating-hot-cold rush that had gripped him the night they met. Andrew’s silver-blue gaze took him in, evaluating, measuring…remembering?

“Of course we’ve met,” Andrew said softly. “In a sense.” He swept one hand through his strategically tousled golden-brown hair and extended the other toward Colin. “My real name is Andrew Sunderland. Friends call me Drew.”

“Then I’ll call you Andrew.”

The toff’s polite smile widened into a radiant grin. “I’m glad we meet again. You were hard to forget.” He swept a glance down over Colin. “Especially with those tattoos.”

Colin crossed his arms, then dropped them to avoid seeming self-conscious about his ink. He reached for a tea towel to dry his hands. “Why are you here?”