Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (8 page)

Trying not to panic, Fergus held his breath and listened for signs John was elsewhere in the flat. But why would he take his shoes just to go to the loo or the kitchen?

Out in the living room, his flatmate laughed long and loud. Abebi was probably relaxing with her
Absolutely Fabulous
DVD set, per her Saturday morning tradition. Maybe John was with her.

Fergus pulled on a clean T-shirt and a pair of flannel shorts, then eased open his bedroom door. The bathroom was empty. So were the hallway and the kitchen. The only room he couldn’t see, besides Abebi’s, was the living room.

His flatmate’s laughter rang out again—louder this time, but very much alone.

John was gone.

Trembling with anger, Fergus scoured his bedroom for a note, a clue—anything to explain why John would leave without saying goodbye. Did Fergus seem so unstable that men couldn’t pay him the courtesy of a face-to-face farewell?

It seems crass to say, “It’s not you, it’s me,”
Evan had written,
but we both know in this case it’s 100% true. I am the problem.

Maybe that had been a lie. Maybe Fergus drove men away with his—

With his
what
? What had he done or said last night? He’d been nothing but patient, even after John lost his head over the Celtic blanket, then lost his erection over God-only-knew-what—even as John described his thug of a brother bludgeoning one of Fergus’s fellow Celtic fans (
an actual pool of blood, deep enough to drown a mouse
).

“You think I’m unstable?” Fergus muttered as he wrested his phone from his trouser pocket. “I’ll show you unstable.” He composed a quick rage-text to John, then opened his bedroom door. His knees felt rubbery as he walked down the hall, rereading the message. He hit send just as he approached the flat’s entrance. “Morning,” he said to Abebi.

The front door opened, nearly smacking him in the face. On the other side of it, an electronic chime sounded.

“Fergus still asleep?” a familiar voice whispered. The door swung shut, revealing John holding a canvas shopping bag. His face fell when he saw Fergus. “Oh. I wanted to surprise you. Hang on, I’ve got a text.” He fished his phone from his pocket.

“No!” Fergus snatched John’s phone and rushed past him into the kitchen.

John followed. “What do you mean, ‘no’? I heard it ding.”

“It was from me. It was stupid.” He looked at John’s phone, dismayed to discover it was an Android, with a completely different setup to his own iPhone. “I’ll just delete it.”

“Gonnae no do that!” John grabbed it back. “You cannae delete just one message. You can only delete the whole thread.”

“So?”

John gave an embarrassed shrug. “Maybe I’m a wee bit sentimental, but I’d like to keep the text where you said you’d do the charity match. And the one where you said yes to dinner. And the one—” He looked at the phone screen and froze. “The one where you call me a ‘cold-blooded, limp-dicked bastard.’”

J
OHN
STARED
AT
the phone, fighting to keep his face untouched by the thousand and one emotions zipping through him. If his feet weren’t rooted to the floor in shock, he would’ve already been out the door.

“I’m so sorry.” Fergus pressed his palms together over his own nose and mouth. “When I woke and you weren’t here, I thought you’d run off.”

John let out a hard breath, his horror melting into regret. “I meant to leave a note. Then I was so chuffed about my surprise, I guess I forgot. But Abebi knew where I was. You could’ve asked her.”

“I know.” Fergus dropped his hands but kept his eyes on the floor. “Can you forgive me for being an arse?”

“Probably.” When Fergus didn’t laugh, John stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Look, I get it. After what Evan did, it must’ve felt pure awful to wake alone. I should’ve told you where I was going.” He reached up to trace the pillowcase crease in Fergus’s cheek. “Thing is, you look proper cute when you’re asleep. I couldnae wreck that.”

Fergus’s face went soft. “I can’t believe you’re not walking out right now.”

Neither can I.
In truth, Fergus’s message had cut much deeper than John let on. But he felt guilty for hiding the fact that Keith’s assault had been an anti-Catholic hate crime, and for lying outright about being a Rangers fan. Fergus had every right to mistrust John—just not for the reasons he thought.

“I’m still here.” John held up the shopping bag. “And still famished. Gonnae show me where the pans are?”

Shaking his head, Fergus bent over to retrieve a pair of frying pans from the drawer beneath the oven. “I should be cooking
you
breakfast, not the other way around. You paid for dinner, too.”

“Then I guess next time’s your treat.” As he set the groceries on the worktop, John watched Fergus from the corner of his eye to gauge his reaction to a second date.

Fergus beamed like he’d won a prize. “I’ve off Friday, since my firm’s putting in extra hours this week to finish a big project by Thursday.” He shifted the pans to center them on the front burners. “So maybe dinner Thursday night?”

John simply nodded, not trusting his voice to stay in a normal register. He forced his eyes away from Fergus’s auburn hair, which had the most fantastic pillow-tousle. Were it not for Abebi’s presence and his own growling stomach, John would have dragged Fergus back to bed in an instant.

“Ah, white pudding.” Fergus picked up the sausage and examined the label. “It’s been ages since I had this.”

“It’s my favorite. I checked with Abebi first to make sure you don’t hate it.” John switched on the electric burners. “You didn’t tell me your flatmate was Nigerian.”

“I was going to mention it, since some of your asylum seekers are from there. She might have some insights.”

“We chatted before I went to the market. Did you know that under a new Nigerian law, people can be imprisoned not just for being gay, but for failing to report someone who is?” He took the pint of berries from the bag and popped it open. “Also, what can I wash these in?”

“There’s a colander under—wait.” He stared at the plastic container in John’s hand. “You bought blueberries?”

“For pancakes. You said they were your fav—”

Fergus cut him off with a kiss, holding John’s face like it was something precious. John pressed closer, dizzy with the kiss’s intensity. He slipped one arm around Fergus’s waist and dropped the other in surrender.

Which of course spilled the blueberries.

“Och!” John stooped to collect the scattered fruit, and to hide the emotion on his face. “Don’t move.”

Too late. Fergus had already stepped back in surprise, crushing several of the purple berries. “Sorry,” he said.

“No worries, there’s plenty not demolished.”

“But they’ve been on the floor. There’s dirt on the floor.”

John could see no evidence of that. “I was gonnae wash them anyway. Keep still.” He plucked a crushed blueberry from between Fergus’s toes, looked up at him, then popped the berry in his own mouth. “Sorry, was that filthy?”

“Completely,” Fergus said with a dreamy smile.

“Am I interrupting some sort of performance art?” Abebi said as she entered the kitchen.

John stood. “Aye, and I’m a starving artist, so that’s me back to cooking.” He turned to the skillet, pasting a smile on his face as his mind spun with delirious confusion.

Perhaps he should have kept walking when he’d left Fergus’s flat. A one-night stand might have been easier for them both in the long run. It had always worked for John before. Casual partners never asked about his family, his home, his true self. Where there were no questions, there were no lies.

But perhaps the Cold-Blooded-Limp-Dicked-Bastard incident would buy John a bit of breathing room from Fergus’s suspicions, long enough to decide whether to tell him the whole truth.

No, not
whether
to tell Fergus the truth.
When
to tell him, and
how
. When the right moment came, he would find the courage to speak—because now, he might have finally met a man he could be real with.

= = =

“I’ll sleep like a queen, thanks to these pancakes.” Abebi pushed back her chair and gave the kitchen table a contented-looking smile. “You lads keep it quiet this morning, okay?”

“Yes, Ma,” Fergus said with a grin, sweeping his bare foot over John’s. John licked his own maple-flavored lips as a ripple of desire swept over him.

“Don’t ‘ma,’ me. I’m only three years older than you.” She ruffled Fergus’s hair, giving John a secretive wink on her way out of the kitchen.

As Fergus took their plates to the sink, John remembered it was Sunday. “Are you away to Mass, then?”

Fergus chuckled. “No, I only go to Mass when I visit Ma, and sometimes not even then. Christmas and Easter are nonnegotiable, obviously.”

It was the same in John’s family, and for most Protestants he knew. They went to church Christmas Eve, Easter—and perhaps Palm Sunday, if there was nothing good on the telly.

“Speaking of sacred duties,” Fergus said as he scrubbed the frying pan, “I do have football practice later. But until then I’m yours.”

Mine
, John thought as he gazed at Fergus’s bare calves. He could make out every muscle flexing and releasing as Fergus shifted his weight. When Fergus stood on his toes to swipe a spider off the window, those muscles snapped into sharp definition, right down to the powerful ankles that delivered so many perfect passes.

“In that case,” John said, “gonnae let’s have a go at FIFA?”

Fergus sent him a wicked smile. “You may regret that.”

Fifteen minutes later, John was not regretting it at all, as the video-game crowd cheered on his team’s third unanswered goal. “Boo-yah!” he shouted. “In yo’ face, muthafucka.”

“That was a complete defensive breakdown,” said the in-game commentator. “You can’t expect to make it in this league with such disorganization.”

“Oh, shut it, Clive.” Sitting cross-legged beside John on the living-room sofa, Fergus punched his controller button to skip the slow-motion replays. “How can you be crushing me? Our sides are equally matched.”

“Mind, I changed my formation before we started. Put your defense off balance.”

“But how’d you even know to do that? You’re not a football fan.”

Ah. Right. He had said that.

“I love the game.” John stated this easily, for it was the truth. “It’s the pro leagues I don’t fancy, with all their big money and corruption—whoa, look out.” His forward intercepted a pass between Fergus’s defenders.

“Noooo!” In desperation, Fergus had his left fullback make an awkward sliding tackle just outside the penalty area. The whistle blew to signal the foul.

“Aww, second yellow card for your little dude there.” He nudged his jeans-clad knee against Fergus’s bare one. “Does that mean something important? I know nothing of football.”

“Ha ha.” Fergus frowned as his defender was shown a red card and ejected from the match. “I’m a man short and it’s not even halftime.”

“Hot damn. You are toast.” John set up his free kick, taking care not to put too much power behind it. “Yessiree Bob.”

“That’s another thing. What’s with all the Yank talk?”

“I usually play this game with my American friend Katie. We’re in the LGBT group at uni together. Guess she’s rubbed off on me.” His kick sailed left of the goal. “Dagnabbit.”

Soon the whistle blew to signal halftime. As Fergus made tactical adjustments, he asked, “Does Katie play in real life?”

“She’s a kickass fullback, All-State in South Carolina. Whatever that means.”

Fergus let out a groan of admiration. “American women are amazing footballers. If Warriors could recruit her, I will love you forever.”

A warmth spread up the sides of John’s neck. “Is that all it takes?”

“For now.” Fergus kept his eyes on the screen but kept his knee pressed against John’s. “Though there are still a few inches of my body you’ve yet to apply your tongue to.”

They started the second half in silent concentration, each side holding its own. Music played at a low volume from Fergus’s stereo, where the university radio station was doing its retro show. An old Ace of Base song came on, and John hummed along under his breath. As the bridge arrived, John and Fergus started singing at the same time, then laughed at their synchronized fandom.

“I fucking love this band,” Fergus said.

“Me too. Mum says ‘Beautiful Life’ was the first song I ever danced to, when I was three.”

“They’re playing Retrofest next month at Loch Lomond.”

“We should go!” John blurted, before realizing it was presumptuous to assume they’d still be together in a month.

But Fergus agreed immediately. “I’ll buy an extra ticket. I was already planning to go with Liam and Robert and Robert’s girlfriend, Danielle.”

Meeting the mates. That was huge. Especially when one of those mates worked at a Celtic pub. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“They’ll love you. You and Liam have a similar sense of humor. The difference is, Liam and I riff off each other as long as we can without laughing. Totally straight-faced, you know?” Fergus sent John a quick smile. “With you I just laugh.”

“You and Liam ever hook up?”

“Good God, no. We’d never jeopardize our friendship. Ah, there we are.” Fergus leaned forward as his winger stripped the ball from John’s midfielder. “But more important, Liam and I don’t fancy gingers.”

“Neither did I, until last night.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Because you’re all so irresistible?”

“People either fancy us or they don’t.” Fergus mashed the button to fire a shot that went wide of the goal. “Most don’t, but those who do—they really, really do. Like, to the point of fetish. It’s not as fun as it sounds.”

Remembering the milk-white skin of Fergus’s chest, the pattern of tongue-traceable freckles on his shoulders, and the forest of fiery hair surrounding his endless, engorged red cock, John couldn’t deny he’d joined the Ginger Lad Fan Club. But he sensed that even if he were blind, he’d still crave Fergus.