Play On: A Glasgow Lads Novella (11 page)

“How can they help it when we’re fucking adorable?” Duncan offered a cheesy wink-and-finger-point as he turned away. He decided to ignore Brodie’s grumbled protest of “We are
not
adorable.”

Later, lying under his own covers for the first time since Tuesday night, Duncan spread his legs wide, then rolled to his side, bending his knees to stretch his lower back. It was rather nice to have extra space again.

For about five minutes, that is. Then his arms felt empty, and doubt chilled his skin. Was he fooling himself, thinking he and Brodie could make this work? Brodie was so sensitive, and Duncan…well, he always seemed to say the wrong thing lately, or laugh at the worst times. To someone like Brodie, he must seem the world’s most callous bastard.

Maybe Brodie’s feelings for him this past week had been but a side effect of his virus, or an outgrowth of his gratitude. Maybe he’d been too ill and weak for rational thought.
He only fancied me because he was sleep-deprived.

Mind spinning, Duncan fetched the paperback version of
Fever Pitch
from his shelf and returned to bed. He flipped to an arbitrary chapter, because no matter what was wrong or right in his life, here he could always find perspective. Some people drew comfort from randomly selected Bible verses; Duncan’s solace lay in Nick Hornby’s obsession with Arsenal Football Club.

The book opened to one of his favorite passages, the account of the 1979 FA Cup Final against the universally despised Manchester United. Nick’s lifelong dream at that point was to see Arsenal win the Cup at Wembley, so in typical fan fashion, he’d made a bargain with the universe: if Arsenal won, he would be okay with failing his final exams and with Margaret Thatcher becoming Prime Minister.

Arsenal went up by two goals, and bliss was within reach, but United scored twice within the final five minutes. Nick was slammed with an all-too-familiar grief. Fans behind him—grown men and women—were sobbing their faces off. It was literally the worst thing that had ever happened in the history of everything.

Then…Arsenal scored. Nick’s resigned sorrow turned to disbelieving joy. His dream had come true. His life was complete at the age of twenty-two.

Duncan shut the book and rested it on his chest, marking the page with his thumb. He knew well what happened next. Nick Hornby and Arsenal each descended into a decade-long depression, abandoned by girlfriends and midfielders, unable to correct their repeated mistakes.

Duncan felt himself on a similar precipice, as his emotions seemed to be slipping out of control since that fateful cup quarterfinal. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose the Warriors
and
Brodie. Maybe he’d lost them already.

A knock came at his door. He slapped the book onto his nightstand and scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping on the covers as hope leapt into his throat.

He opened the door to see Brodie in his Passenger T-shirt and plaid pajama trousers, clutching a pillow to his chest.

“I was thinking.” Brodie looked down at his own twitching toes. “Maybe we’re a wee bit adorable.”

= = =

Brodie stared at the ceiling, too tired to sleep. Beside him, Duncan sprawled on his stomach, one arm and one leg looped over Brodie’s body, his face the very portrait of peace.

The gap between the curtains let in enough streetlight for Brodie to study Duncan’s room. Its layout was identical to Brodie’s—bed to the left of the window, desk to the right, wardrobe at the foot of the bed, sink beside the armchair facing the door—but that’s where the similarity ended. Where Brodie’s posters featured musicians or artwork, Duncan’s had sweaty men in football shirts bearing the names of corporations instead of cities. The majority wore red and white stripes, matching the duvet Brodie lay under now.
Must be Duncan’s favorite team
, he thought, but couldn’t remember which that was. Newcastle, perhaps?

He switched on his phone to get a bit more light. In violation of student-housing rules, Duncan had taped a poster to the side of his wardrobe facing the bed. It bore images of a man who was preternaturally handsome and apparently very good at kicking a ball into a net. In one picture he was conveniently soaking wet, every ab muscle evident through the translucent white shirt. Another picture showed him celebrating with his top off, flexing his pecs and screaming at the crowd.

Brodie closed his eyes, but it was too late to avoid the flash of memory: a ring of boys in muddy white football shirts cornering him in the alley behind the village bait shop. Shoving him to his knees (“Your favorite place to be!”). Waving their pricks in his face (“Fair hungry now?”). Giving him a clout on the head every time he closed his eyes or looked away (“Dinna be shy, min!”). Force-feeding him lugworms until he spewed.

And always, in the background, the North Sea’s waves kept rolling, and the gulls kept laughing.

He turned his head to look at Duncan, hoping his face would keep those memories at bay. Soft breath whistled quietly through that perfect, turned-up nose, the one that crinkled when he was trying not to laugh.

Duncan couldn’t be like the footballers Brodie had known in school. While he wasn’t exactly leading a gay-pride parade, he was out and proud with the Warriors. He fought the sport’s rampant homophobia every day. He was making a difference.

So why did Brodie still feel so distant from him at times? Why couldn’t he tell Duncan about his mother’s rejection? Had he sensed Duncan couldn’t understand what it was like to be condemned by one’s own flesh and blood? That hunch had certainly been confirmed at dinner tonight. They were from different worlds.

Brodie placed his phone back on Duncan’s improvised bedside table (a storage crate topped by a red-and-white chessboard). His hand brushed a book lying open face down:
Fever Pitch
, Duncan’s favorite tale of obsession.

Haven’t you ever loved far past the point of sanity?
he’d asked. The thought terrified Brodie. If he had let himself love Geoffrey, he never would have survived his daily disloyalty. The only way to keep his heart safe was to expect nothing from men, give nothing
to
them.

A tap on his calf drew his attention back to the sleeping Duncan, whose feet twitched beneath the covers. Was he dreaming of a heroic sprint down the pitch, ending with a final kick past the outstretched arms of a goalkeeper? What sorts of thoughts filled that bold, carefree mind?

Brodie carefully slid out from under Duncan’s arm and leg. With a faint mumble, Duncan rolled away, still asleep. Brodie picked up the book and crossed to the armchair beside the desk. He tilted the desk lamp away from the bed before switching it on.

Then he opened the book to the page Duncan had been reading. Perhaps these words could help him solve the puzzle of this allegedly beautiful game, and this definitively beautiful boy.

“W
ILL
THERE
STILL
be tickets available?” Brodie asked Lorna as they approached the East End park where Duncan’s match was soon to begin.

Lorna and Paul found this question hilarious.

“This is amateur football, mate,” Paul said. “Nae tickets. Nae seats either, usually, but at least this park’s got the terraces.” He pointed to the rows of long, mossy, concrete steps, most of which were sheltered by a roof with peeling white paint.

“Is this your first match, Brodie?” Lorna asked as they went round the back of the stands to the entrance. “Are you a football virgin?”

“Please don’t use those two words together.” Brodie shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets to hide their trembling. His skin felt thin today, perhaps due to the damp wind or the lingering virus—or maybe because of his nerves.

Reading
Fever Pitch
last night had left him more puzzled than ever. But he reckoned the best way to understand Duncan’s great passion was to overcome his own football phobia and put himself in the thick of it. If nothing else, he’d show Duncan he was trying to bridge the gap between them.

“Oh.” Brodie stopped in his tracks. “There they are.”

Not fifty feet away, the Warriors and their opponents were warming up on the pitch’s patchy grass. It took only a moment to pick out Duncan in the row of high-stepping footballers in pale blue shirts.

Lorna tugged his right arm. “This way.”

“Why not sit here in the middle?”

“It’s an away game for Warriors,” Paul said, “so their supporters sit at the end. The section with no roof, of course.”

“How do you know which—ah.” Brodie gaped up at the score of fans who provided a welcome blare of color against the drab background of concrete and clouds. A few waved rainbow flags, one loon wore a rainbow clown wig, and one quine flourished a stuffed version of
My Little Pony
’s Rainbow Dash on a stick. “I assume that’s the Rainbow Regiment?”

“The one and only.” Lorna unzipped her hoodie to reveal a rainbow tie-dyed shirt. “Ooh, they’ve finished warmups.” She dragged Brodie to the rope fence separating the stands from the pitch. “Harris, ya wee knob! We brought a surprise!”

Duncan looked over from where he stood talking to a tall, lean, ginger-haired man in a Warriors kit. At the sight of Brodie, Duncan’s face brightened with his signature broad smile. He abandoned his teammate and darted over to the fence.

“What are you doing out of bed?” he asked, still grinning. “Lorna, was this your idea?”

“It was Brodie’s,” she said. “He didn’t want to tell you earlier in case he changed his mind at the last minute out of fear.”

“Out of tiredness, you mean.” Brodie glared at her.

“You do look pale,” Duncan told him.

Brodie shrugged. “I was born pale.”

“Harris, let’s go!” the ginger teammate shouted. Even from this distance, Brodie noticed a desolate quality about the man. His shoulders hung heavy, and his mouth looked permanently etched into a grimace.

“That must be Fergus,” he said.

Duncan nodded. “I gotta dash. But I’m happy you’re here.” Blue eyes gleaming, he placed his hands beside Brodie’s atop the fence. “Really happy.”

Swept up in the emotion and the swell of support around him, Brodie leaned forward, just an inch. Duncan did the same. They hesitated, moved a little closer, paused again.

Then they kissed. It wasn’t long or passionate, but its very existence lit up every dark corner inside Brodie, lit him up with the hope and pride denied to him for so long. The kiss silenced the voices that said he couldn’t feel this way about another boy—or if he did, that those feelings must be forever hidden behind closed doors.

That one kiss cleansed him of a lifetime’s shame.

When it was over, Duncan squeezed Brodie’s hand. “Now we’re sure to win.” With a wink and a smile, he turned away to join his team.

Brodie stared after him until Lorna waved her hand in front of his eyes. “Earth to Campbell. Come in, Campbell.”

He blinked at her. “Sorry, I’m just…”

“Catatonic?”

“I’ve never been kissed in public before.”

Lorna’s smile turned sad, then happy again. “Get used to it.”

He glanced around, his apprehension returning. “Did anyone see us?”

“No, just everyone.” She put her arm around his waist and steered him to sit on the terraces’ front row with her and Paul. “I think a few of the Rainbow Regiment lads are pure jealous.”

He looked over his shoulder to see nothing but smiles and thumbs-up. The two guys behind him, wearing matching rainbow-tartan kilts, offered him a handshake and a fist bump. The word “adorable” reached his ears, making them burn with the best sort of embarrassment.

As the players spread across the pitch for the start of the match, Brodie let himself relax a little. Maybe this wouldn’t, in Duncan’s words, pure suck.

= = =

Duncan’s sunny mood darkened two seconds after they lined up for kickoff.

“We win today and youse lose your chance at promotion,” the Shettleston Star’s obnoxious center-back called to Duncan across the midline. “Can’t wait to see your wee pansy faces covered in tears.” He mimed rubbing his eyes, shaking his mass of dark curls in mock sorrow.

“Shut it, McCurdy,” shouted the Shettleston captain. “You trying to motivate them?” He turned back to Duncan. “Sorry about him, mate.”

“Nae bother,” Duncan lied. Evan and Fergus had taught the Warriors how to tune out the sly taunts from opponents and their fans. Before the Cup quarterfinal, Duncan had always responded in the best way possible, by scoring goals. But these last two weeks he’d responded in the worst way possible, by fouling his opponents until he got a yellow card.

Today he’d control his temper no matter what.

As play began, McCurdy dogged his every step, and Duncan realized with dismay that Shettleston’s biggest dickhead had been assigned to mark him in man-to-man coverage. There’d be no escaping the shaggy brute or his vile words.

Words like
faggot
,
poof
,
bufty
, and his all-time least favorite:
jobby-jabber
. They came pouring out whenever Duncan was in earshot and the referee was not. But Duncan kept moving, tracking his teammates, shifting around the defenders to provide a target for one of his midfielders’ killer passes.

“How about a side bet?” McCurdy said, following him across the midline as Shettleston went on the attack. “We win, you have to suck my cock. You win, you
get
to suck my cock.”

“Sounds like I lose no matter what,” Duncan replied, hoping to distract McCurdy. Guys like him always went off their heads when they got a taste of their own banter.

The Star attack was losing momentum as their passing grew sloppier. Duncan went on full alert. Any moment now, the Warriors would create a turnover and a chance for a counterattack. Their wide midfielder Shona Redfield was deceptively fast—and as a woman, usually underestimated.

“That’s your boyfriend over there, aye?” McCurdy murmured over Duncan’s shoulder. “The yin whose throat you put your tongue down?”

Duncan’s steps slowed—only a bit, but enough that the defender caught his reaction.