Play On: A Glasgow Lads Novella (13 page)

“He said if I’d any balls, I would’ve bitten that defender, Luis Suarez-style.” Duncan chuckled. “Colin also bragged that since I’m to be suspended, he’s certain to win the Warriors’ scoring title for the season.”

“He’s probably right,” Fergus said, “though not about the biting,” As Charlotte approached, he stepped forward, putting himself between Duncan and their manager.

“Happy, lads? That’s your season finished.” She glared at Fergus from beneath her hood. “Taylor, you’ll likely be banned three matches for violent conduct.”

“I understand,” he said in the strong, steady voice Duncan hadn’t heard in weeks.

“Same for you, Harris,” Charlotte told Duncan. “Three matches for the pushing, perhaps another three for trying to punch him.”

Behind them, people in the stands began shouting louder than ever. Duncan started to turn toward the ruckus.

“Look at me!” Charlotte drew his attention back to her. “You’re lucky your punch missed, or your ban would’ve been eight games.”

“I’m sorry. But he was threatening—”

“I don’t care!” She brandished her plastic-wrapped clipboard at the pitch. “Have you any idea what your temper might cost us? Warriors could be fined for starting this brawl. You think we’ve hundreds of pounds just lounging about our bank account, when we can barely afford kits for you lot to wear each week?”

Duncan gulped. To say the Woodstoun Warriors were on a shoestring budget was an understatement. Most of the players were poor or working-class, so membership fees were kept low. “I’m sorry,” he said again, this time sincerely. “If there’s a fine, I’ll pay it.” He wondered how many weeks of summer work it would take to cover the amount.

“If we’re lucky,” Charlotte said, “instead of a fine the league will deduct a few of our points in the table.”

“Point deduction?!” Duncan thought his head would explode. “But we’re tied for third. We’ll lose our chance at promotion!”

“Exactly.”

“Fuck.” He dragged his hands up over his face. “It’s not fair. McCurdy should’ve been yellow-carded for the things he said. I can’t believe the refs never heard him.”

She sighed. “I know it’s pure hard dealing with prejudice. I’ve faced it my whole life, homophobia
and
sexism. But it’s no excuse for violence. Maybe you’ve noticed, football’s got a wee image problem. ‘A game played by hooligans, for hooligans.’ Every incident like this sets the entire sport back.”

Duncan looked at his feet, a ray of shame burning through his cloud of righteous rage. “You’re right. I should’ve reported McCurdy instead of trying to punch him. But no one likes a whinger. Complaining makes us look weak.”

“Then ignore them,” she said.

“That’s even worse.” Duncan remembered what Brodie had told Geoffrey on the phone. “Our silence gives them more power.”

“This is your puzzle to solve, lad, but I’ll give you a wee hint—violence is not the answer. Not on my team. I may cut you yet.” She started to turn away.

“No, you won’t,” Fergus said quietly.

Charlotte stopped. “Sorry?”

Fergus lifted his head to speak, the rain coursing down his ruddy face. “Warriors have been the walking dead since our last captain left. At least today we’ve got life, thanks to this lad.”

Duncan stared at him. It was true. There was life today, on the pitch, on the bench—and even in the haunted eyes of this heartbroken man.

“Don’t you defend what he did,” Charlotte said. “You’ve let me down more than anyone. At least Harris has the excuse of youth. Twenty-four years old, you are, and taking part in a brawl like a teenager. You should be showing leadership.”

“All due respect, Charlotte.” Fergus drew himself up to his full six-foot-four height. “Protecting my player
is
leadership.”

She yanked back the hood of her jacket. “What did you say? Did you just call Harris ‘your player’?”

“No, I—” Fergus looked away. “I called him my teammate.”

“You said ‘my player,’” Duncan pointed out. “Just now, and also before, when you were yelling at McCurdy.”

Charlotte stepped close to Fergus and peered up into his eyes. “So you mean to be captain after all?”

“I never said that.”

“Ah, well, good thing it’s not up to you.” She pulled her hood up again. “Not sure I’d choose you to lead this team after what just happened.”

“We should have a vote,” Duncan said.

“No,” Fergus told him. “The manager appoints the captain.”

“There’s no law saying that. Players can choose.” Duncan met Charlotte’s eyes. “When Evan left, this team was rocked to the fucking core. So we should all decide together who replaces him. It should be someone who’ll stand up for us no matter what.” He looked at Fergus. “Even when we ignore their good advice.”

Charlotte examined them both for a long moment, then nodded. “We’ll hold a vote next practice. Now get out of my sight.” As she turned and walked away, Duncan caught a hint of a smile on her face.

“Why do I feel like Charlotte got exactly what she wanted?” Fergus asked Duncan as they collected their kit bags from the dugout.

“Funny how that always happens.” Duncan slung his bag over his shoulder and turned toward the stands. He hoped Brodie would leave with him, for the sake of his health, and because Duncan really needed a friendly face just now.

He stopped, scanning the small crowd with growing unease. Brodie was nowhere to be seen, and most of the other spectators were turned away from the pitch, facing the exit, as if there’d been an incident there. One by one they turned to look at Duncan, with apprehension or anger.

He began to run.

D
UNCAN
’
S
BREATH
HEAVED
as he neared the street corner where he’d glimpsed Brodie, Paul, and Lorna on their way to the bus stop. The rain was driving full force now, cutting visibility to a handful of yards and making a dismal part of Glasgow look even worse than usual.

He dashed through the crosswalk just as the light turned red, prompting a horn blare from a rattling gray Vauxhall. Pivoting right, kit bag swinging wildly, he caught sight of Lorna’s purple umbrella ahead of him.

“Brodie!”

Lorna and Paul stopped and turned at the sound of Duncan’s voice, but Brodie just hunched his shoulders and kept walking. Duncan ran past the other two and slid to a stop on the slick pavement, catching hold of Brodie’s sleeve.

“What’s wrong? Why’d you leave?” He took a step back. “And what’s this orange stuff all over you?” It smelled like cough syrup.

“Irn Bru, I think,” Brodie said in a hoarse, choked voice. “Or maybe Fanta, I don’t know. Who cares what was chucked at me?”

Duncan stared at his bright-red, tear-streaked face. “My God, what happened?” He reached for him.

“Dinna touch me.” Brodie hurried the last few yards to the bus stop, where he huddled under the meager shelter provided by its narrow roof.

“He was upset about the brawl.” Lorna was at Duncan’s side now, the edge of her umbrella nearly poking him in the chin. “So he walked off without telling us. By the time we caught up to him, they’d already started having a go.”

“Who?”

“The Shettleston fans,” Paul said. “Calling him names, throwing rubbish. They were raging at you for trying to punch their player, and they knew you and Brodie were together.”
 

They knew who he was because I kissed him. I made him a target.

“Paul and I told him your matches aren’t usually like this,” Lorna said, “but I don’t think it did any good.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Erm—” Lorna raised her hand as if to hold Duncan back. “Okay, but don’t make it worse, all right? He’s in a state just now.”

“I can see that.”
I’ll make it better. I hope.

Duncan eased up to Brodie at the bus shelter, cautiously, like he was approaching a wild animal. “I’m sorry for what happened, for what those people said to you.”

Brodie’s only response was a hard sniffle. His gaze remained on the mottled pavement with its cigarette butts and unidentifiable stains. The middle-aged man at the other end of the shelter gave them the side-eye from beneath his rain-spattered cap.

“Let’s get a taxi,” Duncan told Brodie. “The sooner you’re home, the sooner I can make your soup and tea.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Get you out of these wet clothes and into a nice warm bed.”

“No.” Brodie lurched past him, out into the rain, retreating to stand against the bright red frontage of the adjacent Chinese takeaway.

Duncan sighed and went to join him under the awning. “Look, it’s absurd for you to be out in this weather in your state. Let me help you.”

“Help me what? Help me get called a ‘faggot’?”

Duncan shook his head, remembering how that word used to carve through him like a dull knife. “You can’t let it frighten you off. If I ran away every time someone called me names, I’d never finish a match.”

“You
didn’t
finish the match,” Brodie said with venom. “Because there’s violence in you.”

Duncan rubbed the knuckles of his right hand, where he wished his fist had met McCurdy’s face. “There’s violence in all men.”

“Not me. Not like that.” It sounded more a self-indictment than a boast. “I must be defective.”

Duncan had never wanted so badly to hold someone. “You’re not defective, you’re just good.” He set his bag on the damp pavement, then leaned against the front of the takeaway to ease the weight from his aching left foot, which McCurdy had relentlessly trod upon. “I understand if you don’t want to see any more matches. Football’s not for everyone.”

“You
don’t
understand,” Brodie said. “It’s not just the matches I don’t want to see anymore.”

Duncan’s entire body went numb. “Are you—you’re breaking up with me, because of what those idiots said?”

“Not because of them. Because of you. Because of the way you smiled after you tried to hurt that man.” Brodie’s breath began to hitch. “I used to love that smile. Now I can’t look at you without wondering if you’ll hurt me next.”

“What?!” Duncan let out a strangled, panicky laugh. “That’s ridiculous! I’d rather cut off my arm than hit you.”

“I didn’t say ‘hit.’ I said ‘hurt.’ Which you could do, so easily, without ever laying a finger on me.”

The groan of a bus engine reached Duncan’s ears. He looked over to see the Number 60 approaching all too quickly.

He turned back to Brodie. “Why would you think I’d hurt you? Where is this coming from?”

“From reality! You’ve had it easy, growing up in the Merchant Fucking City with your annoyingly proud parents. Whilst there I was in a wee north-coast fishing village sneaking about with my secret boyfriend, the one you mocked me for listening to The Smiths with.”

“I’m sorry I was a prick about that. I know you’ve had it hard. I wish you and your boyfriend could’ve been out together.”

“Aye, right,” he growled. “If anyone’d known for certain we were gay, I’d have been beaten senseless and drowned in a sack. And Geoffrey would’ve lost his place in the football team.”

Duncan stepped back, dumbstruck. Had Brodie told him his boyfriend was a footballer? No, he’d only mentioned that the footballers in school had—

Fucking hell.
“Did Geoffrey bully you?”

Brodie looked over his shoulder at the bus nearing the stop. Then he shook his head. “No, but he didn’t stop his mates doing it. He didn’t stand up for me.”

Relief washed over Duncan. He could prove he was better than that. “But see, that’s exactly what I was doing out there on the pitch. I hit that Shettleston player because he threatened you. I defended you, because I’m—”
I’m absolutely mad about you.
“—because I couldn’t
not
do it.”

Brodie stared at him, searching for…Duncan didn’t know what, but he hoped he found it. He hoped what he’d just said could make the difference.

“Don’t get on that bus,” Duncan pleaded in a whisper. “Come with me. We’ll work this out.”

Brodie’s mouth trembled into a fleeting frown. “Geoffrey was right. He always said, ‘If I defend you, they’ll do much worse. That’s how bullies are.’ So I guess I can’t win.”

“What do you mean?”

“The crowd attacked me
after
the brawl. Because you stood up for me.
You
set them off.”

“That’s different. They were angry with me and took it out on you. It wasn’t personal.”

“Not personal?” Brodie snarled. “It felt pretty fucking personal to me. Maybe I’m too sensitive, or maybe I just don’t suffer dickheads.” When his eyes met Duncan’s, they were as full of resolve as they were of tears. “Either way, I refuse to be part of this life. I can’t be with a footballer.”

Duncan felt the world shift beneath him. “Then I’ll quit the game.”

Brodie gave a bitter laugh. “No, you won’t, and you shouldn’t. It means a lot to you.”

The bus door opened with a hydraulic hiss. Lorna and Paul stood near it, waiting to see if Brodie was coming.

Duncan reached for him. “You mean a lot to me too.”

“Rubbish!” He lurched away, backing up toward the bus. “I’ve been part of your life for less than a week.”

“What are you talking about?” Duncan followed him. “We’ve been friends for months!”

Brodie stopped. “We were never friends,” he said in a low, dead voice. “All we’ve shared was a flat, and a course of study, and a—a meaningless hormonal caper.”

A hot shiver of humiliation seized Duncan. Was that how Brodie saw their gut-wrenching need to hold and touch and kiss and—everything? What about the laughs they’d shared, or the secrets? What about the moments they’d looked into each other’s eyes and felt the world shrink to the size of a bed?

Maybe it had all been in Duncan’s mind. Maybe he’d been too swept away by this roller coaster of a week to notice Brodie was never along for the ride. Maybe Duncan had felt enough for both of them.

He watched Brodie board the bus ahead of Lorna and Paul, who looked back, their eyes questioning. Then Duncan turned away, struggling to breathe. It felt like the rain had become an ocean, salt water scorching his eyes and clogging his lungs.