Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (36 page)

J
OHN
MADE
A
mental note to have his blood pressure checked at the next opportunity. It seemed a wise precaution, given his father’s heart troubles and his own caffeine habit. Not to mention the fact that at the moment, he felt he could die.

On the pitch before him, the Woodstoun Warriors and the Morningside Magnificence were finishing their final warm-ups. Elsewhere within Firhill Stadium, New Shores’ professional event planners were sorting the last few logistical details. But John, sitting here in the first row of Firhill’s rapidly filling stands, had nothing to do but watch. Between his nerves over the match and his confusion over Fergus, he was sure he’d go mad.

Mum’s frequent hand-pats and Dad’s frequent offerings of a fresh Irn Bru did little to help. John was grateful they were here, though, especially given the tension at home since the day of the Orange Walk. It might take years for Dad to fully accept John’s “betrayal of his heritage” in quitting the Order, but they’d yet to turn their backs on each other for good. John had promised to pop by his old home once a week—and not just to see Dad.

“Uncle John, which side’s the good one?” asked wee Harry, sitting beside him.

“The Warriors. In the black shorts and purple-and-white-striped shirts.” He corrected himself. “I mean,
violet
-and-white.” Fergus had once explained there was a massive difference between violet and purple, the former being darker and allegedly tougher than the latter.

“But they’ve got lasses playing,” Harry said.

“So?”

“I don’t like girls.”

“One day you’ll like them a lot.”

“God, I hope so,” Nicole said under her breath. Then she gave John a guilty smile over Harry’s head. “No offense.”

“If Warriors are purple,” Harry asked, “why’s everyone got rainbow flags?” He waved his own as an example.

Nicole gave John a warning glare, which he heeded. “Well, Harry, it’s because—because rainbows are pretty. Like lasses are pretty. At least some of them are. I suppose.” He flailed for a moment. “Like your mum!”

Harry evaluated Nicole with a serious expression, then nodded. “She’s all right.”

For a few moments, John let himself watch Fergus lead his players through a sidestepping warm-up drill. The easy swivel of his hips, full of coiled power, made John grip the edge of his seat, remembering how he’d clutched those hips on the dance floor and in that hotel bed. Then he looked away, knowing he’d never again hold any part of Fergus.

To distract his thoughts and lift his mood, John turned to admire the crowd, which was growing more raucous by the minute. The Rainbow Regiment, the Warriors’ official supporter club, was out in full force. Their giant multicolored banners flapped in the warm breeze, showing slogans like
Come Out and Play
and
Give Homophobia the Boot
. Seven of the hardcore members had painted their chests to spell TAPS AFF in support of the sunny weather and the traditional shirt-removal goal celebration. Near the front of the Regiment, John could see his mate Brodie—who’d hated football before he’d starting seeing Duncan—leading a chant wearing his new rainbow-tartan kilt.

Across the pitch, the away section was filling with Morningside supporters, including their fan club, the Magnificent Bastards. Despite the heat, the Bastards wore their signature powdered wigs and lace collars, embracing their “toffee-nosed” reputation with good humor. Far from conceding the award for Loudest Fans, the Bastards bellowed their fight songs in four-part harmony.

Somewhere else in the first row, John knew, were Fergus’s mother, brother, and sister-in-law. He couldn’t see them from here, which was just as well, as he’d no desire to witness their disappointment and revulsion.

A whistle blew, signaling the end of the warm-up period. Near the center of the pitch, Fergus was shaking hands with the stratospherically arrogant Morningside captain, Maximilian Forbes.

The teams queued up side by side to enter the tunnel to the stadium’s dressing rooms. Fergus stood tall and strong, face set in concentration, but his shoulders held a slight stiffness that John knew was due to mental tension, not physical.

John let out a deep sigh. He’d come to know this man so well, so quickly. His mind had recorded every movement and breath, perhaps knowing that someday, those memories would be all he had left of Fergus.

That, and a cryptic six-word email:
Please don’t leave without saying goodbye.

= = =

“Cos we’re football crazy, we’re football mad!”

Fergus watched Liam and Robert lead the dressing room in the Warriors’ theme song, with Jamie accompanying them on air guitar. Colin was performing a one-legged jig wearing his brand-new Woodstoun Warriors tracksuit, which Katie had given him out of guilt for his knee injury.

The players’ spirits were high at the mere fact of
having
a dressing room, much less one used by Premier League pros. Even the women had refused the option of using an office as a separate changing area, wanting the chance to stand and sit in the same spots as legends.

As Fergus hung his practice jersey on the hook at the end of the row, he remembered watching a video of his beloved Celtic Football Club celebrating in this dressing room only two months ago, after they’d secured the season’s league title with a win over Partick Thistle. He could almost smell the champagne.

He swallowed hard, his mouth dry at the thought of the monumental match in front of them. This game against Morningside was a friendly in name only. The Warriors’ very pride was at stake here. If they suffered a brutal defeat in front of 10,000 people, he didn’t know how they’d recover. How
he’d
recover.

He sipped from his water bottle, knowing nothing would calm him—nothing but stepping onto that pitch and playing the game he loved. Then it would all be familiar. Then it would all make sense.

But the waiting was murder. As if the packed stadium, news reporters, and live radio broadcast weren’t unsettling enough, seeing the man he loved sitting in the front row nearly did Fergus’s head in. He prayed John would keep his promise to say goodbye after the match. Maybe they could turn that farewell into a new beginning.

“Awright, awright, awright!” Charlotte bellowed as she swept into the dressing room. “Five minutes!”

The players’ song faded out in the final chorus as they all turned to face their manager.

“I’ve never been one for grand speeches,” she said, “and anyway youse need to get back out and play before the warm-up wears off. So I’ll just say one thing.”

Fergus waited for her to make a sly joke, or take the piss out of them or herself or their opponents. Charlotte was the most pragmatic, unsentimental manager he’d ever known. She faced hard choices in the cruel world of sport, and she made them without second guesses or self-pity. He hoped that one day, when he managed his own club, he’d be half as strong as Charlotte Atchison.

“When I look at each of you, I feel pride,” she said. “Not Capital-P Pride, the thing that supposedly unites the gay community, whatever the fuck that is. I mean I’m proud of you like a mum would be. For your courage, being who you are and not giving a toss what others think. For your dedication, showing up week after week when you’ve got jobs and university and perhaps even a social life—not that I’d know what that is,” she added with a chuckle.

“I’m saying all this,” she continued, “because I don’t want youse running out there thinking you need to make me proud. I already am. The pride you need to earn is your own.” She met each player’s eyes as she spoke. “This world does everything it can to take that from you. Some days it succeeds.” Charlotte gave a quiet smile and said, “But not fuckin’ today.”

As the Warriors let out a bone-shaking cheer, Fergus felt his heart lift with hope. A victory this afternoon would belong not only to the club and their fans. It would belong to every LGBT athlete around the world, to those who had to hide their true selves before stepping onto a pitch or a court, and to those who let doubt and shame keep them from taking that step at all.

The Warriors carried a heavy burden, but they were prepared. They were fit. And they were very, very hungry.

They could do this. He was certain.

= = =

It was a short-lived certainty, as the Magnificence scored in under a minute. Maximilian commemorated his goal by tearing off his shirt and waving it at the crowd. This act drew enthusiastic cheers—including from the male members of the Rainbow Regiment—and a yellow card from the referee for excessive celebration.

Fergus kept himself calm as he ran among his shell-shocked defenders. “It’s all right, mates!” He patted their shoulders and clapped his hands to revive their focus. “Just keep challenging, like we’ve practiced. They won’t get through again.”

They did. Twice. In ten minutes. The crowd fell eerily silent save for the Magnificent Bastards’ songs of gloating.

“I cannae fucking believe this,” Liam repeated over and over, clutching his bright red hair, his face paler than Fergus had ever seen it.

As terror rippled through the team, Charlotte shouted for them to open up space and go on the attack, the way all football teams do when they fall behind. But Fergus knew his players were too shaken up to keep control of the ball. Attacks could lead to more mistakes and eventually utter humiliation. At this rate, they would lose by twenty-seven goals, making them the laughingstock of the city, the nation, and the entire Internet.

Fergus’s number-one priority—no, his
only
priority—was to calm them the fuck down.

He called a quick huddle before the next kickoff, while the latest Magnificence scorer, Reece Sinclair, was still performing his elaborate, yellow-card-earning victory dance.

“This is the turning point,” Fergus told them. “This is all they get, do you hear me? We
will
battle back, but first we need to stop the bleeding. Here’s how.”

He altered their formation to one of pure defense. If Charlotte didn’t like his changes, she could undo them at halftime. Hell, she could appoint a new captain if she wanted. But right now,
he
was the one on the pitch.
He
was the one tasting his players’ fear. It was time for Fergus to lead.

The effects were stunning. The Warriors surrounded their own penalty area so thoroughly, its white lines might as well have been a wall of titanium. Everyone but their cheetah-swift forward Shona moved back to help defend the sides, keeping ten bodies behind the ball. The largest of those bodies, Robert and Liam, stayed close to the goal, deflecting the rare pass that crept inside and giving their keeper Heather a chance to breathe.

Coupled with this lockdown, the Warriors began the oddest sort of long-ball game. When they gained possession, instead of counterattacking, they simply cleared the ball, booting it far down the pitch and off to the side so the Magnificence defenders would have to chase it down—with Shona nipping at their heels—then throw it in. The crowd grew restless at the excruciatingly slow tempo, Fergus’s Rule 2,
Play Faster!
, having been completely chucked. But little by little, Woodstoun’s composure strengthened as Morningside’s disintegrated.

“Have you lost your fucking minds?” Max snarled to Fergus as Heather sailed a goal kick far over their heads. “Why are you killing time when you’re three goals down? Are you afraid to actually play us?”

“Just be a dear and go fetch the ball, would you?” He blew Max a kiss, then looked over at Charlotte, who shook her head in disbelief. Fergus just smiled back. He had faith in this plan. According to John, Morningside had spent most of the summer on holiday, so their players probably weren’t fit yet. Warriors just had to wear them down.

Eventually the Magnificence’s faltering stamina and pent-up frustration resulted in a hideous square pass—the exact mistake Fergus had made in that fateful Cup quarterfinal. Shona streaked forward to pounce on it, and then she was off on a breakaway with Evan keeping pace to her right. Morningside’s remaining defender bore down on her. Shona passed the ball to Evan, then dodged the defender and shouted for Evan to pass it back. The goalkeeper rushed out to cut down the angle of attack.

Pass it, Evan
, Fergus thought as he sprinted to join them.
Pass it back to Shona before it’s too late.

Evan veered right and took the shot himself at an impossible angle. It missed, hitting the goal’s near post. As Fergus closed in for the rebound, the keeper hurled himself on the ball like a heroic soldier on a grenade. Fergus had to leap over him to avoid a foul, smashing his elbow into the goal post and spilling onto the pitch.

“Fucking hell, Hollister!” Shona yelled to Evan as the Morningside keeper lay there, panting with relief. “I was open!”

“Hey.” Fergus got up, shaking out his tingling arm, and spoke to Shona as calmly as he could. “He made a mistake, now let’s move on. You did brilliant work on that breakaway.” He squeezed her shoulder. “We’ll get it next time.”

The crowd, at least, was energized by the Warriors’ show of life, and their cheers in turn kept the team motivated. For the rest of the half, the Magnificence managed no more shots on goal.

When the halftime whistle blew, Fergus led the Warriors back to their dressing room, battered and bruised, yet still proud, still alive.

= = =

John skipped his usual halftime foray to the food stands, instead using his VIP pass to enter the tunnel leading to the dressing rooms.

Watching the first half had been like standing in the crowd before a gallows as the hangman draped the noose around a loved one’s neck. It was agony to witness, but turning away would have been disloyal. So he’d taken in every moment, his mind grasping for some way to help Fergus and his team. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing.

Finally it had hit him—not a new idea, but an old idea with a new target.

At John’s knock, Maximilian opened the visitors’ dressing room door. Beyond him, John saw the Magnificence in a jovial mood—singing, hooting, and snapping towels at one another as if the match had already ended. Three players were already sharing a six-pack of craft beer.