Play On: A Glasgow Lads Novella (15 page)

Duncan was surprised Fergus remembered his course. “Mum and Dad said I could get any degree I wanted as long as I came back to help run the shop after uni. When I chose psychology, they were like, ‘Great, it’ll make you a stellar salesman.’”

“Hah!” Fergus wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Is that your plan? Let the customers describe their dreams whilst reclining on one of your thousand-quid pleather sofas?”

“Exactly. Every therapy session will come with a free chenille twist rug. Choice of taupe, oatmeal, or mocha.” Duncan took a long sip from his can of Coke Zero, then lowered his voice, as if his parents might somehow hear from three miles away. “But seriously, after a year at uni, I think I’m more keen to continue for a Master’s, maybe one day be a sport psychologist.”

Fergus sat up straighter. “You mean like for depressed athletes?”

“Possibly, but sport psychology’s not just about mental illness. It’s about mental fitness, too. Being in the right frame of mind to perform, learning how to handle stress and pressure.” He gave a bitter chuckle. “When I told Brodie, he said, ‘What, the stress of being a millionaire? The pressure of everyone wanting to sleep with you?’”

“Clearly he doesn’t understand how mad this life can be, even for amateurs.”

“I think he understands now.” Duncan stared out over the city, toward the East End where he’d played his last match, and where Brodie had said goodbye. Just then, the sun vanished beneath a low bank of clouds, and the group of tourists drifted away, along with the woman and her two boys. “Anyway,” he told Fergus, “it’s an interesting field, and it’s what I want to do. Not sell sandstone toothbrush holders for twenty pounds apiece.”

“Twenty—? You’re joking.”

“On sale now for £14.95.” When Fergus laughed, Duncan added with a straight face, “If you consider how many years you’ll own a toothbrush holder, shouldn’t you have one you truly fancy, one which brings you joy to see it every morning and every night?”

“I never thought of a toothbrush holder as a long-term relationship partner. But now that I’ve seen the light, twenty quid seems a tiny sum when spread out over years of happiness.”

“Especially when you could have a matching soap dispenser for just £34.95.”

Fergus nearly spit out his cod. He covered his mouth and said, “You sure you don’t want to be a salesman? You seem a natural.”

“Take that back, ya knob!” Duncan threw his empty tartar-sauce container at Fergus, who swatted it away just in time. Beneath Duncan’s mock annoyance was a swell of relief at seeing his new captain able to laugh again, at least for a minute.

“Seriously, though, you should follow your dream. It’s your life. Why not?”

“Because Mum and Dad are the world’s best gay parents and I should feel lucky for their support?”

“No.” Fergus set an intense gaze on him. “You’re not ‘lucky,’ Duncan. Fortunate, aye. But luck is for people who don’t deserve what they get. You deserve your parents’ support. We all do.”

“You’re right.” Duncan had forgotten how calm and wise Fergus could be. “I wish I could convince Brodie. Of course, for that to happen, he’d have to actually speak to me again.”

“The lad you threw that punch for? You broke up?”

“He left me.” Duncan told Fergus everything Brodie had said to him Saturday, including his parting shot about their “meaningless hormonal caper.”

“You know that’s rubbish, right?” Fergus said, tucking into the rest of his chips. “Everyone lies about feelings. They say they love you when they don’t, and they say they don’t love you when they do.”

“That’s rather a jaded way of looking at it.”

“It just means you should pay no mind to people’s words, only their actions. When you were together, did it seem he couldn’t care less whether you were in the room? Or did his eyes light up whenever he saw you?”

Duncan considered it as he licked the grease from his fingers. “The second one.”

“And if he were truly indifferent to you, then why was he so devastated by what happened at the match? At the end of a meaningless hormonal caper, he could say, ‘Eh, good riddance to that wanker.’ He wouldn’t have been greeting his eyes out.” Fergus swirled his chip through his tartar sauce. “Speaking as an expert on crying binges.”

Duncan winced at the memory of Fergus’s public breakdown before the quarterfinal match, when he’d discovered Evan’s at the same time as the rest of the team. As frustrated as Duncan had been with Fergus’s histrionics and subsequent gloom, he now understood some fraction of his heartbreak.

“I wish I could go back in time.” Duncan tore a chip in half and tossed the pieces to a pair of loitering pigeons. “I’d smash the faces of Brodie’s school bullies.”

“That’s essentially what you tried to do Saturday, and you saw how it worked out.”

“Then I’d erase his memories so he’s not toting around this trauma and letting it come between us.”

Fergus squinted at him. “Getting less realistic every moment.”

Fuck reality.
Duncan had a sudden urge to pelt the closest pigeon with the chip in his hand. Instead he lofted it carefully onto the pavement beside the eager bird. “I know I’ve faced less bigotry than most gay men, and Brodie’s faced more than most. But I don’t see why that should matter now.”

“That’s your problem right there. You don’t see why it matters. But clearly it does matter to him. It makes you look an insensitive thug.”

Duncan groaned. “That’s not who I am.”

“Tell that to the referee at our next match. Oh wait, you can’t, because you’ve been suspended for losing your temper.”

“But that’s got nothing to do with—” He stopped himself, remembering Brodie’s words,
There’s violence in you.
He’d dismissed the accusation, made excuses.

He was still making excuses.

Duncan thought back to their date the night before the match, how he’d made light of Brodie’s past in an effort to bring him into the allegedly tolerant present. But the here and now had turned out to be just as harsh as Brodie’s antiquated village. To top it off, Duncan had told him not to take the Shettleston fans’ bullying personally. Like it was nothing.

How could he be so thick, so oblivious?

“You’re right, I should be a salesman,” he said, “because I’m a crap psychologist.”

Fergus rolled his eyes. “Please. You’re eighteen years old—”

“Almost nineteen.”

“Whatever. My point is, you’ve a lot to learn about life, so try to forgive yourself for not being perfect. You didn’t cheat on him, you didn’t lie to him, you didn’t—” Fergus’s face twisted a bit before his control returned. “This can be fixed, you and Brodie.” He turned away, feeding his own chips to the pigeons.

Duncan waited before speaking again. He might be clueless when it came to Brodie, but he at least knew when his captain needed a moment to collect himself.

After a minute he asked Fergus, “So what do I do now that I understand? I can’t change the world or make Brodie less afraid of it.”

“Show him you get it. Even if you can’t give him what he needs, at least he’ll know you know him. He’ll know you’re thinking of someone besides yourself. Understanding’s not the end, but it’s a start.” Fergus’s voice turned as soft as the falling dusk. “And you can’t get anywhere without it.”

“W
A
-
HEY
, C
AMPBELL
! You’re alive!”

A firm arm wrapped around Brodie’s waist as he entered the student-union lounge where the LGBT club was hosting its “I Will Survive (Exams)” disco party.

“Barely alive,” he told his friend John, stooping to kiss his cheek. “It’s good to see you.”

“I know, I’m looking extra cute tonight.” He gave Brodie a self-mocking wink. It was true, though. The dark brown of John’s animated eyes and sleek, straight hair was accentuated by his cream-colored button-down linen shirt, the subtle white stripes of which had a nice slimming effect on his brawny frame.

Brodie surveyed the room, which had transformed into a convincing imitation of a dance club, complete with flashing lights, pounding music, and more than a hundred bouncing, laughing students. He’d considered staying home, but six days in bed had restored his strength and left him climbing the walls with restlessness.

And part of him—okay, all of him—hoped Duncan would show. Before leaving for the dance, Brodie had slid a note under his flatmate’s bedroom door, re-extending his invitation to the party, on the small chance Duncan returned from his parents’. He’d no idea how they could work things out, but he wanted to try. If nothing else, they should talk, rather than ending on a bitter note.

“How are you getting on with your nurse man?” John shouted over the music’s thumping bass. “Ever have that sponge bath?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Brodie spilled it all, everything from his and Duncan’s first kiss to their breakup after the Shettleston match. “I just couldn’t look at him without seeing the way he tried to punch that defender. And the way he laughed afterward, like it was nothing. I felt a coward for not being able to shrug it off like he does.” He added with shame, “There’s a very scary part of me that wants back in the closet.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.” John gestured with his plastic beer cup to the crowd of loons and quines. Loads of them were paired up dancing or kissing, but just as many hovered alone at the perimeter, looking awkward but hopeful. “It’d be a hard thing to give up, this freedom to be who we are. I imagine it’d feel like dying.”

Brodie thought of the asylum seekers John’s charity was helping, and felt guilty for his own fears. So he’d had a Fanta chucked at him at a football match. There were people in this world who’d been jailed or murdered for being gay.

“But what do we do about the bullies?” he asked John.

“Ah, now that’s a proper dilemma. If you ignore them, they escalate. If you complain about them, they escalate. Ultimately it’s down to us to stand up for ourselves.”

“Easy for you to say.” Brodie gestured to John’s muscular chest. “I’m so scrawny I’m practically transparent. When I walk down the street, eighty-year-old wee wifeys stop and offer body-building tips.”

John laughed. “You’re not that bad. Besides, fighting back doesnae have to be with your fists. It can be outwitting the bullies, or finding strong allies, or even turning the bullies themselves into allies.” He took a sip of beer, his expression going dark and distant for a moment. “Becoming someone they cannae afford to fuck with.”

Brodie waited, wondering if that had been John’s own solution.

Then his friend brightened again. “Anyway, the key is to show them you’re not afraid.”

“But I am afraid.”

“Right, right.” John made a backpedaling motion with his hands. “Step two is
being
brave. Step one is
pretending
to be brave.”

“But why is it down to me? Shouldn’t the bullies be the ones to change?”

“Ideally, yes, but we cannae wait for that to happen. We cannae give them that power.”

“We could just avoid them,” Brodie said.

“Where? Mind, you thought a Warriors match would be a bully-free zone. Then when it wasnae some harmonious gay paradise, you cast away the lad you fancy, instead of fighting for him.”

“Fighting who for him?”

“Yourself. Your fears. He fought for you, didn’t he?” John glanced past Brodie at the door. “Oh! Another newcomer. Sorry, mate, I’m a crap social director if I don’t welcome folk. ’Mon, let’s show him how fucking friendly we are.”

Brodie followed—not that he’d much choice, with John tugging his arm—but stopped short when he saw who it was.

Duncan stood just inside the door, scanning the room with anxious eyes.

John noticed Brodie’s hesitation. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s him.”

John grinned, then shouted at the top of his voice. “Oi, Duncan, over here!” He turned to Brodie. “You need a wingman or will you be okay on your own?”

Brodie’s throat closed up at the sight of Duncan approaching. “Erm…”

“Wingman it is.” He stepped forward to shake Duncan’s hand. “Hiya! John Burns. Brodie’s told me about the magnificent work you’ve been doing with the Warriors.”

Duncan cast a bewildered look between them. “Sorry?” he asked John.

“He cannae stop blethering about your courage, and how you bring hope to so many LGBT folk.”

Duncan turned to Brodie. “You really said that?”

“Erm…” Those bright blue eyes, full of shock and wonder, were making Brodie’s face tingle.

“He did,” John continued, “and his admiration’s contagious. I’m a huge football fan myself, so I’d love to talk to your manager about a joint venture between the Warriors and our group here.”

“That’d be brilliant,” Duncan said. “There’s other Glasgow Uni students in the team, and we practice up the road at Ruchill Park.”

As he and John chatted about football, Brodie felt a spark of jealousy at the instant rapport between these two bold, beautiful lads. He scoured the room—past the DJ nodding his head and shimmying his shoulders behind his mixing board, past the nearly empty bowls of crisps and pretzels—searching for a way into the conversation so he wouldn’t fade into the woodwork.

He spotted a sign at the bar:
Beer £2
.

“Money!” he blurted. John and Duncan looked at him over their phones, where they were exchanging information. “A fundraiser,” Brodie continued, “for your charity with the LGBT asylum seekers. The Warriors could help you with that.”

John’s dark, sparkling eyes slowly widened. “A charity match,” he said in a loud, wondrous whisper. “It’ll be massive.”

“A charity match,” Duncan repeated pensively. “I don’t know if we’ve ever done one, but I can’t see why we couldn’t.”

“Yaldy!” John punched the air, then pulled Brodie into a quick, tight hug. “You’re a genius and I adore you. I adore you both. Och, this is amazing!” He turned away, pivoting in one direction, then the other. “Need to plan. But first, need to mingle. Aye. That’s my job just now. Later, my lovely lads!”

With a wave and a wink, John was gone.

Alone with Duncan, Brodie found it impossible to meet his eyes. “Sorry about John. He’s…excitable.”