Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (30 page)

John let himself imagine for a moment that today had never happened, that he and Fergus had continued as they were. He thought of how Fergus’s family—apart from the Derry cousins—had welcomed him, never caring where he came from or which church he went to. Then he thought how warmly his own mother had greeted Fergus in the hospital the day of Dad’s heart attack, and how she’d supported their relationship—not only with encouraging words, but also by caring for her bastard of an estranged husband so John could spend more time with Fergus.

Outside of a few naysayers in each family, John and Fergus would’ve been enveloped in love. They would’ve been happy.

Had John destroyed all that? This latest “cockamamie scheme” had backfired, thanks to his own arrogance, his inability—no, his
refusal
—to foresee the consequences of his actions. Now he had to find a way to make Fergus forgive him.

“There you are!”

John looked up to see his mother hurrying across the freshly waxed floor. He tried to scramble to his feet, torn between the need to touch her and the need to pretend everything was all right.

“No, don’t get up, not with that broken rib of yours.” She sat beside him, put a gentle arm around his shoulders, and kissed his temple. “And look at your poor wee face. What happened?”

“I told you on the phone what happened,” his father said. “Those hooligans attacked him in the subway station for no reason.”

“That’s a lie.” John kept his eyes on his mum as the words poured out. “They went for Fergus. I had to stop them. They might’ve killed him, pushed him in front of the train. And then they started punching me and—”

“Wait. Fergus? Why was he—” She looked down at John’s clothes. He was still wearing the dark-blue suit of an Orange Walker. “Oh John. He didn’t—”

“Aye. Fergus saw me march.” His throat closed on the words. His lips twisted and trembled as he fought to keep from crying. Then Mum pulled him close, and he completely lost it.

As he sobbed, she rubbed his back and murmured well-meaning words that failed to soothe him. Each tear that squeezed from John’s bruised left eye felt like a fresh punch. One he sorely deserved.

= = =

Fergus sat on the edge of his sofa, eyes now dry but swollen, and listened to his phone sing again and again, first with John’s ring tone for a call, then the beep signaling a voice mail. Then another call from John, then another voice-mail beep. Then three more calls but no beeps.

Then, silence.

The light through the balcony door brightened, dimmed, and brightened again, with the Glaswegian sky’s signature fickleness. Fergus noticed he was viciously thirsty, thanks to the cell-parching power of tears. He briefly considered dehydrating himself into a coma before realizing Abebi would find him and save him.

Not wanting to make his flatmate work overtime, he decided to drink something. As he stood on shaky knees, his phone rang again, but not with John’s ring tone. Fergus picked it up to see Charlotte’s name on the screen.

“Hello?” he tried to answer, but his throat was raw, so it came out “Haow?”

“Sorry to bother you at the concert, but—”

“I didn’t go.” Fergus used the state of his voice as a cover-up. “I’m ill.”

“You sound awful. Did I wake you?”

“No, I was just making tea for my throat.” He shambled into the kitchen and opened a cupboard, but not the one that held the tea.

“Can I bring you some soup or something?”

“I’ve got some, thanks.” It was true—there were leftovers in the fridge from his Thursday night date with John. Not that Fergus would eat today. “I’ll be better by training session tomorrow.” From the cupboard he pulled a large green bottle, feeling numbly grateful it was nearly full.

“That’s why I phoned,” she said. “Would it be possible to meet beforehand? Perhaps a late breakfast? My treat, of course. How about the Counting House? You love that place, aye?”

He did. He was suspicious. “A meeting about what?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said quickly. “I thought you and I could use a relaxed hour or two away from the team to discuss matters.”

“Which matters?”

“Our defense. Our offense. Our starting eleven for the charity match.”

The charity match. Oh God, that was still a thing in his life. A thing made by John. Would he have to see him these next two weeks, pretend for the sake of the team that his heart hadn’t been shattered again?

“Fergus?” Charlotte prompted.

He set the bottle on the table with a thud. “Yes, breakfast. Just the two of us, right?”

“Good. These personnel decisions are best made away from the players. If we can come to agreement before practice session, we can present a united front. Eleven o’clock?”

“Eleven,” he echoed, trying to remember if she’d answered his question.

“See you then. Tell John I said to look after you.”

Fergus hung up without replying. He stared at the phone screen, debating whether to read and listen to John’s messages now, later, or never.

Instead of tapping the message icons, he opened his phone’s web browser and thumbed in a flurry of keywords: “
Keith Burns
”,
assault
,
pub
,
Celtic
*. His hand shook as he hit Search.

IBROX MAN SENTENCED SEVEN YEARS FOR HATE CRIME

F
ERGUS
STAGGERED
INTO
the Counting House pub at twenty past eleven Sunday morning. He felt like his eyelids had been replaced with balloons, his cheeks with sandpaper, and his throat with a rusty pipe.

He’d started drinking—whiskey-with-an-e-Irish-whiskey—after he’d found the first article about Keith Burns. The bottle of Jameson was the perfect companion to his masochistic, hour-long web surfing session, which taught him all there was to know about the Rory Callahan hate crime, the Burns family, and their “proud service” to the Ibrox Loyal Orange Lodge. Though John himself was never mentioned, Fergus’s imagination put him at the center of it all.

Only the whiskey could obliterate those images, so he took the bottle to bed with him at three p.m. and didn’t get up for eighteen hours. This morning, reality had returned, with despair so crushing he could barely breathe.

Fergus had failed. Despite all his vigilance and paranoia, he’d never so much as glimpsed the truth—the man he loved was Orange to the bone.

Now he frowned when he saw Charlotte sitting at a high table by a window that looked out into George Square. The sun was shining, its rays like serrated spikes through Fergus’s eyeballs. He cast a quick glance over the interior of the restaurant, hoping for a table in a darker area, perhaps a closet. Sadly, the place was full.

“Sorry I’m late,” he told Charlotte as he slid onto the stool across from her, tugging down the brim of his baseball cap to hide the hangover in his eyes.

“Christ, lad, you look worse now than you sounded yesterday. You sure you’re up for practice?”

“I have to be.” He put his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. “Don’t worry, what I’ve got isn’t contagious.”

She slid the menu between his arms. “Tell me what you want and I’ll go and order it at the bar.”

Fergus scanned the choices with one eye, as if that would make the food descriptions less nauseating. “Plain bagel. Coffee.”

“Well, you’re a cheap date.” She stepped down from the stool and patted his shoulder. “I’ll bring some water as well.”

“Cheers,” he whispered. God, it was so loud in here. Didn’t people realize that their shouting at one another made everyone else’s shouting that much more necessary? He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped for a brief nap to obliterate the sounds and smells and thoughts.

A soft, familiar voice spoke his name.

Fergus smiled. It had worked. He was asleep, having a beautiful dream, one where yesterday hadn’t happened yet. In this reality’s future, the fifth of July wouldn’t hurt, because he would’ve never fallen in love with John in the first place.

“Fergus?” Same voice, but closer now. A hand on his back. “You all right, love? You awake?”

This…wasn’t a dream…?

He opened his eyes to see Evan. Blond haired, blue eyed, perfectly tanned Evan. Looking at him. Smiling at him. Touching him.

Have I died and gone to Belgium?
Fergus wondered.
Was the bishop right, then, that sleeping with men would land me in hell?

“Hollister, I told you to come at noon!” Charlotte set down their coffees, then whacked the back of Evan’s head with the menu.

“Sorry, Charlotte,” he said in his undulating Orkney accent. “My plane was early. I couldn’t wait to see you.” He gave Fergus a tentative smile. “Either of you.”

Fergus’s insides rippled with rage. He’d been set up. If the hangover hadn’t robbed his strength, he would be flipping over this table right now.

Charlotte shoved the menu into Evan’s hands. “Gonnae go order some food and gie’s a minute.”

“But I’m not hungry.”

“Then have a drink!” she barked.

Evan started, then backpedaled into the next table. “Sorry,” he told the bemused young women sitting there.

Fergus was too angry for words. He could only stare daggers into his manager’s face as she climbed onto the stool across from him.

“I’m sorry, lad.” She started to reach across the table, then drew her hand back, as if from a growling dog. “I wanted to discuss it with you before he arrived, but you were late and he was early and—okay, enough of this rubbish. He wants back on the team, and we need him. But I won’t say yes unless you say yes.”

Fergus put his face in his hands so he couldn’t even glance in Evan’s direction. He had to keep his ex-boyfriend an abstract concept so he could objectively evaluate his return to the squad.

Evan would obviously retake his original position as attacking midfielder, at least for the duration of Colin’s injury. Then Fergus could return to deep midfield, where he could reinforce their defense and see most of the pitch.

Where he could see Evan. Where he could watch Evan run and dribble and run and pass and run and strike and run.

See Evan run.

Run, Evan, run.

All the way to Brussels with that lad you met at Polo Lounge. Run from Fergus. Run from Warriors. Run when they need you most.

Run, Evan, run.

Fergus lifted his head and looked straight at Charlotte. “No.”

“That doesn’t sound promising.” Evan stepped up to their table, holding a tray with a pint of ale, an empty glass, and an open bottle of ginger beer. He set the latter two items in front of Fergus. “You looked knackered, so I got you one of these. Your favorite, right?”

“Get to fuck.”

Evan flinched. “I know I’ve a lot to apologize for, and I would like to start now.”

“You can start by getting straight to fuck. Both of you.” Had he just said that to his own manager? Well, she deserved it. He slid off the stool. “Charlotte, I’ll see you at practice, and we will pretend this never happened. Agreed? Good.”

Fergus walked out the front door and turned for Buchanan Street subway station. He wanted to sprint there, put distance between himself and Evan, but his rubbery legs refused. Besides, it would only bring on a déjà vu of yesterday’s failed escape from John.

So when Evan called his name at the corner to George Square, Fergus stopped in his tracks, defeated.

= = =

They sat on the base of the Queen Victoria statue, Fergus on the north side and Evan on the east, close enough they could hear but not see each other. The arrangement, which Fergus had insisted upon, felt like a confessional booth. Rather appropriate, he thought.

“You’re looking well,” Evan said, to begin with.

“Liar. I’m pure manky today.” Fergus slumped back against the blessedly cool granite and sipped the bottled water Evan had brought him. To his right, hordes of shoppers were flooding into the glaringly white “Superstore” erected on George Square to sell Commonwealth Games merchandise.

“I mean in general,” Evan said. “You look fit.”

“I was always fit. Stop flattering me and get to the point.”

“The point is that I love you.” Evan’s voice dropped so Fergus could barely hear it over the chatter of passing pedestrians. “I never stopped.”

Fergus knew he should feel something as a result of Evan’s declaration, but he was dead inside. “Another lie.”

“It’s the truth.”

“You want truths? I’ve got two.” He counted off on his thumb and forefinger, though Evan couldn’t see him. “Number one, I loved you. Number two, I stopped loving you.”

“Already?”

Fergus just scoffed.
Not as ‘already’ as I would’ve liked. I wish I could’ve stopped the moment you left—or better yet,
before
you left.

“I’m sorry I caused so much pain,” Evan said. “I want to make it up to you.”

“You can’t, not without a TARDIS to send you back in time and turn you into a different person.”

“After four years together, you’ll not give me another chance? After the way I pushed aside my own dreams to help you achieve yours?”

“‘Pushed aside’?” Evan’s attempt at martyrdom turned Fergus’s stomach. “You didn’t continue for your Master’s because the university wouldn’t let you. You weren’t good enough.”

“And you were,” Evan said. “You think that didn’t hurt me?”

“I know it hurt you.”
That’s why I’m throwing it in your face.

“But I swallowed my pride and supported you anyway.”

“All while cheating on me. Seems you were swallowing a lot more than your pride.”

“I made one mistake!”

“It wasn’t a drunken one-night stand, Evan. It was a weeks-long love affair. You told me yourself in the letter you so courteously messengered to me at Petershill Park, just in time for the match.”

“I’m sorry.” In Fergus’s peripheral vision, Evan slumped forward, face in his hands. “What I did was cruel. There were reasons I had to leave when I did, and why I couldn’t tell you face to face, but it was still wrong.”

For a moment, Fergus’s curiosity raised its head above the parapet of his defenses, wondering what those reasons were, wondering if Evan and his unnamed Belgian were still together.