Page 1

Chapter 1

Saturday 5 April: Scottish Amateur Football Cup Quarterfinal, Petershill Park, Glasgow

Mud.

Sweat.

Blood.

Defeat.

Duncan Harris tasted them all at once, yet he kept running, kept driving for that mad round leather ball. After ninety-plus minutes of play, his natural strength had long abandoned his limbs. Now his only fuel was rage.

Down by four goals, the Woodstoun Warriors had no hope of victory, but if Duncan could score now, near the final whistle, his team could walk out of here today with a scrap of pride. They could give their legion of drizzle-damp, rainbow flag–waving fans something to cheer about. They could silence the haters, at least for a moment or two.

But their opponents kept possession with a series of leisurely passes, savoring their shocking upset that would send them to the semifinals. In their smug certainty of victory, they’d finally stopped taunting the Warriors with homophobic slurs.

Focus, Duncan commanded himself. For one more minute. Just focus.

An idea struck him then. With nothing to lose, he came to a halt and let his body go still. His arms dropped to his sides, his feet stopped shifting, and his weight went back on his heels. Finally his shoulders slumped in utter submission.

His charade worked. The opposing winger’s next pass was a fraction slower than the ones before it. Duncan sprang forward, snagging the ball on his right instep. With a quick pivot, he was off on a breakaway.

A few steps later, he realized he’d surprised his own teammates as well. No one was flanking him to receive a pass. No one possessed his speed. This task was his alone.

As he sprinted down the pitch, the roar of the crowd faded until he heard nothing but the huff of his own breath and the pounding of his feet against the wet turf.

A flash of blue and yellow told him a defender was approaching. Duncan faked a lunge to the left, forcing the fullback into a wide stance. Then he poked the ball straight through the defender’s legs, zipped around him, and picked up his own pass.

It was Duncan versus the goalkeeper now. The keeper rushed forward through the penalty area to cut down the angle, but with a nimble stutter-step, Duncan left him looking as stationary as a foosball figure.

From that point, a five-year-old could’ve scored. Duncan could’ve walked the ball in, or given it a gentle tap—or fuck’s sake, just let it roll in of its own momentum. But his mind betrayed him.

Evan would have been so proud of that play. You just showed the world why he chose you, why he fought for your place in the team. If only he were here to see it.

That’s when the rage returned. Duncan yanked back his foot, slammed the shot with all his might?—

—and booted it straight into the crossbar.

The ball ricocheted into the arms of the keeper, who swiftly spun and punted it far down the pitch. Ears ringing, Duncan stared up at the crossbar, which still shook from the impact of his shot.

“Yaaaaasss! Hahaaaa!”

Duncan turned at the sound of the keeper’s yell. Near the Warriors goal at the other end of the pitch, the opposing striker was knee-sliding toward the corner flag, arms raised in triumph. A moment later he disappeared beneath a swarm of bouncing, hugging teammates.

“What the—” A glance at the scoreboard told Duncan their opponents had just added their sixth goal.

The final whistle blew. All at once, Duncan was slammed by the pain of a dozen cuts and bruises, and the exhaustion of a ninety-minute battle with futility. He sank down against the goal’s near post until he felt the cold, wet artificial turf under his shorts. Then he put his head in his hands, covering his ears to muffle the noise of the crowd.

It’s over. Despair flooded his veins. The months of sacrifice—dawn runs, sore muscles, bored boyfriends who couldn’t tolerate Duncan’s early Friday-night bedtimes and demanding practice schedule—all would’ve been worth it if they’d won.

“Sorry, mate.”

Duncan looked up to see the opposing goalkeeper extending a hand. He wanted to sit and sulk, but he grabbed hold anyway, for the sake of sportsmanship. The keeper pulled him to his feet, his ribbed glove rasping against Duncan’s scraped palm.

“Don’t be sorry,” he told the keeper. “You were the better team today.” It was true. Their opponents had shredded them—physically and mentally—when they discovered the Warriors’ hearts had been ripped out minutes before the match began.

“Aye, we were better, for once.” The keeper flashed a disbelieving grin, which he promptly muted. “I meant, I’m sorry about your captain. He’s a right shit for what he did.”

“No, Evan’s a good—” Duncan stopped himself. “He was a good guy.”

The goalkeeper shook his head as he jogged away to join his teammates, who were hugging and whooping at the other end of the pitch. Duncan turned to applaud the fans in the stands, where he saw his friend Lorna at the fence. She and her boyfriend, Paul, along with the rest of the Rainbow Regiment, were still brandishing their banners and flags. Still proud.

He waved at them, searching the crowd for a face he knew he wouldn’t find. His friend Brodie hated football, and besides, he’d gone home for spring vacation. But after what had happened the last time they’d seen each other, Duncan hoped Brodie would change his mind. Maybe he’d take the train back to Glasgow for the day. And the night.

He hadn’t.

Duncan turned back to join his teammates, ready to console and commiserate. They’d been eliminated from this tournament, but there were still six regular-season matches to play. They were on track to place second and be promoted to the amateur Premier division—a first for an all-LGBTQ team. It could still be a successful season. It had to be.

The Warriors were scattered across the pitch like chess pieces after an abandoned match, each man or woman alone. Some hobbled about in a daze, some sat and stared into the distance, some lay flat on their backs, drained of strength and hope. Duncan saw his own heartbreak reflected in each sweat-streaked, tear-stained face.

One day, he knew, they’d rise together. But tonight, they were falling apart.

* * *

Sixteen days later

Pulling back his rain-soaked hood, Brodie Campbell scanned the ground floor of the University of Glasgow library with a growing dread. On the first morning after spring vacation, the place was pure crammed. “Christ A’michty, fit a madhouse,” he muttered.

“Told you we should’ve come earlier.” Lorna dragged him toward the closest lift, which was opening just now. “C’mon, there’ll be seats upstairs—I hope.”

They squeezed onto the lift amid a flood of sodden, desperate-looking students. One week before exams, the air buzzed with anxiety.

Brodie wished his own tension were merely academic, but his mind was preoccupied with the inevitable moment he’d see his friend Duncan again for the first time in three weeks. The first time since their disastrous, drunken hookup the night before vacation.

On the lift’s rear wall, someone had stuck a sign handwritten in a red marker:

DESK HOGS MUST DIE

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The lion’s share of the exclamation points formed a second row beneath the letters.

“Welcome to the jungle,” Brodie told Lorna.

“It’s survival of the angriest during revision period.” She swiped a drop of rain off the tip of her nose. Her phone beeped. As she pulled it out, her long, dark hair hid the screen from Brodie’s view. “Oh!” She lifted her head and called out, “Level Two, please.”

The lift filled with groans. “You couldn’t use the stairs?” asked a brawny lad standing near the door.

“Just press the button, ya dobber,” Lorna said. “My mate here is ill.”

With shouts of alarm, everyone backed away from Brodie—as much as they could in the cramped space.

“I’m not ill.” His face heated under the hostile gazes. “I mean, I’m not contagious.” Not the airborne sort of contagious.

The doors opened, saving Brodie from further explanation. He followed Lorna out into the study area, which was as crowded and chaotic as the one on the ground floor. “Thanks for embarrassing me,” he told her. “Soon someone’ll post a warning on Spotted —‘Beware the lad in a gray hoodie spreading plague.’”

“No doubt.” Lorna surveyed the tables before them. Conversation was allowed on this level, so the volume of chatter was high. “You shouldn’t read that stupid site anyway. It’s a disaster.”

“I read it because it’s a disaster.” Brodie pulled out his phone to check the Spotted: Glasgow Uni Library Facebook page. The site was already filling with the usual anonymous complaints and come-ons. Also, someone had posted a new photo of Clyde, Level Ten’s resident mouse. “Besides, we’re psychology students, so it counts as research.”

“Aye, right,” she said, rolling her eyes.

He nudged Lorna as they began their search for empty seats. “Listen to this post. ‘To the Hugh Jackman lookalike who sits by the Level Four keyboards: get your claws out and rip my clothes off. Please.’”

“At least she said ‘please.’”

“Could be a he . Here’s another. ‘To the beautiful lad in the Passenger T-shirt: I can’t wait to give you another ride. Next time, I promise we won’t crash.’”

“I like it. Sleazy yet poetic.” She checked her phone again, then cursed softly. “I thought you’d got seats,” she murmured.

“Who are you talking to?”

“No one. Follow me.” She marched up to a table where half the chairs were unoccupied. “Are these seats available?” she asked the three lads sitting there.

The largest of them sat back in his chair and leered up at her. “What’s it look like?”

“It looks like you lot have spread out your books and notes so no one will sit in those chairs.” She set her rucksack on the edge of the table. “Classic desk-hog behavior.”

The guy to her left said, “Ooh, Stevie, that’s you pinched by the Desk-Hog police.”

Stevie laughed. “Coming soon to ITV— Law and Order: Desk Hog Victims Unit .”

The third lad made the Law and Order “ CHUNK-chunk ” sound effect.

Lorna pulled out a chair. “Okay, if you’re finished, we’ll just sit.” She started pushing papers aside.

“Hey!” Stevie slapped his arm across the notes. “Gonnae no do that, doll. These are proper organized.” He smirked. “By my mate, I mean, who’ll be back any minute to claim his seat.”

“The fuck he will, and I’m not your ‘doll.’” Lorna turned to the other pile of notes, ready to sweep the papers onto the floor.

Brodie stepped forward to stop her. “Forget it. Let’s find other seats.”

“‘Forget it. Let’s find other seats,’” Stevie repeated, mocking Brodie’s faint lisp and not-so-faint northeast accent. “Best listen to your girlfriend there,” he told Lorna.

A hot wave of humiliation swept over Brodie’s head from nape to scalp.

Lorna’s jaw dropped. “What did you call him?”

Brodie turned on his heel and walked away—but not fast enough to miss the hoots and cackles that followed.

It’s just a bit of banter. Stevie’s ridicule was nothing next to the beatings Brodie had taken in the tiny fishing village he once called home. Staying deep in the closet had kept him alive all those years—barely—but when he came to Glasgow seven months ago, he’d vowed never to deny his true self again. Now here at university, he was out and proud.

Well, he was out . He was still working on the proud part.

Lorna caught up to him around the corner. “Brodie, I’m sorry. I was just winding them up. I didn’t know they’d turn on you.”

Bullies always sniff out the weak ones. “Whatever. Let’s just find somewhere to sit. I don’t care where.” After the confrontation, he needed to catch what was left of his breath.

“Are you all right?” She put the back of her hand to his forehead. “Your face is red.”

“I’m fine. It’s pure meltin’ in here.” He unzipped his hoodie to cool himself off.

Lorna gaped at his chest. “You’re wearing a Passenger T-shirt. Like the lad in the Spotted post!”

Brodie froze for a moment, then crossed his arms to cover the logo of the indie-rock act. “Loads of people have this shirt.”

“But you also wore it at Duncan’s party the night before vacation.” Her brown eyes lit up with glee. “What if that Spotted post is meant for you, from him?”

Brodie rubbed his throbbing forehead, wishing he’d never told Lorna he’d hooked up with their mutual friend. She was spot-on about the shirt. Brodie had worn it that night, and when he went home to his mum’s, he’d slept with it on his pillow, not washing it until the last bit of Duncan’s scent had faded from the fabric, replaced by the ever-present salt air of Brodie’s village.

“That post can’t be from him,” Brodie said. “How can Duncan spot me if he’s not even here?”

“Erm…” Lorna bit her lip, looking guilty. “Because maybe he is here? Maybe I invited him to study with us?”

“You did what?” Brodie’s heart leapt even as his stomach plummeted. “Lorna, I can’t see him just now.”

“You can’t avoid him either. You share a flat.”

“It’s a large flat, and we live at opposite ends of the hall. Besides, he’s probably staying with his parents during exams. They live here in Glasgow.”

“So do mine, but the moment vacation ended, I was back in Murano Street,” she said, referring to the sprawling university village that housed most Glasgow Uni freshers. “Duncan’s coming back today. He said so.”

“When did you see him? Did he mention me?”

“No, we didn’t talk much. It was the day of the cup quarterfinal match.” Her eyes turned sad. “Which was an absolute bloodbath.”

“I saw the result online.” Brodie had wanted to take the next train back to Glasgow to comfort Duncan after the 6-1 loss. “What happened? I thought Warriors were favored to win.”

“They were, but get this.” Lorna tugged him close and spoke so low, Brodie had to bend over to hear her. “Their captain, see, he disappeared directly before the game. He was cheating on his boyfriend—one of the other midfielders—and decided to leave the country with his lover. The team completely fell to pieces.”

“That’s horrible.” Though the mere thought of football made Brodie ill, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for the players. “Is Duncan okay?”

“I’ve been better.”

Brodie nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice behind him.

“Duncan!” Lorna spread her arms for a hug, giving Brodie a moment to collect himself.

Duncan greeted Lorna with an “All right, doll?” as he leaned down to embrace her. “All right, mate?”

Brodie nodded to the span of carpet separating their feet. “Good. You?” There. He’d managed two words without his voice cracking.

“Not so good, as you’ve just heard.”

The raw emotion in Duncan’s voice captured Brodie’s attention. He raised his gaze to meet…

Och, those eyes. A blue so electric it almost hurt to look at them, their color accentuated by Duncan’s rain-speckled denim jacket.

Those eyes widened at the sight of Brodie now. “Are you okay?” Duncan asked. “You look all peely-wally.”

“Brodie had glandular fever!” Lorna announced, loudly enough that the two girls at the closest table overheard. One of them whispered “kissing disease” with a giggle.

“I’m better now,” he told them.

“Already? But—wait, how’s that possible?” Duncan twisted the strap of his rucksack as he stammered. “I mean, when did you have it? Because you were fine when we—erm, before you left for home.” He looked away, which told Brodie that Duncan found this moment as excruciating as he did.

“It started about two weeks ago. I spent most of vacation in bed.” Don’t say ‘bed,’ he thought, his face warming at the memory of the two of them writhing shirtless atop a red-and-white-striped duvet, mouths locked, hands grasping. The fact their encounter had been so passionate only made its devastating conclusion more painful.

All he wanted was to get out of here, away from the sound of Duncan’s questions, the sight of Duncan’s discomfort, and especially the scent of Duncan’s hair, amplified by the rain that matted the short brown spikes.

“Anyway,” Brodie continued, “my sore throat, swollen glands, fever—they’re all gone, as of yesterday.” Though he was certainly feeling feverish now.

“What about headaches?” Duncan asked. “Feel so knackered you can’t move or even think?”

“No.”

“Just wait.” Duncan nodded sagely. “You’re in the eye of the glandular-fever hurricane. I had it during my gap year in the States. They call it ‘mononucleosis’ there, you know.”

Lorna groaned. “Yeah yeah, and ‘football’ is ‘soccer’ and ‘trousers’ are ‘pants,’ and you’re the only yin who’s ever spent time in America.”

Brodie relaxed a wee bit. If Duncan was “enlightening” them on American words, and Lorna was having a go at him for it, then things were back to normal.

“Hold on.” Lorna slid a wily glance between the two of them. “Duncan, you had glandular fever—or mono, whatever—only last year? I heard the virus can stay active in your saliva for up to eighteen months.”

Brodie froze, eyes locked with Duncan’s.

“Isn’t that scary?” Lorna continued. “I mean, you really have to be careful who you kiss.”

Duncan looked at her, then at Brodie. “You told her?”

“I—well—” Brodie swallowed, trying to wet his parched throat. Duncan’s reaction confirmed that their hookup was something to be ashamed of, to be forgotten as soon as possible. “You know, I do feel a headache coming on. Think I’ll work at home today.”

He hurried to the exit without another word, shoving open the door to the stairwell so hard he nearly clouted a fellow student.

She jumped back just in time to avoid a flattened face. “Watch it, ya knob!”

“Sorry, sorry.” He ran to the top of the staircase.

Behind him, the girl yelped again. “What, you too? Savages in this place today.”

“Sorry,” said a familiar voice. “Brodie, wait!”

* * *

Duncan saw Brodie stop short, teetering on the edge of the stairs. Then he turned and spoke to the floor at Duncan’s feet.

“Fit’s a dee?” Brodie shook his head and repeated himself, replacing his native Doric with English. “What’s wrong?” His voice sounded pained, and his dark brows pinched together so hard, they nearly met in the deep crease above his nose.

Duncan hated the thought he could’ve given this virus to Brodie. And yet…he didn’t regret kissing him. That night had ended awkwardly—and somewhat amusingly—but he was eager to try again. This time they’d be sober. This time they’d be happy.

Duncan certainly needed a bit of happiness just now. “Can we talk?”

Brodie shrugged. “If we can walk at the same time.”

“I was hoping to catch you at our flat,” Duncan said as they made their way down the stairs, “but you’d already left.”

“You know how this place is during revision period. Anyone not here fifteen minutes after the library opens is fucked for a table.”

On the landing, Brodie’s feet started to drag on the thin carpet. Duncan knew his friend would soon be in the debilitating grip of mono’s second phase. He also knew they should wait to have this conversation until Brodie was well.

But Duncan had never been good at waiting. “About before. The last time we saw each other?”

Brodie stopped and leaned against the banister, still avoiding Duncan’s eyes. “You don’t need to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Tell me it was a mistake, that we should pretend it never happened. I know it was, and I know we should.”

Duncan’s mouth fell open. That wasn’t at all what he was going to say. He was going to say I can’t stop thinking about you. Every day these last three weeks I thought to phone you, wondering if hearing your voice would help, wondering if you were wondering the same thing two hundred miles away.

“Okay,” he said, though it was the opposite of what he meant. “No harm, no foul. As we were.”

“Right.” Brodie continued down the stairs toward the ground floor, his rucksack strap about to slide off his shoulder.

“Stop.”

Brodie halted, turning his head but not looking back. His tongue flashed out to give his lower lip a nervous lick, making Duncan want to kiss him more than ever.

He caught up to Brodie and put a hand on his rucksack. “Let me have this before you break your laptop.”

Brodie frowned as he reluctantly released the bag. “Thanks. How’d you know I’ve a laptop in there?”

“Lucky guess.” He slung the rucksack over his other shoulder. “C’mon, we’ll get a taxi. You’ll never survive the walk home in this weather. It’s pishin’ down out there.”

“Taxi’s expensive. We should wait for the minibus.”

“Which could come in five minutes, or in fifty minutes. Do you feel lucky?” He elbowed Brodie as they descended. “Do ya, punk?”

“Punk?”

“It’s a line from an old Clint Eastwood film. Have you not got televisions up north?”

“Just the one over at the meeting hall,” Brodie deadpanned. “We villagers take turns hiding in the box and making the voices.”

“Ooh, maximum interactivity.”

“Aye, it’s a right 3-D entertainment experience.” Brodie angled a sly gaze toward Duncan, who had to steady himself with the other banister. The look on Brodie’s face, smiling with only his eyes, matched the look seared into Duncan’s memory, the look directly before Brodie had kissed him.

At the bottom of the stairs, Brodie suddenly stopped and put a hand to his pallid cheek. “On second thought, a taxi would be—” His balance wavered, and his next step was a stumble.

“I’ve got you, mate.” Duncan slipped a supporting arm around his waist. Brodie flinched as if he wanted to shrink away, but he seemed to lack the strength.

Which was fortunate, because at the moment, Duncan lacked the strength to let go.