Page 10

Chapter 10

“Listen.” In the brief lull before the next kickoff, Fergus took Duncan aside. “I know that idiot’s getting to you. But you’ve got to stay calm.”

Duncan’s blood pounded hot in his ears. “He can say whatever he wants about me, but he’s talking about Brodie.” He slammed his fist into his palm, which did nothing to dispel his fury.

“I know it’s hard. Remember the things they used to say about me and—” Fergus’s voice caught. “About me and?—”

“That’s different. Evan was here on the pitch where he could stand up for himself. Brodie is—” Duncan fought to keep from looking over at the lad he’d come to care about so deeply this last week. One glance could alert Brodie that something was wrong. “He’s not like us. He’s not tough. And he’s all the way over there where I can’t help him.”

“I’m sure he’s tougher than he looks. But you’re right about one thing. He’s over there.” Fergus took Duncan’s shoulders and turned him toward their opponents. “Meanwhile, you’re here, doing your job, which is to keep cool and score goals. Don’t give that bastard what he wants.” He offered a reassuring squeeze. “All right?”

Duncan could only nod as he moved into place for the kickoff. Easy for you to say. You’ve lost the ability to feel.

McCurdy was ready with another comment. “Your boyfriend’s got a bonnie wee mouth, so he does. I bet he gives good head.”

Duncan’s shoulders twitched. “Not nearly as good as your dad.”

Laughter erupted from everyone within earshot, including the other Shettleston players. McCurdy took a step back, then flashed an uneasy smirk. “Aye, nice one.”

Duncan looked over at Fergus, who gave him an approving nod.

For the next ten minutes, McCurdy was all business. His and Duncan’s struggles for the ball became silent battles of will, speed, and strength, the way they should be. Twice each of them ended up on the ground, and each time they helped the other to his feet.

Then, directly before the end of the first half, as Duncan hovered inside the Star’s penalty area, watching for another cross to strike home, McCurdy spoke again. “Your pretty wee boyfriend, me and my mates are gonnae hunt him down later and give him a night to remem?—”

Duncan spun, slashing the air with his fist. It missed McCurdy’s face by the barest of inches.

The defender sidestepped, raising his arms and looking for the official. “Oi! Fuckin’ poof tried to skelp me.”

Duncan roared and shoved him with all his might. McCurdy backpedaled, nearly falling. His face twisted into pure rage. In a flash, he grabbed Duncan by the throat.

“You like it rough, ya wee perv?” he growled as he squeezed. “You won’t like it when I put you on your knees and—OOFT!”

His hand slipped off Duncan’s neck as he tumbled to the grass beneath someone in a pale blue shirt. Duncan coughed and sputtered, his throat burning. With watering eyes he saw his savior stand up and loom over McCurdy.

“If you ever touch one of my players again,” he said in a steely voice unsoftened by his cultured Highland lilt, “I will cut off your balls and wear them for earrings. Do you understand?”

Duncan wiped his disbelieving eyes. Fergus , of all people, had come to his rescue.

* * *

Brodie leapt to his feet with the rest of the crowd, then rushed to press himself against the rope fence. It took every ounce of self-control not to duck under it, run onto the pitch, and hurl himself in front of the Shettleston players swarming toward Duncan.

Both teams were converging, turning the row into an all-out brawl. Brodie could barely hear the referee’s whistle over the shouts of the crowd behind him.

“This is immense!” Paul kicked the fence post in glee as Lorna raised her phone to take video. “First Duncan scores a header, now we’ve got a right punch-up. Brodie, you picked a belter of a first match.”

Brodie watched Duncan take a few halting steps away from the melee, rubbing his neck with both hands.

“I hope he broke your throat,” shouted a man to their left, in the home fans’ section. “Fuckin’ faggot!”

The word was a punch in the gut. As the Rainbow Regiment hurled back their own indignant insults, Brodie began to sweat, despite the rapidly chilling air. He shut his eyes and tried to slow his breath, but it only accentuated the thumping of his heart. Beneath the rising shouts and the whistle of a passing train, he heard the laughter of gulls and the roar of the relentless, pitiless sea.

He would never not be hunted. They would always find him, always punish him. Such was the way of the world.

Lorna patted his back. “Aww, Brodie, sorry this got so mental. Look, it’s over now. The refs have already broken it up.”

Brodie opened his eyes to see the players dispersing. One of the officials held up a square red card toward Duncan, then his attacker, then Fergus.

“Why is Duncan being sent off?” Paul asked. “He’s the one got throttled.”

“Because he started it.” Brodie’s voice shook. “He swung at number five, then shoved him.”

“Never known him to lose the rag like that. He’s usually so calm.” Lorna stopped recording and lowered her phone. “That defender must have said something awful.”

Something about me. Brodie remembered the malicious grin the man had aimed at him.

Despite the presence of his mates and the Rainbow Regiment, Brodie had never felt so vulnerable. Here were more than a few school bullies who suspected he was gay. Here was an entire crowd who knew it. The thrill of pride he’d felt at Duncan’s pre-match kiss had morphed into the chill of fear.

Brodie searched for Duncan amongst the Warriors. The whistle had just blown to end the first half, so both teams were headed toward their respective benches. Duncan and Fergus approached their manager with their heads hung. Barely five and a half feet tall, she looked as intimidating as a giant as she stood, fists on her hips, trembling with fury. She signaled for the two players to stand aside away from the others.

“A red card means you’ve got to leave the field of play for the rest of the match,” Lorna told Brodie. “That includes the bench.”

“Technically they should go home now,” Paul added, “but apparently Charlotte thinks they need screamed at first.”

“Harris, you all right?” Lorna called out, hands cupped around her mouth. Duncan gave them a grim thumbs-up before turning to talk to Fergus. “See, Brodie, he’s fine,” she said. “And even though it’s nine against ten, we could still win.”

Paul snorted. “Are you daft, doll? We’ve lost a striker and our attacking midfielder.”

“So Charlotte will adjust the formation. She can sub out one of the defenders for a winger.”

Another Warrior, a lad with black spiky hair and tattooed arms, sneaked away from the manager’s meeting at the bench. He sidled up to Duncan, whispered something behind his hand, then darted back to his teammates.

To Brodie’s disbelief, Duncan started laughing. Five minutes after he’d tried to punch a fellow player, after he’d been throttled, then expelled from the game, he was smiling . Like the whole incident was but a lark.

Duncan had laughed at Brodie last night at dinner. He’d made him feel a fool, sitting in that restaurant, surrounded by hipsters who had no idea the rest of the world didn’t share their enlightened views. He’d said words that cut, referring to LGBTQ activists’ “whingeing” and Brodie’s wallowing in the tragedy of homophobia, a tragedy Duncan claimed was over.

But clearly it was far from over, given that the home fans—including some children—were now chanting, “Do you take it up the arse?”

It didn’t matter that the Warriors fans were chanting back, “Don’t knock it till you try it!” People like the Rainbow Regiment couldn’t be everywhere. They couldn’t change the world.

We’ll always be outnumbered.

Paul, Lorna, and the two rainbow-kilted fans continued to argue tactics, bandying about terms like high line and sweeper-keeper . To Brodie, they might as well have been speaking a foreign language, one he no longer cared to understand.

The sky opened up then, fulfilling its hours-long promise of rain. The spectators at the fence, including Lorna and Paul, returned to their seats, where umbrellas and jackets waited to shield them from the storm.

But Brodie didn’t join them. Instead he pulled up his hood, feeling colder and more alone than ever, and turned for the exit.

* * *

Duncan regretted nothing. Defending Brodie had made him feel more a man than anything he’d ever done. The only thing he rued was missing the satisfaction of McCurdy’s nose giving way beneath his fist.

But he had to apologize for his behavior if he wanted to remain a Warrior. Any moment now, his manager would finish her half-time conference with his teammates, then come over and give him hell for starting that brawl.

“What did Colin say that was so funny?” Fergus asked him as they stood waiting by the corner flag, heads bent against the downpour.

“He said if I’d any balls, I would’ve bitten that defender, Luis Suárez–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,’ they say. 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 job it’s not your choice.” 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.