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Chapter 4

Andrew knew he should thrill at the sight of Colin jogging down the touchline, warming up for his big second-half entrance. Today’s fifth-round Scottish Amateur Cup battle at East Fife United would be not only Colin’s first appearance since September, but also Andrew’s first time seeing him in action. Yet all he wanted was to bundle them both into the nearest car and drive full speed across the country, back to Glasgow and their warm, safe home.

Another sleepless night, combined with a vicious hangover from yesterday’s champagne binge, had left Andrew feeling simultaneously raw and numb. It didn’t help that the entire North Sea was dumping itself upon them this afternoon. At least the weather gave him an excuse for looking as miserable as he felt.

At the center of the pitch, Evan performed a devious dribble to escape an oncoming defender. Andrew reached into the pocket of his rain jacket to grasp the note the midfielder had left in his sugar bowl ten days ago. Running his finger along the note’s worn creases, he pictured Evan’s neat, penciled words.

I think I know what you’re going through.

Rubbish. Even if Evan had suffered a similar trauma—which was unlikely—he’d probably not been the cause of it. He may have torn the Warriors apart with his abrupt departure last spring, but he’d probably never fractured his own family with his arrogant words and acts, as Andrew had done. And though Evan had crushed Fergus’s heart, at least he’d never got him stabbed in the gut.

“Looks like our Colin’ll be subbed in today,” said John, sitting with Andrew beneath their shared golf umbrella. “You must be pure chuffed to finally see him play.”

“If by ‘chuffed’ you mean ‘worried he’ll end up with a compound fracture of the spine,’ then yes. Thoroughly chuffed.”

John chuckled, well accustomed to Andrew’s melodramatic talk. In the six months of their friendship, they’d seen each other through crisis after crisis—including last-minute changes to John and Fergus’s wedding, in which Andrew had had the honor of being John’s best man.

“Colin’ll be fine,” John said. “Charlotte would never put him in if she didnae think him fit.”

“It’s not his fitness that concerns me. I worry he’ll get injured.”

“I get it.” John rubbed the side of his neck, which was still sunburned from his honeymoon in Spain. “Sometimes when Fergus goes in for a hard tackle, I feel like my own knees might shatter from the impact.”

“Is it worse now that you’re married? This is your first time seeing him play since the wedding.”

“Aye, it’s harder now. I’d not expected that.” John twisted Fergus’s dark titanium wedding ring, which he was wearing beside his own yellow-gold ring during the match, as jewelry was forbidden on the pitch for safety reasons. “But it’s still easier than it was at the start. I’ll never not worry, but knowing how happy it makes Fergus, seeing the look on his face after he’s played hard, I know it’s worth it to him. Which makes it worth it to m—oh, ya dancer!” John pumped his fist. “Did you see that hit?” he shouted over the whoops of the Rainbow Regiment, the Warriors’ rabid fan club.

Andrew returned his attention to the pitch, hoping for a distraction from his thumping headache. The Warriors defense seemed to be holding firm. He marveled at Fergus’s ability to read his opponents’ attacks seemingly before they knew it themselves. Warriors center-backs—best-mates-turned-lovers Robert and Liam—had returned to form, setting up their usual two-man wall. As a result, East Fife had managed only one shot on goal, a long-range strike easily snatched by goalkeeper Heather.

On the attacking end, however, the Warriors had been ambushed by atrocious luck. Strikes by Evan and Duncan had hit the crossbar, and Shona’s peach of a goal had been disallowed. Andrew had no idea how the linesman could have seen through the heavy rain that Shona was offside. Perhaps it was her bright pink hair.

A sudden gust yanked at Andrew’s umbrella, nearly tearing it out of his grasp. “Bloody fucking wind,” he muttered, as if condemning the weather ever improved it.

“It’s blowing against the Warriors,” John said as he helped secure the umbrella. “They should’ve scored in the first half when they were playing with the wind. Now they’ll need a miracle.”

“Or a gift mistake from East Fife.” Andrew could tell the home side were getting nervy, committing one sloppy, desperate foul after another. Surely the stalemate would break soon.

He felt as agitated as the players, if not more. With few seats available, the away fans were practically sitting atop one another—good for keeping warm(ish) but bad for Andrew’s nerves. More than once he’d jerked his left arm into his chest, convinced someone was grabbing it. Was he going mad?

What he needed most was a drink. Unfortunately, alcohol consumption had been banned at Scottish football matches long before he was born. But there were ways around every rule.

He reached into his pocket and opened the zipped plastic bag of Colin’s gummy vitamins within. Andrew had once been annoyed that his boyfriend wouldn’t take supplements in tablet form, saying “they gie’s the dry boak,” but now he was glad for it, as one vodka-infused gummy was just enough to take the edge off.

Closing his eyes, he savored the cherry-flavored burst of booze, feeling his forehead turn smooth and warm. Aye, that’s the stuff , as Colin would say.

A cry of rage arose around him. Andrew opened his eyes to find the Rainbow Regiment on their feet. He quickly stood, shuddering at the oppressive wall of bodies.

Out on the pitch, a player in a pale-blue Warriors shirt was down. “What happened?” Andrew asked John.

“Duncan got fouled, but it didnae look hard enough to injure him.” John pointed to the spot where Duncan lay in the waterlogged grass ten yards outside the East Fife penalty area. Evan bent over to speak to the fallen forward, then picked up Duncan’s right foot and carefully flexed it to stretch his calf.

Andrew let out a sigh of relief. “Seems just a cramp.”

“It’s pure Baltic today,” John said as the fans sat down again, the edges of their umbrellas bumping one another. “A wonder they’re not all in knots.”

Duncan got to his feet and began a slow, circular walk with Fergus at his side. Then he stopped and shook his head. Fergus signaled to their manager, Charlotte, for a substitute.

Andrew checked the game clock to discover nearly half an hour remaining. “It’s too soon to bring in Colin,” he told John. “He was only meant to have a few minutes at the end.”

“Aye, but needs must. Here he comes.”

Colin was tearing off his yellow warmup pinny as Charlotte gave him instructions, his face pure ferocious focus.

Andrew felt a surprising tingle of anticipation spread outward from the small of his back. At last he would see his favorite person play his favorite game. The body he’d nursed back to wholeness, the body that lay beside him at night, the body that held him with such passion—soon it would be muscling past weary defenders on the way to glory. Colin’s skin would soon be coated in mud and sweat, would soon glow with exertion and exhilaration.

Andrew put a pair of freezing fingertips to his mouth and whistled, then shouted Colin’s name at the top of his voice. Colin didn’t look up, as he was still intent on his manager’s words. But when she finished, he nodded, then turned and gave Andrew a grin that scorched away the wind and rain.

The Rainbow Regiment erupted in cheers, none louder than Andrew’s own. Watching Colin bounce in place on the touchline, he felt it all melt away—the crippling anxiety, the smothering numbness, even the bone-soaking, soul-chilling weather.

Well, hello there, will to live. I’ve missed you so.

Andrew hoped this feeling wasn’t just paying him a brief visit. He hoped it was here to stay.

* * *

At. Fucking. Last.

Colin’s chest felt ready to explode with anticipation. Finally, after nearly four months, he was moments from playing in an actual football match.

Duncan limped across the muddy pitch, escorted by the physio. When he reached Colin, the two forwards high-fived.

“All right, mate?” Colin asked him.

“Fucking cramp. Nothing serious, no thanks to that center-back Wilson. Bastard’s been fouling me all match.” Duncan gave Colin’s arse a hard smack. “Go and win it for us, ya bam!”

Colin charged out onto the pitch to join the Warriors for the free kick. He made straight for Evan and Fergus, who were conferring near the ball.

“What’s the plan?” Fergus asked, using his sleeve to swipe the rain off his freckled face.

“With this mad wind,” Colin said, “Charlotte wants us to take it short, keep it on the ground. Like we practiced last week?”

Fergus exchanged a nod of consensus with Evan. “Remind everyone in the wall where they need to go.”

“Aye aye, skipper,” Colin said with a salute. As he jogged toward his frazzled-looking teammates, he realized Evan hadn’t argued with Charlotte’s decision. In the past, their former captain would’ve insisted he could sink the free kick into the net from any distance in any weather.

Colin spread the word of their impending fake-out—all quiet and casual-like, so as not to clue up their opponents. The Warriors formed their usual line at the edge of the penalty area, jostling with defenders as if they expected Evan to sail in a high chip for them to head into the goal.

Amidst the raucous cheers of the Rainbow Regiment, Colin heard a new chant rising:

“Beware MacDuff! Beware the Thane of Fife!”

He peered through the rain toward the stands—such as they were—to see Andrew at the center of the Regiment, leading the Shakespearean rallying call.

When they’d first met, Colin never would have dreamed someone so posh was capable of such loyalty. How many aristocrats wiped their lovers’ brows through feverish nights, or rubbed their backs whilst they boaked their guts into the toilet, or tolerated the defeatist rubbish Colin had spouted in his darkest moments ( “Just let me die,” he’d said several times, often over something as minor as a urinary tract infection)?

This win’s for you, ya wee fandan.

The whistle blew, and Evan charged toward the ball. For a second, even Colin was fooled, thinking the midfielder would disobey Charlotte’s order and shoot for glory.

Instead Evan ran past the ball toward the corner of the pitch. Colin, Jamie, and Shona burst forward, fanning out as the rest of their team fell back toward the goal along with their confused opponents.

Fergus’s precise pass reached Colin’s foot. As he pivoted to shoot, a yellow-and-black East Fife shirt blocked his view of the goal. The center-back charged at him, boots splashing in the sodden grass. Colin faked to the right, darted to his left, then crossed the tattered white line into the penalty area.

The defender tugged Colin’s shirt hard. The world began to tilt. Instinct kicked in, and Colin dug deep for a bolt of white-hot energy, enough to keep his feet and break free of his opponent’s grip. Glimpsing that imaginary line between himself and the net, Colin shot for goal.

But the defender had pulled him off-balance, so his foot merely scraped the ball, which took a leisurely bounce toward the near post. The goalkeeper slipped as he lunged to make the save, and for a second Colin thought he’d won the game with the crappest of goals. But at the last moment the flailing keeper fingertipped the ball behind the byline.

Colin smeared the damp hair back from his forehead and groaned.

Shona patted his back. “Brilliant chance there. And at least we won the corner.”

There was that. Fergus was strolling toward the corner flag to take the kick, his posture exuding a literal calm amidst the storm.

Evan nudged Colin as they moved into position. “That defender Wilson fouled you when he pulled your shirt. If you’d gone down, we’d have got a penalty kick.”

Colin scowled. “I don’t want to cheat.”

“It’s not cheating to fall when you’re fouled. Every veteran player does it. And every young player resists it.”

“Are you saying I need to grow up?”

Evan kept his eyes on Fergus, who was placing the ball on the corner arc. “At some point.”

With no time to reply, Colin squeezed between a pair of midfielders to reach his place at the far post. He raised his arm to signal his position to Fergus, hoping their captain would deliver one of his beautiful inswingers straight to Colin’s head—assuming he could even see him through the deluge.

Fergus struck the corner kick. Colin jumped to meet the incoming ball, but the East Fife midfielders crunched his body between them in their desperate attempts at interception. The ball struck the crown of Colin’s head, pinging over the top of the goal.

Colin landed hard with his opponents. One of them slipped in the mud, taking the trio down in a pile. As they tumbled, a sudden pain ripped Colin’s gut, and for an instant he was back on Frederick Street on the nineteenth of September. Down again. Stabbed again.

No. Colin rolled off the other lads onto his hands and knees, where he stayed, digging his fingers into the cold, slimy ground. This is Fife. It’s the tenth of January. I’m in the Scottish Cup match. It’s now, not then. Now, not then.

“Sorry, mate.” One of the midfielders reached down. “All right?”

“Yeah, cheers.” Colin wiped the mud from his hand, then let his opponent help him to his feet. “This weather’s shite.”

“It’s fair apocalyptic. Hope one of us wins today so we don’t have to replay the match.”

Colin laughed and nodded, but as he turned away he rubbed his left side where an errant elbow had jabbed him in the fall. He could sense the void beneath the layers of skin and muscle, a void haunted by the ghosts of organs ripped out before their time.

“Let’s go, lads!” the goalkeeper shouted, his voice hoarse as he set the ball at the edge of the six-yard box for the goal kick.

Colin shook himself out of his momentary morbidity. With this ferocious tailwind, the keeper’s punt could put the Warriors in serious danger.

As he dashed down the pitch to help defend, Colin’s dread streamed away with the rain sluicing off him. His legs were swift and sturdy, powered by this heady cocktail of adrenaline and joy.

It wasn’t until this moment, feeling so alive, that he realized how dead he’d been these last few months.

* * *

The rickety stand beneath Andrew’s feet shook with every beat of the Rainbow Regiment’s new kettle drum. The Warriors fans bounced together as they sang, punching their collapsed umbrellas at the sky like swords.

He laughed to think how the atmosphere at a boggy amateur pitch could rival that of the world’s great stadia. Not even at Real Madrid’s Bernebéu had he felt such love and solidarity. Perhaps football was all he needed to climb out of these doldrums.

For the ten minutes after Colin’s near score, the ball ricocheted like a pinball near the middle of the pitch, rarely straying into either side’s danger zone. Neither team could keep possession long enough to attack, what with the rain pooling on the grass and the wind making lofted passes a dodgy proposition.

Beyond this general observation, Andrew noticed little about the game. He was laser-focused on Colin’s every move, marveling how his miraculous torso turned and twisted; how his toned legs somehow propelled him with blinding speed one moment, only to pivot with precision in the next.

Duncan’s boyfriend, Brodie Campbell, turned to Andrew and John from his seat in front of them. “Colin looks affa fine!” he said with a grin. “Really questioning the defenders out there.”

Andrew smiled back, suppressing a laugh at the lad’s attempt at pundit talk. Brodie was new to football, but he was trying.

On the pitch, Warriors fullback Jamie stole the ball from a hapless East Fife midfielder. The attack was on. Andrew swiped the rain dripping from his brows so he could follow the action.

Evan took Jamie’s pass, then dodged a pair of opponents before chipping toward Colin out in front. With a deft touch of his thigh, Colin brought down the ball outside the penalty area. He pivoted to put himself between the ball and the oncoming center-back Wilson, the one who’d fouled Duncan earlier.

Andrew gave a throat-shredding shout that blended with the shrieks of his fellow fans.

As Wilson closed in, Colin spun on his right foot and took the ball with his left, darting into the penalty area. The center-back kept pace, shrinking the space between them.

Suddenly Colin’s legs gave out. He fell, a millisecond before Wilson made contact.

Andrew covered his mouth as Colin’s body hit the ground. He’ll get back up , he told himself. Footballers fall a dozen times in a match.

Colin rolled onto his knees, arms spread wide, face full of outrage as he turned to the referee. Andrew let himself breathe again.

“Penalty!” John shrieked. “He took him down. Gie’s a penalty!”

On the pitch, Fergus approached the referee, pleading the same case as his husband.

Meanwhile Wilson was protesting his own innocence, hands to his chest. “It was a fucking dive!” Andrew heard him yell as he pointed to the place where Colin had fallen.

The referee brushed past the defender, pulling a small notebook and a yellow card from his pocket. He held the card up in Colin’s direction, booking him for simulation.

“What?!” A rainbow-kilted fan sitting beside Brodie flailed his arms in disbelief. “That’s impossible. Colin never, ever dives.”

He did dive. Andrew felt a shiver work its way down his spine. Just not on purpose.