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Chapter 5

Colin covered his face in shame. Not for being a dirty cheating diver—which he wasn’t—but for the lack of stamina that had sent him crashing to the ground. The strength that had felt so reliable, so infinite just ten minutes before, had abandoned him.

Had anyone else noticed? Perhaps it was better the world think him a failed trickster than a weakling. So Colin got to his feet and made a sweeping bow toward the stands, where the Rainbow Regiment were applauding and the home fans jeering louder than ever.

As he straightened up, he was lashed with a sudden vertigo, which then vanished as fast as it had appeared.

A moment later, the goalkeeper took the ensuing free kick. The clock showed ten minutes remaining, not counting any added stoppage time.

Colin knew he had to last until the end of the match. Charlotte had already used all three substitutes, so if any Warrior left due to injury—or in his case utter fucking exhaustion—the team would be short a player for the rest of the game. He had to carry on, play hard, help them win.

But his body was begging him to stop and lie down and fuck’s sake just brEATHE for a second .

Had he been fooling himself that he could manage this? Would he ever play a full match again? Right now it seemed as likely as swimming to Iceland.

Then, over the roar of the rain and wind, Colin heard the chant rise from the Rainbow Regiment. “Beware MacDuff! Beware the Thane of Fife!”

So he picked his head up and kept going, letting the fans—letting Andrew—carry him once again.

Each time Colin touched the ball, the Regiment’s chant was briefly overcome by the home supporters’ boos and shouts of “Cheat!” But then the Warriors fans would yell louder, and since their rabid loyalty meant they always outnumbered their counterparts by at least three to one, the Macbeth chant soon swamped every other sound on the pitch—and possibly every other sound in Scotland.

East Fife had the ball now, but the Warriors pressed high, forcing their opponents back into their own defensive third. Having watched most of the match from the touchline, Colin knew his opponents’ weak spots: which attackers backed down when challenged, which defenders made the sloppiest passes, which midfielders looked as tired as himself.

He saw the ball sail, buffeted by the wind, toward the East Fife fullback in front of him. The defender’s first touch was awkward, so Colin made his move—a pristine block tackle, poking the ball free with one foot, then sliding past the defender to catch the ball with his other foot. The fullback jutted out a leg to snatch the ball back, but missed and struck Colin instead.

Colin toppled over, rolling to break his fall, grateful the defender’s sharp studs had hit his shin guard rather than spearing the top of his foot. He stood up as smoothly as he could, hoping no one saw his legs wavering.

The referee approached with arm extended, signaling a Warriors free kick.

“He dived again!” The fullback gestured to Colin, who thought the lad lucky not to earn a booking for that reckless tackle. The official shook his head and pointed to the spot of the foul. Colin placed the ball there for the free kick, then looked for Fergus and Evan to see which of them would take it this time.

The referee backed away, still fielding protests from the East Fife fullback, captain, and two of their teammates. Their words were lost in the pelting rain.

With the ball at his feet, Colin noticed every Warrior had his or her eyes on him, ready to spring into action, while most of the East Fifers were still having a moan about the foul. A quote by legendary Liverpool manager Bill Shankly flitted through his mind, something about good players coming alive when the ball goes dead.

The whistle blew, and Colin quickly passed to Shona, catching their opponents off guard. Shona drove into the open space formed by the out-of-position defenders, who backpedaled wildly to stay upright on the slick grass.

Colin’s legs wanted to give out, but he darted forward, focusing on Shona, pretending she was dragging him along with an invisible rope. He slipped into the penalty area past an opponent who began to mark him a step too late.

As the center-backs converged on Shona, Colin gave a ragged yelp. Without a glance, she slid the ball straight in front of him. Colin lunged to stop it, praying he wouldn’t deflect it out of play.

But he caught it neatly on his instep, tapping it to his other side to throw off his defender. Finally he planted his foot and shot for the far corner of the net, every movement pure instinct.

As the goalkeeper stretched to intercept his strike, Colin told himself to rush forward for the rebound. But his legs wouldn’t move. All he could do was stand and watch.

There was no rebound. There was nothing but the ball in the net.

Suddenly his legs worked again.

“YAAAAAAASS!!” He raced toward the away stand, arms stretched wide, face to the angry sky, bathed by glorious rain.

The Regiment had exploded. The mass of screaming, jumping fans shook rainbow banners with a fury that made Colin’s head swim. Standing amid the technicolor hues was Andrew, luminescent even in his coal-black rain jacket. Colin blew him a kiss with a mud-caked hand.

A body slammed into him. “What a strike!” Duncan grabbed Colin around the waist and lifted him off his feet. “What a fucking strike!”

The rest of the team arrived, shouting his name, bouncing against him with the exuberance of Great Dane puppies. A few pleaded for caution, telling the others to be careful with him. But he felt invincible, every muscle and joint perfectly aligned. The world felt perfectly aligned.

Colin was back. He’d delivered the Warriors another victory. No one could doubt him now.

His teammates dispersed for the kickoff, and he started to join them, hoping there was time to score another goal (how magic that had felt!). But first he turned for one last look at Andrew.

A wave of dizziness crashed against him. Colin staggered, closing his eyes and putting a hand to his whirling head.

“Mate, you all right?” Fergus said at his side. “Do you need?—”

“No.” Colin blinked hard. Had his teammates knocked the wind out of him during the goal celebration? “I mean, aye, I’m all right.” He looked up at Andrew, whose form swam in and out of focus.

From a distance Fergus spoke his name again, saying something about calling the physio.

“No, I just need…” Colin couldn’t finish the sentence. What did he need?

His body had an answer. LIE DOWN, it commanded. NOW.

This time he obeyed.

* * *

When Colin fell, it seemed Andrew was falling too.

“No…” He swayed against John, who lurched under his weight.

“Gonnae no worry, mate.” John steadied him. “Probably just got a bit overexcited about the goal. It was swoon-worthy, aye?”

Andrew felt he could faint, and not from the quality of Colin’s strike. “He’s exhausted. He’s been that way for at least ten minutes.” How could no one else have noticed the way Colin’s head drooped and his shoulders slumped between plays?

Around them, the Rainbow Regiment had fallen silent—as had the home fans, who moments ago had been hurling invectives at Colin’s triumphant face. Now they all waited as the physios attended to his unconscious form. Players from both teams surrounded them, blocking Andrew’s view.

He shut his eyes hard, remembering how Colin had collapsed in front of him the night he was stabbed, how his knees had buckled, how Andrew had barely caught him in time to keep his head from knocking the pavement. He remembered the shock and confusion on Colin’s face when he saw the hole in his gut.

He’d looked at Andrew as he fell, his pale-green eyes asking WHY?

Andrew picked up his bag. “I need to go to him.”

John grabbed his arm. “Fans cannae just rush onto the pitch. It’s against the rules.”

“Fuck the rules.”

“Warriors’ll get fined.”

“I’ll pay their bloody fine,” he said as he pushed past his friend.

“Drew, stop.” John seized Andrew’s shoulders, his hands slipping on the wet sleeves. “Charlotte could get suspended. That’s the last thing Colin would want.”

Andrew gritted his teeth. John was right. Not long ago, a manager in Spain had received a three-match ban because the fans kept throwing inflatable pigs onto the pitch after being warned to stop.

Not that football mattered at the moment. If the sport had hurt Colin, it could go to hell.

“You’ll see him in a few minutes when the match is over,” John said. “Look, he’s better already.”

Andrew spun to see Colin sitting up on his own, brushing off the support of the physios. “He won’t let them help him. He needs me.”

“And he’ll have you later.” John sat, tugging Andrew down beside him. “Coddle him all night if you want, but for now, let the professionals do their jobs, okay?”

Andrew nodded as he rubbed his damp hands together, still feeling Colin’s blood coating them, still smelling its metallic tang. It had taken forever to wash it away that night, stowed as it was beneath his fingernails and in the grooves of his knuckles, dried to a dull maroon.

Out on the pitch, Colin rose to his feet, finally accepting help from the two physios. His gaze downcast, he offered a faint wave to the cheering Rainbow Regiment on his way to the bench.

Near the touchline, Evan watched Colin’s unsteady progress, then turned and met Andrew’s eyes. He gave a grim nod and an understated thumbs-up before heading out for the kickoff.

“Did Colin take a hit to the head earlier?” John asked Andrew as play resumed.

“No. I’m sure of it. He’s simply not up to match fitness.”

“Didnae stop him scoring, though. Kinda inspiring.”

Andrew felt his chest constrict as he watched Colin dry his pallid face and sip from a green squeeze bottle. “I shouldn’t have let him run yesterday.”

John gaped at him. “Colin went running the day before a match? No wonder he’s shattered. You should tell Fergus.”

“Are you mad? Colin would be livid if I grassed him up like that.”

“It might be better if Fergus and Charlotte knew he collapsed cos he was stupid yesterday, not cos he isnae fit today. They’ll be raging, but at least they’ll not cut his playing time.”

I wish they would cut his time, Andrew thought. I wish they’d cut him altogether.

He rubbed his throbbing temples, desperate to smother these traitorous thoughts. What sort of monster would want to rob his boyfriend of the thing he loved most in the world?

“I know you want to keep him safe all by your wee self,” John said, “but Colin’s got a whole team on his side, plus the physios and the fans. So there’s nae need for a one-man support system.”

Andrew bristled at John’s patronizing talk—and at the weak part of himself that wanted to heed it. “This one-man support system has done a bang-up job, thanks very much.”

John just rolled his eyes. “You’ve been a pure legend, mate, but you’ve got your own life too. Mind, our new teaching period starts Monday. I’ve heard Level 2B is pretty much the ninth circle of hell.”

Andrew groaned inside at the thought of another term of Economic and Social History lectures. University of Glasgow now felt like a foreign land to him. Politics and law—things that used to spark his neurons and quicken his blood—didn’t seem to matter anymore.

Nothing matters.

For a few minutes, staring down at the sodden pitch, Andrew lingered in this place of not caring. It felt like he was nearing a point of no return, like the event horizon of a black hole. It would be so easy to just…drift.

Stop it! Andrew shook his head hard, sending rain cascading off his hood. How dare you want to do nothing , you sniveling, pathetic creature, when doing nothing is exactly what got us here?

As the weak, cowering part of him faded into the background, he remembered who he was: Lord Andrew Sunderland, lifelong striver for excellence, a bucker-up of despondent mates. A man of action.

And he’d be damned if he’d ever freeze again.

Andrew bolted for the aisle, pushing past John.

“Drew, wait!” his friend shouted, but Andrew was already hurrying down the stand, his wellies skidding on the slick wood. As he stepped onto solid ground, the final whistle blew.

Colin strode onto the pitch to join the post-match handshakes with the East Fife players. Andrew called his name as he ran to catch up with him.

Colin turned with a wide smile and opened his arms. “Oi! Did you see my goal?”

“Of course I saw it, you silly beast.” Andrew hugged him tight, clutching the back of Colin’s warm, dry jacket. “I’ll never forget it as long as I live.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you.” With some effort, Colin extricated himself from Andrew’s embrace to take his hands. “Hearing you up there chanting my name—it was pure adrenaline. Felt like I’d drunk a six-pack of Irn-Bru.” He gave Andrew’s knuckles a quick kiss. “See you at home? I gotta go and be a good sport now.”

“Wait.” Andrew seized Colin’s wrist. “Ride back with me in the Regiment bus.”

Colin’s face twisted with concern. “Are you all right? Are you ill?”

“Of course I’m all right,” Andrew said as he wiped a leftover streak of mud from Colin’s forehead. “I’m not the one who collapsed on the pitch.”

“Och, I knew you’d freak out about that. I was just dehydrated, okay? Ask Fergus if you don’t believe me. Then ask the physios if you don’t believe Fergus.”

“But what caused that dehydration? The fact you’d no business playing so many minutes today. Clearly I’m the only one thinking of your best interests.” He tugged on Colin’s arm. “Come with me.”

“Are you off your nut?” Colin twisted free of Andrew’s grip. “How would that look, me going off crying to Mummy cos I took a wee tumble?”

“It was more than a ‘wee tumble.’ And I’m not your mother—I look after you far better than she ever did.”

Colin stared at him, his upper lip forming a slow curl. “That’s cruel, even if it is true.”

Andrew’s stomach felt like it would crawl up his throat. I’m sorry. Please come with me. I need you.

“I’m staying with my team today. End of.” Colin started to move away.

Andrew’s panic spiked. “Why must you stay with the team at all?”

Colin stopped, and the look in his eyes chilled Andrew’s blood. “You want me to quit football?”

“Not necessarily. You could return to your old team in the gay league, where the matches would be easier. I’m sure they’d be thrilled to?—”

“No!” Colin advanced on him until they were nose to nose. “If you think I’d be happy playing for anyone but Warriors, then you don’t know me at all.”

Andrew felt himself wilt under Colin’s gaze, like an orchid in hot sunlight. “I-I just want?—”

“Don’t. Don’t make it worse.” Colin stepped back, shaking his head. “I’ll see you at home.”

As Colin stalked away, Andrew’s gut contorted into a double knot. He’d gone too far, suggesting Colin leave his beloved team. He had to make it up to him, had to make him understand. Now.

But just as he took a step to follow, someone caught his elbow. He froze, then winced as that odd phantom pang struck his side again, right in the place Reggie had held the knife.

It was only John. “Good news, Drew. Fergus said Colin was only dehydrated, according to the physios. He passed their concussion tests and all.”

Andrew gave him a distracted nod, watching Colin exchange back-slaps and handshakes with his opponents.

John stepped into his view. “Wee bit of advice? Your man’s probably embarrassed after passing out, maybe worried he looks weak.” He laid a warm, firm hand on Andrew’s arm. “If you can, find a way to make him feel strong.”