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Chapter 10

Andrew’s fellow dream-zombies rampaged about him in the supermarket aisle, their crooked limbs pinning down screaming shoppers, their rotting jaws gnawing at pink flesh. One victim was trying to bludgeon the zombie atop her with an economy-sized can of baked beans.

Not keen to join the feast, he shuffled into the organic food section, where he found his gray Shetland pony, Gretchen, with her muzzle deep inside a bulk bin of jelly beans. A very-much-alive Colin stood between Gretchen and an approaching horde of undead, wielding a barbecue fork in one hand and a mobile phone in the other.

“Right. ’Mon then!” Colin shouted, taking a selfie of his futile act of heroism.

Andrew turned away. He still wasn’t hungry.

His body jerked as he woke. Without moving his head, he glanced at his classmates to see if anyone had noticed his involuntary nap. He’d purposely sat in the back row knowing he might nod off despite the gallon of French Roast he’d guzzled an hour before.

Ignoring the lecturer at the front of the room, Andrew paged listlessly through the textbook for his British Class System 1815 – Present course. It was Monday now, six days since Jeremy’s sentencing. Andrew had hoped to begin this week with renewed life. He’d not had a drink in days and had once again doubled his yoga and meditation practice. He’d even created a new herbal tea blend—“Fresh Start,” he’d called it—to commemorate this revival. Soon he would view each day the way his old self had done: as an adventure to enjoy rather than an ordeal to endure.

Alas, today’s sunrise had found his pillow damp with tears and the stone in his chest heavier than ever. He would’ve given anything to stay in bed with Colin, to blot out the world with long kisses and longer embraces.

But even Colin couldn’t erase the memory of Elizabeth’s voice when Andrew had phoned her after the sentencing.

“I don’t wish to talk about it,” she’d told him in a hollow tone. “Just know that that man won’t be part of this family much longer.”

Elizabeth was losing a husband. Tyler and Gwyneth were losing a father. All because of Andrew.

“I’d like you to break into discussion groups now,” the lecturer said, motioning where the class was to divide. “We’ve got twenty students today, so let’s have four groups of five.”

A cluster of students in Andrew’s corner of the room gathered near him. Though he knew a few of them from his first three terms of basic Economic and Social History, he wasn’t close to any. He’d tried to convince John to sign up for this Level 4 course, but his mate had laughed at the idea of studying something so “obscure” as the aristocracy.

One of his classmates, a spiky-haired lad he vaguely remembered from a first-year lecture, began the discussion. Andrew was relieved not to have been asked to lead the conversation, as he wasn’t sure which topic they were meant to address.

Focusing on the subject shouldn’t have been an effort. He’d eagerly anticipated this in-depth study of the British aristocracy ever since he’d started at University of Glasgow. Originally he’d looked forward to answering his fellow students’ challenges to the class system, to defending his place in society. After meeting Colin, he’d looked forward to challenging himself about the system, to questioning his own place within it.

Now Andrew couldn’t give a toss about any of it. Last week he’d told the world he’d rebuffed the Scottish National Party’s wooing because he was tired of politics. But the whole truth was this: He was tired of everything. He couldn’t believe in the nationalists’ hopes for a brighter future, because he couldn’t believe in any future.

With a heavy sigh, he reached down into his bag to retrieve his phone, wondering how many more minutes he had to sit here. As he straightened up, he realized everyone in his group was looking at him.

“What?” he asked. “Did I miss something?”

“I asked you about reparations,” said the lad leading the discussion. “Whether you thought the upper classes would one day pay back the poor for the land they’d stolen.”

Andrew lacked the energy for a diplomatic response. He glanced at his phone screen—ugh, still half an hour to go—then said, “I doubt it.”

“Do you think they should?” asked the girl next to him. “Or at least apologize? Acknowledge what their ancestors did?”

“Any official acknowledgment could be construed as an admission of guilt. It would open up the, erm, the aristocracy to lawsuits.” He’d nearly said the great families , a term often used amongst his people but which tended to hit a sour note with the rest of the world.

“What about an un official acknowledgment?” The group leader pointed the chewed-up end of his pen at Andrew. “Can you say you’re personally sorry?”

Andrew took a moment to collect his thoughts. His mind was mush, so he decided to wing it.

“No one should apologize for who they are or how they were born.” Least of all a lord. “And I happen to think my family are fantastic—with notable exceptions, of course.” Andrew paused for laughter that didn’t come. “But they weren’t always so benign. In past centuries the House of Kirkross used an unjust system to shore up power—often to protect itself from even more rapacious families. The poor were collateral damage, like ants trampled on a battlefield. And for that I am truly sorry.” He tugged on his pinky, his throat thickening as he thought of people like Colin struggling for survival. “I’m sorry for everything.”

Andrew did his best to meet his classmates’ eyes, all wide with wonder at his unilateral declaration of remorse. His heart pounded so hard he felt certain they could see his shirt ripple.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he repeated. “But I won’t let anyone paint my family as monsters. You don’t know them, and you don’t know me. I realize that won’t stop you hating us. But I don’t care. I don’t?—”

Andrew stopped, catching his breath. I don’t care about anything.

“Sorry, I-I need to go,” he mumbled as he gathered his things from the table and began to stuff them into his bag.

“Wait,” said a girl to his left with green-streaked blond hair. “Lord Andrew?—”

“Call me Drew.” He stood, wavering, then headed for the door, needing all of his focus not to stumble on the stairs. To his relief, no one tried to stop him—not even the lecturer, who must have been too occupied with another discussion group to notice she’d lost a student.

In the silent, empty corridor, Andrew slumped against the wall and jammed his fist against his lips. It seemed nothing less than a scream would pull him back from the brink. But he’d already exceeded his drama-queen allowance for the day.

“You never know when to shut it, do you?” Elizabeth had asked him long ago. “It’s like your mouth fuels itself with its own words.”

His phone vibrated inside his jacket pocket. He yanked it out, hoping to see a text from Colin, needing Andrew to fetch something from the shops. Or just needing him.

But the name above the message was H , the contact labeled with a simple initial in case Colin ever looked at Andrew’s phone.

H

You told me to leave you alone, but here I am anyway. How are you getting on after last week’s sentencing? Let me know if you need to talk.

He lifted his phone, ready to smash it against the wall. The nerve of Evan Hollister, assuming Andrew couldn’t cope. As for this need to talk rubbish, Andrew had already shared his secrets with the only person who deserved to hear them, the only person who understood him.

Besides, justice had been done. That was all he needed. That and Colin. Always Colin.

Andrew shoved his phone back in his pocket, picked up his bag, and stalked toward the building’s exit. Soon he’d be safe in the refuge of his home and the arms of the man who loved him.

But first he had a change to make.

* * *

Every cell in Colin’s body screamed for oxygen his lungs couldn’t deliver. His chest ached from the press of the treadmill bar and the effort to pull in air. He’d lost feeling in his legs, and the only proof that they still existed was the pounding of his feet on the unforgiving surface.

“Come on, Colin!” Evan shouted from the floor beside him. “Five more seconds. You’re killing it.”

Get to fuck , Colin thought in his former captain’s direction. It’s killing me and you know it. The groan of the treadmill belt rotating beneath him seemed to echo his sentiments.

“Aaaaand rest.” Evan switched the machine back on, setting it at a slow pace.

Colin began to walk, one hand on the bar in front of him and the other toweling streams of sweat from his nose and chin. To his right, his fellow forward Duncan was continuing his own sprint, showing no ill effects from the leg cramps he’d suffered during their last match.

“Have I told you lately,” Duncan said to Evan between gasps, “that I hate you?”

“Yup.” Evan turned to Colin. “Let’s see your heart rate.”

Colin checked the monitor on his wrist and tried not to blanch. Two hundred beats per minute, his maximum safe rate. “It’s fine.”

“Prove it,” Evan said. “Hands on the bar.”

With a sigh, Colin grasped the silver portion of the treadmill bar in front of him. In a few seconds the machine displayed his heart rate—now down to 195 bpm—in big red numbers.

Evan’s brows rose in alarm. “I want you down to one thirty before the next sprint.”

“Aye.” With a trembling arm Colin lifted his water bottle to his lips, hoping he wouldn’t choke.

Running with the treadmill turned off—a “deadmill” sprint—was the most sadistic exercise Evan had ever inflicted upon them. But Colin would do anything to get back into the starting eleven. The previous Saturday’s league match had been postponed due to weather, making him more eager than ever for the next one. The Warriors’ weekly indoor practice sessions were sharpening his ball-handling skills and his tactical mind, but there was no substitute for a real match.

He walked on, taking a mental inventory of his body for any strange aches or twinges. Everything seemed pure solid, and within a few minutes his heart rate had slowed to 125 bpm.

Evan nodded at the number on the display, then switched off the treadmill. “Okay, run.”

Colin leaned forward against the bar for leverage, fixed his gaze on a black smudge on the wall before him, and ordered his legs to move. His feet dug into the belt, forcing the stubborn rubber bastard to slide against its will. As it relented, picking up speed, he let out a howl of defiant triumph.

Then Colin’s mind abandoned his body, traveling across the city to the Warriors’ home park. He imagined blistering dashes down the side of the pitch, beating fullbacks in footraces and sending blinding crosses in front of the goal for Duncan or Shona to score. He imagined darting inside, fighting off huge center-backs to keep the ball, then pivoting to make a deadly strike. Every step he took today—every lung-ripping, muscle-melting step—brought him closer to that destiny.

“Done!” Evan punched the buttons to return Colin’s treadmill to a walking pace. “Good work. Five-minute cool down, and that’s your day.”

After he finished, Colin stumbled off the machine, wishing he could sprawl on the floor. But it was mid-January, which meant the gym was jammed out with New Year’s Resolutionistas. So instead he headed to the changing room, his wobbly legs feeling like they were attached to someone else’s body.

He was still slouched in front of his locker, waiting for his energy drink to kick in, when Duncan entered several minutes later, draining the last of his water bottle.

“You look as dead as I feel,” Duncan said as he opened his locker.

“I thought football was meant to be fun.” Colin pulled his feet back to let a trio of sweat-soaked guys pass by. “When I was a kid someone telt me, ‘if you’re not enjoying yourself, then find another hobby.’”

“Football’s not a hobby, mate. Football is life.” Duncan took a red-and-white-striped squeeze bottle from his locker, then collapsed onto the bench beside him. “Are you experiencing dysphoria?”

Colin snorted at Duncan’s psychology-student talk. “Maybe.”

“Have we not blown enough smoke up your arse about that goal at East Fife?” Duncan shook his bottle to mix the green liquid within. “You were brilliant.”

“Aye, until I wasn’t.” He fell quiet for a moment as they sipped their recovery drinks. “I remember playing for Glasgow Greens. Now that was fun, being the best player on the pitch week after week. Never getting tackled too hard on purpose, never hearing the other teams’ supporters call me a faggot.”

“Never being challenged,” Duncan said, “never reaching your potential.”

“Och, you sound like Evan.”

“Thanks. Look, Evan poached you from the gay league cos he saw something special in you, and not just your fancy step-overs. If he heard you getting all nostalgic about those days, he’d go off his head. And if Charlotte heard you?—”

“She’d put me on the bench. Oh wait, I’m already there.”

“I can’t listen to this.” Duncan turned to his open locker and rummaged through his kit bag. “Here, a cure for your self-pity.” He tossed a manila envelope onto Colin’s lap.

Colin pulled out a stack of stapled papers featuring a spreadsheet with rows of dates down the side. Across the top were columns labeled Distance , Time , Average speed , Weight , and # Reps .

“My training schedule from two summers ago,” Duncan said, “when I was recovering from mono—from glandular fever.”

Colin smirked at Duncan’s habit of “accidentally” using the American term first, lest anyone forget he’d spent his gap year in San Francisco.

Duncan flipped the first sheet and pointed to the bottom of the second. “Look how long it took me to get where you are now, and I wasn’t even a wee bit stabbed in the gut.”

“Wow.” Colin went back to the first page and examined the numbers’ pattern. At the start, Duncan’s progress had been slow but steady, but later accelerated by leaps and bounds. Colin turned to the third page, where halfway through the second month, Duncan’s stamina had taken a nosedive. “What happened here?”

“Got impatient. Pushed myself too hard.” He looked up as Evan walked in, undoing the Velcro on his black weightlifting gloves. “Didn’t obey my elders.”

Colin read Duncan’s comments in the far right column:

Barely perceptible improvement.

Will I EVER get back to match fitness?

Fuck this shit.

“Is this meant to put the frighteners on me?” he asked Duncan.

“No, ya knob, it’s meant to motivate you.”

“By telling me how hard it is?”

“By telling you it’s hard for everyone. So don’t get discouraged, all right?” Duncan reached over and turned to the last page. “See where I was by the start of that season, when we first met? That’s just a month after I crashed and burned. These things take time, as The Smiths once said.”

“You listen to The Smiths now?” Colin elbowed him. “Becoming a retro gay?”

“Aye, Brodie’s influence.” Blushing slightly, Duncan tapped the papers. “Keep this copy if you want.”

As he showered, Colin thought about those training sheets. When he’d hit a fitness wall in the past, he’d simply pushed harder until he got the result he wanted. But some walls seemed made of brick or even pressure-sensitive explosive material, which meant further pushing would be fruitless, even dangerous.

It had been the same with Andrew’s panic attack, when Colin had pressed him too much at first, making things worse. Since then, they’d learned what to do the next time it happened, though Andrew loudly rejected the assumption there’d be a next time. He’d put on a brave face this last week, but Colin could see the turmoil beneath that serene surface.

Later, he found himself walking home alongside Evan after Duncan had boarded his bus to the West End.

“Charlotte wants you to start Saturday,” Evan told Colin, then put up a hand. “But before she decides, she’ll ask me if you’re fit enough.”

“I am, I swear!” Colin did a wee dance on the pavement to prove it. “Tell her I’m ready.”

“I told her you were ready to play a full half before East Fife, and look what happened.”

Colin clenched his fist on his kit bag strap. “You saw how I took on those defenders.”

“It’s not just about how fast you run. It’s about how fast you recover after that run. These deadmill sprints will help.” Evan’s phone rang. “Sorry.” He pulled it out, keeping the screen close to his chest. After a quick glance at Colin, he answered the call.

Colin wondered if he should divert his route to give his teammate a bit of privacy, but any detour would sap the stamina he needed to climb the stairs in Andrew’s building. Besides, he loved the evening hubbub of these Merchant City streets.

“What’s wrong?” Evan said into the phone. “Wait, slow down. I can’t—” He stopped suddenly. “You just quit—are you joking?”

Colin paused as well, worried Evan might be talking to one of their teammates.

“When did this happen?” Evan let out a sigh. “So I’m the first to know.”

Colin rubbed away the prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Warriors couldn’t afford to lose a single player. Sooner or later they’d need to make up all those weather-postponed league matches by playing at least twice a week. Without a deep squad to rotate, they were more likely to lose someone to injury.

“Why don’t we meet up at lunchtime tomorrow?” Evan told his caller as they dodged a delivery van turning into a narrow brick-pavement lane. “Good. I’ll text you with a place and time.” He lowered his voice. “I’m glad you phoned. I hope I can help.” Then he chuckled. “Don’t worry. I can keep a secret.”

“That sounded grim,” Colin said when Evan hung up.

“Just a mate in a bit of a crisis. So let’s review your training plan for the week. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I’m doing fuck all. Complete rest.”

The midfielder made a ding-ding noise. “Got it in one. Then what?”

“Wednesday more deadmill sprints with the Marquis de Sade, aka you.” He stopped. “Wait, no, I’m away to London with Andrew in the afternoon.”

“Then we’ll do deadmills at six a.m. before I go to work.” Evan cut off Colin’s groan of protest. “What’s in London?”

“Book launch party for one of his foodie mates. The lass from Felicity in the Raw ?”

“Ah yeah, I’ve seen her show. Sounds fun.” Evan’s pace slowed slightly. “Will it be very crowded?”

“Dunno. What difference does it make?”

Evan shook his head. “Just make it an early night, okay?”

“Gladly.” This party would be Colin’s introduction to “society,” his first time amongst the posh set. He’d tried to talk Andrew out of going, worried it would be too much in his current state of anxiety. But Andrew had an obligation to his friend, and Colin sure as fuck wasn’t letting him go alone.

Shifting his kit bag, he tried to roll the tension from his shoulders as they reached Ingram Street.

“That’s me this way.” Evan tilted his head to the left.

Colin looked past him, toward the junction for Frederick Street, the literal scene of the crime.

Evan followed his gaze, then looked back at him. “Sorry. It can’t be easy seeing that place.”

“I cannae avoid it, unless I never go to George Square again. If I could travel back in time and do it over, I’d get myself stabbed in a more obscure part of the city.”

Evan laughed. “Spoken like a true Glaswegian.”

They said goodbye, and Colin turned right to continue toward Andrew’s flat, thinking again of Wednesday night’s book launch. Perhaps it would be just what Andrew needed. Perhaps hobnobbing with his glitterati pals would remind him who he was.

And perhaps, Colin realized, that was the real reason he was dreading it: because it might also remind Andrew who Colin was—and who he wasn’t.