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Chapter 6

As they rode the bus to the Warriors’ home park, Liam assumed that Robert’s quiet, almost smug smile meant the knickers were a good fit. He loved not knowing whether the pink or purple pair had been chosen. It would make for a right wee surprise later.

A more crap surprise occurred when snow began to fall just as they got off the bus near the park.

Liam pulled up his hood and glared at the sky. “Is this one of those days you wish you’d taken that job in California?”

“There are no such days.” Robert lifted his face into the shower of clumpy flakes. “Besides, this’ll never stick. It’s too wet, and the temperature’s rising.”

After warm-ups, the Warriors manager, Charlotte Atchison, called her players to the bench for the team talk.

“Mind,” she said, “Barrowfield’s near the bottom of the league table in a nasty relegation battle.” She met each of her players’ eyes as she spoke, and Liam remembered Robert’s warning not to underrate the other side. “They just scratched and clawed their way into this division last season, so they’ll be fighting like mad to stay up.”

Then she turned to the tactical discussion, noting how Barrowfield were a high-pressing team who liked to send loads of players up the pitch, hoping to pounce on opponents’ errors. Warriors had to be extra careful and precise when they had the ball.

“We can use this to our advantage.” Charlotte pointed to the tactical board, which was covered with a plastic sheet to protect it from the snow-turned-drizzle. “Whenever possible, I want you midfielders making quick, short, clean passes. Think Spanish men’s national team.”

Liam winked at Fergus, their captain/deep midfielder and his closest friend apart from Robert. When they’d watched the last World Cup together, Liam had yelled at the TV in frustration as Spain passed and passed and passed and passed—and then passed some more—keeping the ball for minutes on end.

“Eventually they’ll get impatient,” Charlotte continued, “so just keep luring them in. Then when you see an opening, send a long pass up to one of our strikers.” She motioned to their starting forwards, Shona and Duncan.

Unfortunately, Barrowfield began even more aggressively than expected, foiling Charlotte’s planned tactics. Straight from the kickoff, they surged forward, hell-bent on reaching the Warriors goal. Liam, Robert, and Fergus—along with fullbacks Jamie and Katie and goalkeeper Heather Wek—were left fending off a barrage of shots. Soon Liam’s ears were ringing from all the high-speed balls he’d had to head back out of the danger zone.

“Just a matter of time, lads!” shouted Gerry Mitchell, the new Barrowfield striker who’d slagged off the Warriors defense online. He wiped the rain from his pointy black beard with the collar of his navy-blue jersey, then looked at Liam. “How hard can it be to get the ball past her, right?” He glanced back at Heather, who’d already made two outstanding saves.

Liam kept his face blank, knowing any reaction would just encourage more so-called banter.

But then Mitchell added, “Or is it him ? She used to be a him, right? What’s the status there?” He preened his long, frizzy ponytail. “You know, in case I want to have a go later?—”

“She doesn’t need me to defend her,” Liam said, “but if you don’t shut it, I will staple that pretentious fucking beard to the crossbar.”

Then he turned his back on Mitchell. The threat hadn’t exactly been Liam’s cleverest, but it was the best he could summon on the spot.

Heather sent her goal kick streaking toward the halfway line, and play was underway again.

Liam tried not to be bothered by Mitchell’s words, either the ones he’d spewed just now or earlier this week in that amateur-football forum. Most players in their league had come to accept the Warriors; homophobic, transphobic, and sexist incidents were rarer these days—and at least Mitchell had failed to comment on Heather’s Sudanese heritage (so far). But whenever a new guy came in, for some reason it fell to Warriors to school him. Liam wished that just once, the other straight players would teach their new teammates to show some fucking respect.

Soon, with patience and discipline, the Warriors gained control of play. Liam’s focus sharpened as he took part in their planned cat-and-mouse game, luring the Barrowfield midfield farther and farther forward, their defense following closer and closer behind.

Katie took the ball from the Warriors left midfielder, Colin. By the direction of her eyes, Liam could tell she was hoping to sail a long pass up to Duncan or Shona.

Just then, Mitchell lumbered forward to steal the ball. As Katie went to dodge him, he put out a leg and struck her shin. Thrown off-balance, she tried to catch herself with her other foot, but it twisted under her.

They both went down hard onto the turf. The whistle blew instantly.

Mitchell rolled to his feet with arms spread in the universal I’m innocent! gesture. The referee shook his head and flourished a yellow card at him. Liam thought the striker lucky to avoid a red card—the fact his foot had been near the ball when he’d struck Katie was all that saved him from getting chucked out of the game.

Liam crouched at her side as she sat up. “All right, lass?”

“My ankle.” Katie made a brief attempt to get to her feet, then sank back down and shoved a clump of long, dark hair off her reddening cheek. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Liam waved for the physios, who were already jogging across the pitch with their kit bags. Fergus was headed in the opposite direction, hurrying to confer with Charlotte about what looked like an imminent substitution.

One of the physiotherapists, a woman called Tamara who’d worked several Warriors matches this season, started manipulating Katie’s right foot. The American lass winced as Tamara palpated the outside of her ankle.

Fergus returned to the pitch and waved Liam over. Shona took Liam’s place beside Katie, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“You’ll play left back,” Fergus told Liam. “I’ll move into your spot at center-back.”

Liam felt a flare of fear at the thought of playing out of position. “What about our substitute fullbacks?”

“It’s too early to put them in. At this point Charlotte wants to play our strongest sub, which is Craig.”

Liam looked over to the touchline to see the substitute deep midfielder ripping off his neon-yellow practice pinny. Craig had done an admirable job filling in during Fergus’s hamstring injury last season.

Still, Liam had rarely played fullback. He didn’t relish getting catapulted out of his comfort zone in the middle of a match.

Now on her feet, Katie was hobbling off the pitch with the aid of the physios.

“Sorry,” Mitchell called after her, still wearing a sneer. “Didn’t realize you were so fragile.”

Shona turned to him, her face like thunder. Robert stepped between them in time to stop her strangling Mitchell with his own tongue.

Over in the stand, the Rainbow Regiment began to chant, “You’re just a shite Jack Sparrow!” in Mitchell’s direction, a dig at his prodigious beard and ponytail.

“Okay, quick review.” Fergus put his arm round Liam’s shoulders. “When defending at fullback, you don’t want to go to ground with one of your glorious tackles. Stay on your feet and let the attacker make the first move. Your main job is to stop those crosses coming in.”

“Right.” Despite the fact Liam was shifting only one position over, he needed a whole new mindset.

Liam’s expression must have revealed his doubt, because Fergus patted his back and said, “You can do this. I’ll be backing you up.” The captain glanced at Robert, who was watching them with concern. “And he’ll survive without you. He’s done it before when you’ve missed a match, and vice versa.”

Liam nodded, then moved off into position. It seemed daft to split up him and Robert when their partnership formed the backbone of the Warriors defense—which the Rainbow Regiment had cheekily termed “The Beast With Two Center-Backs”—but every other option would leave the team even weaker.

Sensing the Warriors’ new vulnerability, Barrowfield proceeded to batter them on the left side to test Liam’s speed and canniness. So he had no choice but to settle into position and cast aside his fear of fucking up.

For now, at least.

* * *

By halftime, the sun had decided to grace the pitch with its presence. Its winter-pale rays weren’t much help to Robert, who felt more than a wee bit burned out.

Fergus was playing farther forward at center-back than Liam usually did. This adjustment helped counter Barrowfield’s high press, but it also made Robert more than ever the defender of last resort. The burden was quickly wearing him down—not that he would ever let on.

He waited for Liam so they could walk to the bench together. “You were brilliant over there, Mister Fullback.” It was the truth: A couple of crosses had made it into the box, but Liam had hassled the winger enough that the high swooping passes could be easily headed away by Robert or Fergus.

“Thanks.” Liam examined the front of his own black shorts and violet-and-white-striped top. “I miss delivering my famous sliding tackles, but I also fancy not being covered in mud.”

Out of nowhere, Mitchell barged between them. “You lads are together, right?” the striker asked. “So which one is the woman?”

Before Robert could mock Mitchell’s lack of originality, Liam answered: “If you mean which of us gets gloriously penetrated by the other, that would be both of us.”

“Not at the same time,” Robert added. “Our pricks can’t reach round like elephant trunks.”

“Yours comes pretty close, mate,” Liam said.

Mitchell put his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to know.”

“But you asked,” Liam said. “Proportionally, it’s probably sixty-forty Robert’s cock in my arse, if you want specifics.”

“I don’t!” The striker began to jog off toward his bench.

“But it’s not just about frequency,” Robert said, trotting behind him. “When measuring the total volume of joy, I get the lion’s share.”

Liam gave him a smile. “Ah, love, that’s pure kind of you.”

“This is fucking sexual harassment,” the striker said. “I’m telling the ref.”

“Good luck with that!” Liam sang as he and Robert turned for their own bench. “I know we should ignore pricks like him, but I’m dead sick of having to prove we’re as good as everyone else.”

Just then, Charlotte called Liam over to confer with Fergus and herself, no doubt to discuss tactics for the second half. Robert never minded being left out of these talks—he embraced his role as the brawn of the back line and was happy to let others do the strategic thinking.

He went to sit beside Katie, who had her right foot resting on a green Lucozade cooler. “How’s the ankle?”

“Better after the ice,” she replied. “The physio says it’s probably a first-degree sprain, so hopefully I’ll only miss a couple of weeks. If it swells up in the next hour, I’ll need an X-ray.” She shook her head in disgust. “I should’ve gone down when Mitchell hit me instead of trying to stay up. If I’d just rolled with it, I’d be fine.”

“You were only following instinct. We all do it.”

“The whole point of training is to help us overcome instinct.” She fidgeted with the tiny silver elastic at the end of her braid. “I don’t get enough practice being hit. No one wants to hurt a girl. Maybe I should be flattered Mitchell didn’t go easy on me like most guys do.”

Robert presumed “most guys” included her teammates. “I promise once you’re fighting fit again, I’ll tackle you so hard at training session you’ll see stars from other galaxies.”

“Thanks.” She beamed at him and patted his leg. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Robert’s face warmed at her touch as he remembered what lay beneath his shorts. How would Katie react if she knew about the knickers? Would she think it sexist? Was he co-opting femininity, taking on the fun parts of being a woman from within the safety of being a man?

Then again, the whole idea of labeling clothes “male” or “female” was kind of ridiculous to begin with, so it was probably pointless to sit here and overthink it.

One of the subs came by with orange wedges and energy drinks. Robert took twice as many as usual.

“Must be exhausting adjusting to a new center-back partner,” Katie said.

“Hm?” Robert asked through a mouthful of orange.

She pointed to the double serving of fruit in his hands. “Extra hungry.”

“Oh. Aye, that’s it.” But was the change in lineup really the problem, Robert wondered, or was something else going on with his body?

Liam scuttered up to them then, brimming with excitement.

“Looking good out there,” Katie told him.

“Not as good as you, but thanks.” He did a mini-jig. “They want me to go forward more in the second half. When the Barrowfield fullback drives Colin inside, I’m to do an overlapping run on the outside and try to put a cross in. Craig will move in behind me to make sure that gap’s filled.” He looked at Robert. “You and Fergus’ll probably need to shift too, in case I leave you stranded.” He pressed his palms to his temples. “Och, I hope I don’t fuck up.”

Halftime soon ended, seeming briefer than usual to Robert. His pulse rate was still up from the first half, and his legs still felt a bit rubbery. With a growing dread, he realized what was wrong, and that he’d only himself to blame.

Barrowfield pressed forward immediately as the second half started. The striker Mitchell bobbed and weaved like a boxer, maintaining constant motion. Robert marked him as closely as possible.

At first it was easy. Mitchell was big and strong, but he was slow, especially for a center forward. Perhaps all that hair was killing his aerodynamics.

Yet as the half marched on, Robert could feel the energy draining from him. At every break in play, he was gulping air just to stay on his feet. But he kept his head up and his body language positive, so that no one—especially their opponents—would know he was tiring.

He adjusted for his waning stamina by positioning himself even more conservatively to avoid being caught out. So when a long pass came from deep in the Barrowfield midfield, sailing up toward Mitchell, Robert was ready.

Mitchell sprinted to meet the ball. Robert kept pace with him…

…and then suddenly fell behind.

What is happening? Robert was losing this footrace despite his head start.

Instead of uselessly staying on Mitchell’s heels—where he could accidentally trip him and be called for a foul—Robert moved to put himself between the striker and the goal, hoping to block the shot.

But it came too fast, too soon. Robert lunged feet first into the ball’s path. It scraped his toes as it flew by. Heather leapt sideways, her long dark ponytail streaming behind her, but the ball zipped past the ends of her outstretched fingers.

Robert got to his feet, ignoring the shouts of triumph from Mitchell and his teammates, who were swamping the striker with hugs and high-fives. “Sorry,” he said to Heather.

She shook her head as she picked the ball out of the back of the net. “You had the jump on him. He shouldn’t have got by you.”

“I know, he just…” Robert felt suddenly swoony. He bent over and put his hands on his knees, hoping he looked dismayed instead of exhausted.

Fergus was at his side in an instant. “You okay? What happened?”

“Fine.” Robert drew in more precious oxygen. “He just...outran me.”

He and Fergus moved back up the pitch to prepare for kickoff. Liam jogged over to Robert and asked in a low voice, “It’s not the knickers, is it? I’ll never forgive myself for hurting your game.”

“Not that,” Robert said with a laugh. He’d forgotten all about the undergarments.

“Thank God. Stay strong!” He patted Robert’s back, then moved off into position.

Robert hadn’t lied: The knickers weren’t the problem. He was simply out of shape. He should’ve known that skipping the treadmill week after week would eventually affect his stamina and speed.

Tomorrow, for sure, he’d get back to his gym routine—cardio, weights, yoga—no matter how busy he was with the Glasgow Effect app.

No, tomorrow was recovery day from this match. And Monday he had that meeting with the funders. And then Tuesday was football practice. Then Wednesday was recovery from practice.

Thursday, then. Definitely Thursday.

Probably.

* * *

Liam had no time to worry about Robert’s performance, as there were plenty of demands on his own. With Mitchell’s goal coming so late in the game, the Warriors needed to score, pronto.

Which meant Liam was being sent forward.

As he charged up the left touchline with the ball, he felt like he was encroaching upon alien territory. Overcoming his center-back’s instinct to tack toward the middle was liberating but also a wee bit terrifying.

He heard a thunder of feet, then a Barrowfield winger cut him off near the halfway line, trying to drive him inside. Liam faked him out with a nimble flip-flap, nudging the ball to his right with the outside of his foot then whipping it back the other way with his instep.

Oh my God, how’d I do that? he thought for a millisecond before continuing forward, leaving his opponent behind. A roar of approval rose from the Rainbow Regiment, who were now on his side of the pitch in the second half.

Ten yards later, he was met by a Barrowfield fullback, who managed to trap him against the line. With nowhere to go, Liam kicked the ball against the fullback’s legs so it would bounce out of play for a Warriors throw-in.

He stood there for a moment—long enough to look like an eejit—before remembering throw-ins were now his job.

Liam hurried to pick up the football, then carried it back to the touchline, wiping it with his shirt to dry it ( so much for not getting muddy ). He surveyed his teammates, deciding which to throw it to, knowing he had but a few seconds to choose.

“There’s only one Liam Carroll…” the Rainbow Regiment were now singing to the tune of “Winter Wonderland.” “He’s got you over a barrel…”

He drew his arms back over his head, then heaved the ball at Warriors midfielder Evan, but it fell short and was promptly intercepted by a Barrowfield defender, who passed it up to the winger for another attack.

Well, that was crap. Liam raced back down the line, relieved to see Craig was slowing the winger’s progress and averting imminent disaster.

The Regiment kept singing for him, a new version of an old chant. “He used to stay back, now watch him attack. You’re wanking in a winter wonderland.”

As the second half neared the end, Liam used his nearby teammates as a guide to positioning himself: Okay, Craig’s shifting to the other side, so I’d better stay back or risk a gap in defense. Now where the fuck is Colin? Liam was so far out of his comfort zone, he couldn’t have glimpsed it through a telescope.

The clock reached ninety minutes, with only two minutes of stoppage time added. Liam felt a defiance rise within him.

We’ve already lost Katie. We are not losing this match.

Rather than keep possession and kill time, Barrowfield foolishly made a long pass toward the Warriors goal, where it sailed out of play. The Warriors had one final chance.

Heather hurried to retrieve the ball for a goal kick. She set it on the edge of the six-yard box, then waved at Liam to move forward.

He started running.

“Heather Wek, she’s hard as feck,” the Regiment chanted. “She’ll break your neck like a ragin’ Shrek!”

The ball soared from Heather’s foot straight to Liam. He steadied it with a single touch, then took off, dribbling down the line again. When he saw an opponent approach, he passed to Colin and kept going. Colin ripped it back to him, and Liam was free to streak forward for ten yards, then more, until the Barrowfield right back was actually chasing him.

He’d beaten his opponent, but not by enough. To get by him and send in a cross in front of the goal, Liam needed just a bit…more…speed.

You can do this. It’s weird but also wonderful, and you can do it.

But he was running out of room. Near the end of the pitch, Liam stopped abruptly, keeping control of the ball, and doubled back two steps. The fullback followed. Liam changed direction again, going forward. Now there was room.

He planted his right foot and slammed the ball with the instep of his left, sending in the best cross he could muster. It sailed to the far post, where Shona appeared, her sweep of violet-and-blond hair gleaming in the sunlight.

Liam didn’t see Shona’s head hit the ball, but he saw the back of the net bend beneath the force of her strike.

“Yaaaaaasssss!” How odd it felt to be running from the side of the pitch to join a goal celebration. How even odder to be the one getting that special ”assister embrace” from the goal scorer.

“Brilliant cross, mate!” Shona hugged him hard.

“Beginner’s luck?”.

“I don’t care. Fucking hell, that was perfect.“ She turned to the bench and raised her fist to Katie, who was standing on one foot and waving her bright-blue ice pack.

The next minute went by in a blur, as every Warrior got in on the celebration. Then play kicked off again, but the whistle blew only seconds later, sealing the 1-1 result.

Liam took care to share handshakes or back pats with every Barrowfield player, who all looked dejected at having victory snatched from their grasp at the last instant.

The Barrowfield captain clapped his hands. “That was a precious away point, lads!” he shouted to buck up his team. “Could save our season.” He was right: A draw away from home to the Warriors, one of the division’s top teams, was not to be sneezed at.

“Still, beaten by a lassie,” Liam heard Mitchell mutter. “Cannae fucking believe it.”

Liam opened his mouth to say, “Guess they’re not so fragile after all, aye?” but Robert grabbed him before he could get the words out.

“Well done, mate.” Robert slung an arm over Liam’s shoulders, leaning heavily upon him. “Fuck, I’m shattered.”

Liam reached around his waist to support him. “You all right?”

“Aye, just…” Robert was clearly struggling to catch his breath. “Think maybe I could come running with you and Fergus Thursday morning?” He panted a couple of times. “I know that’s the only time you guys get to hang out, but?—”

“Of course you can join us,” Liam said, “but what about your fancy Merchant City gym? Is it closed?”

“No.” Robert stopped and lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe the heavy sheen of sweat from his face. “I’m in the kind of shit shape that only friends can cure.”

“Gonnae no worry, we’ll run your arse into the ground until you beg us to stop.” He squeezed Robert’s ribs. “But right now, we need to see to those knickers.”