Page 6

Chapter 6

Duncan read until his voice was too hoarse to hear himself above Brodie’s snores. Then he switched off his tablet and let his gaze wander over the walls as he decided whether to stay or go.

On the pinboard above the desk—the only place students were permitted to hang things—was a series of three Georgia O’Keeffe desert mountain prints. Their warm, vivid colors matched the sheets and duvet. As far as Duncan knew, Brodie had no connection to the American Southwest. If anything, he came from a world that was the exact opposite, the cold, stormy coast of northeast Scotland, a place Duncan, like most humans, knew only from the 1980s film Local Hero .

He lifted his head to search the room for framed photos of Brodie’s home, expecting to see a beach, a fishing boat, or one of the steep, rocky braes the north coast was so famous for. But there was nothing, not even one family picture.

This puzzle only made Duncan more determined to better know this beautiful, fragile lad, which meant spending every minute he could with him. Including tonight.

But first he had to turn off the light. He eased out from beneath the covers, then crept over to the switch near the door. At that moment, Brodie groaned in his sleep and rolled onto his back, flinging out his left arm and leg to fill the empty space.

“Of course,” Duncan whispered. He knew he should walk out now. Dozing off beside Brodie would’ve looked natural and casual. Waking Brodie to make him move over, on the other hand…

Go with your gut , Evan had always said. Then again, Evan was a treacherous twat whose gut had apparently told him to fuck off to Belgium when his team needed him most.

Duncan’s own gut told him there was something more than friendship here. It told him to slide beneath the covers and wrap himself around Brodie, bury his face in his thick, dark hair, then let whatever was meant to happen, happen.

Or maybe it wasn’t his gut telling him to do this so much as his cock. Either way, he listened.

Duncan switched off the light, then returned to the bed, where he tapped Brodie’s knee through the duvet. “Freeze, Bed Hog, you’re under arrest,” he said in an American cop-show drawl.

“You’ll never take me alive,” Brodie murmured as he rolled to face the wall again.

Duncan got into bed but lay on his back, uncertain whether to turn away from Brodie or toward him. Today’s Facebook flirtation had left him on edge. Their online banter was the sort mere pals could have, pals who were so comfortable with each other, they wouldn’t misinterpret the joke as a come-on. Pals who could share a twin bed without hooking up.

“Why do you love football?” Brodie asked.

Duncan blinked hard, startled out of his pondering by Brodie’s clear, alert voice. “Why shouldn’t I love it?”

“Don’t be defensive. You’re not on trial.”

“Aren’t I?”

“Don’t start that again,” Brodie said. “The turning-my-statement-into-a-question thing. You’ll make an annoying psychologist.” He kept facing the wall but shifted beneath the covers, his leg nearly brushing Duncan’s. “You know that book you were reading?”

“ Fever Pitch ?”

“Aye. I don’t get it. Why does he care so much about that Arsenal team? They don’t give a fuck about him.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s about being part of something bigger than yourself. Whether you’re playing for a team or just supporting one, for ninety minutes the world isn’t about you. It’s a bit like religion. There’s love and faith and even hymns—and it’s all built on suffering.” Duncan snickered at that last bit, though he thoroughly meant it.

“See, that’s what I don’t get,” Brodie said. “The guy in that book, he’s so miserable most of the time. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Feelings don’t make sense. That’s why they’re feelings.” Duncan’s face warmed with passion. He had to find a way to make Brodie understand. “Haven’t you ever loved something far past the point of sanity?”

After a long moment, Brodie said, “No,” in a voice that left the answer’s truth a complete mystery. Before Duncan could respond, Brodie asked, “I assume Arsenal’s your favorite team?”

“God, no. I’m Scottish, I’ll not support a London side. My favorite’s Sunderland. They’ve been pretty crap my whole life. This year they look doomed to be relegated—that’s when the last-place teams get sent down to a lower league.”

“Okay,” Brodie said, clearly uninterested.

“My point is, they never win, but they’ve got the best supporters in the world. When they play at other stadiums, the away fans’ section is always sold out, even when it’s a six-hour bus ride to Southampton. Before every match, the crowd sings Elvis Presley’s ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love.’”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, it’s pure romantic.”

“Pure masochistic, more like.”

“Maybe, but everyone in English football—except Newcastle fans, of course—says Sunderland supporters are the best.” Duncan finally reined in his blethering. “So why do you hate football?”

“Because I’m weird, apparently.” Brodie inhaled, then exhaled, through his nose. “Also, the footballers in school used to bully me.”

Duncan turned his head to look at Brodie, who was still facing the wall. The heaviness in his voice belied his casual use of the word also .

“Was it bad?” he whispered.

“It’s over,” Brodie said emphatically. But then he folded into himself, pulling up his knees, perhaps on reflex at the memories. This crowded him into Duncan. “Sorry.” He straightened his legs again and restored the space between them.

“No, I’m sorry. About the bullying.” Duncan wanted to reach out and touch him, but it felt like a barrier had fallen. “I know how homophobic the sport can be. Fuck’s sake, I play for a gay football club.”

“How do you stand it? Don’t people call you names?”

“There’s rules against abusive language, but some players still say things when the refs can’t hear. That just makes what we’re doing more important. We play our hearts out and stand together as a team. No matter what names we’re called, we hold our heads up and show the haters they can’t touch us.”

Brodie made a faint grunt of admiration—or possibly skepticism.

Duncan continued. “It’s not political activism like your LGBTQ club does, but it makes a difference, to us and to the kids out there who are learning it’s okay to be themselves.”

There was so much more he wanted to say. He wanted to sing the praises of the Warriors’ loud and loyal fan club, the Rainbow Regiment. He wanted to point out that the team had chosen to join a straight football league instead of a gay one, to prove they were just as good as (and in some cases better than) straight players. He wanted to mention how the Warriors included lesbians and trans folk and had a female manager, though it was rare for men and women to play on the same team, even in amateur football—even in LGBTQ amateur football.

But he stayed silent, letting Brodie contemplate the most important part of the Woodstoun Warriors’ existence. It wasn’t popularity or talent, or even gender equality. It was pride.

Finally Brodie turned onto his back and spoke, barely above a whisper. “If I’d known about your team a few years ago…it definitely would’ve made a difference.”

Duncan felt sick at the thought of a younger Brodie feeling alone and despised, battered by athletes like himself.

“I hope you’ll come to one of our matches,” he said. “I can’t promise we’ll win. We used to be really good before Evan left, and even on our bad days, we played with pride.” Duncan thought of how he’d lost his temper in the last match. “Now we’re in pieces.”

“Evan. The one who dumped his boyfriend and ran off with another man?”

“Aye. It was horrible, what he did to Fergus, but what he did to the Warriors was even worse. Am I a selfish wee bawbag for thinking that?”

“Not sure yet. Go on.”

“Evan was more than a captain to me, see. He was my mentor. He discovered me, offered me the chance to be part of something special.” Duncan resisted the urge to deliver another Warriors advert. “When I came back to Glasgow after being ill in America, I was half the player I was when I left. Evan could’ve said, ‘Sorry, the situation’s changed and we’ve got standards you’re not meeting.’ I would’ve understood. But he kept his word, and he helped me get fit again. By midseason, I was a starting forward.”

“Is that like a striker?”

“In my case, yeah.”

“Ooh, glamorous.”

Duncan chuckled. “We do tend to get the most goals. But we couldn’t do it without brilliant midfielders like Evan passing us the ball, setting us up to score.”

Brodie made an aha noise with just his breath. “You fancied him, didn’t you?”

“No, it was…deeper than that. To say I fancied him is like saying someone fancies Jesus or Muhammad or the Buddha. I revered him.” Duncan’s throat began to ache. “And now he’s gone.”

“I’ve never revered anyone. Except maybe Father Christmas.”

“And how did you feel when you found out he was a lie?”

Brodie fell silent for a moment, then said in a horrified whisper, “What do you mean?”

Duncan jabbed him with an elbow. “Be serious, ya bam.”

Brodie laughed. “Seriously, I felt fine. So what if Father Christmas doesn’t literally exist as I imagined him? That doesn’t make him a lie. He’s still got meaning—love and fun and giving, holiday spirit and all. And it doesn’t take away how happy he made me when I was a wean.” Brodie shifted his head on the pillow to look at Duncan. “Evan probably still has meaning too. It’s down to you to work out what that is, now that he’s a human instead of a god.”

The ache in Duncan’s throat became a burning. It almost hurt more not to hate Evan than it did to hate him.

“I’ll come to one of your matches,” Brodie said, “once I’m recovered.” With a hollow sigh that betrayed his exhaustion, he turned to face the wall again. “Feels like it’ll be next year.”

“I can wait.” Duncan reached across himself to touch Brodie’s arm atop the covers. “I can wait for anything.”

“Good,” Brodie said in a phantom of a whisper. Then he took Duncan’s hand and pulled it forward in front of his own chest, so that Duncan had no choice (not that he would’ve done differently if given a choice) but to turn toward him. He curled his body against Brodie’s, arm tight about his waist, nose tucked into the space behind his ear.

Now what? he wondered, pulse pounding. Should I kiss his neck, wrap my legs around his, slide my aching prick against his exquisite bum?

He got his answer shortly, as Brodie’s hand went slack with sleep, his body growing heavier with each deep, steady breath.

Duncan knew he himself wouldn’t sleep for hours, but he’d no intention of moving from this perfect spot. So he let himself relive their hookup the night before spring vacation—what he could remember of it.

Like many flats, theirs had thrown a wee bash to celebrate the end of first-year lectures. As their special guest, Lorna contributed a concoction she called Oblivion (or Oblivionator, or Oblivionation, Duncan was never sure). It featured raspberry vodka, Red Bull, and a mysterious bubbly component she refused to reveal (“The secret ingredient is madness!” she’d shouted, bouncing on Duncan’s bed in time to the new Jason DeRulo song, before clapping a hand over her mouth, dashing down the hall to the toilet, and eventually being carried home by her boyfriend, Paul).

Brodie and Duncan had ended up finishing the Oblivionerationator alone on Duncan’s bed while discussing…something to do with psychology? Duncan remembered only that they’d argued whether Freud had actually said, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” Brodie had Googled the answer, which prompted an image-search expedition of symbolic and eventually not-so-symbolic phalluses.

During this impassioned discussion, the bed had seemed to spin and pitch like a carnival ride. To keep from falling off, he and Brodie held onto each other as they shouted, like two sailors in a stormy sea. At some point—this bit was very fuzzy—they decided that holding on with mouths as well as hands might provide greater stability. So they’d kissed and groped, rolling about on the bed in a semiconscious state.

One memory was crystal clear in Duncan’s mind: Brodie on top of him, between his legs, their bare chests pressed together, their hips grinding furiously as they kissed, like they were trying to fuck each other through their clothes.

Then, Brodie had stopped. Looked down. Unzipped Duncan’s jeans. Reached inside.

And found nothing.

Well, not nothing . Duncan still had a cock, but it was in no useful state, thanks to Lorna’s Oblivionator.

“Oh,” was all Brodie said to Duncan, who defended his pride by—and he still couldn’t believe this part—grabbing Brodie’s crotch, only to find him in a similarly flaccid state.

Maybe it was the drink, or the awkwardness, or maybe the situation was genuine comedy gold. For whatever reason, Duncan found it the most hilarious thing ever.

So he laughed. And Brodie disappeared. And Duncan passed out.

When he woke the next morning and dragged his monster of a hangover to the other end of the hall, he found Brodie gone, already on an early train home. For three weeks they didn’t contact each other. Duncan was too embarrassed, not to mention preoccupied with the upcoming quarterfinal match.

But maybe Brodie was more than embarrassed. Maybe that moment had reminded him of being laughed at in school, by boys just like Duncan.

Holding him close now, Duncan vowed that if he ever got a second chance, he’d erase the memory of the night Brodie wanted to forget. He’d replace it with a night to remember. A night to repeat again and again.

* * *

Duncan woke to the -click!- of a door shutting softly. Without opening his eyes, he reached out to find the bed beside him empty but still warm. Though ninety percent of his body begged him to stay put, he heeded the call of his fitness routine—not to mention his bladder.

He left Brodie a note, written on an unused Starbucks napkin.

Away for a run, then our Taco Bell breakfast! - D

Duncan returned ninety minutes later to find Brodie sitting at the desk, clear-eyed, fresh-faced…and proper cute in that long-sleeved, pine-green shirt. It hugged his figure, accentuating his slimness without making him look scrawny. Instead of pajama trousers, he was wearing a clean pair of jeans. If it weren’t for his bare feet, Duncan would have thought he was ready for an outing.

Even the room was tidier. The dirty laundry in the corner had been picked up, and the books strewn beside his bed had been reshelved—all but the statistics textbook in front of him on the desk.

Brodie squinted at the cardboard tray and plain brown bag in Duncan’s hands. “That’s not Taco Bell.”

“The ones here don’t serve breakfast. I’m pure sad you won’t get to experience a Waffle Taco.” Duncan set the bag and tray on the desk. “So I went to the North Star Café.”

Brodie seized the bag. “I love that place! Thank you!” As the scent of bacon sandwich on crusty bread wafted up, he closed his eyes and lifted his chin in a look of pure bliss, a look Duncan wanted to evoke as often as possible.

“Nae bother. So if you’re well enough to take the desk, does that mean I’m relegated to the bed?”

“It’s not a relegation, it’s a promotion.”

Duncan raised his coffee cup at him. “Nice football reference there.” He took off his shoes, then sat cross-legged on the bed, his breakfast spread before him on the brown-paper wrapper. “You ready to review Psych 1B, or are you still arse-deep in statistics?”

“Either. But first”—Brodie leapt from his chair—“I’ve got something for you.” He rushed out the door.

Duncan struggled to eat his own bacon sandwich, his stomach in knots. Last night, the way they’d—well, cuddled was the only word to describe it—it felt like they were more than mates. But yet, not quite lovers. Being something in between was dangerous and exciting and also really fucking confusing.

Brodie returned pronto, carrying the oversized “Tea-Rex” mug with a dinosaur on it, which he presented with nervous pride. “I made this for you.”

Duncan took the cup carefully, expecting it to be hot, but it was the opposite. He sniffed the brown liquid. “Cold tea?”

“You said iced tea was what you missed most about America. We’d no ice, so I put a cup of hot tea in the fridge. Is it all right?”

Touched by Brodie’s thoughtfulness, Duncan took a sip. He tried not to grimace at the bitter taste. “It’s…robust.”

“I found a recipe on the Internet. It said to use two bags for one cup.”

“Because the ice waters it down and makes it weaker.”

“Right.” Brodie’s face fell. “Oh. Is it gads?”

“No, it’s great. See?” He took a massive gulp, then coughed.

“Maybe these’ll help.” Brodie dug a trio of sugar packets from his front pocket.

As Duncan poured the sugars into the mug, Brodie stood there shifting his weight from foot to foot. Then he said, “I got good news this morning in my email. I’ve been approved for student summer accommodation. I’ll stay in a single room at one of the older halls near uni.”

“That’s fantastic.” It would be cool to spend the summer together—though not so cool to do it as mere pals. “Are you okay?” he asked, noticing Brodie was pacing the floor instead of eating.

“Yeah, I—I don’t know why I thought the tea, and then the—saying I’d be here for the summer would somehow magically lead to what I’m on about.”

“Which is what?”

“Which is this.” Brodie sat before him on the bed, curling one leg up so they were eye to eye. Then he reached out, took Duncan’s face in both hands, and kissed him.

Duncan froze in shock, eyes open wide. An inch away, Brodie’s lids twitched, clamped shut in concentration. His lips quivered, transmitting a current of energy that zinged up and down Duncan’s spine.

Then Brodie let go and pulled back, his expression tense. “Did I ruin things?”

Not trusting himself to speak, Duncan merely held up a finger as he bent over and set his full mug of tea on the floor, balancing his breakfast sandwich atop it. Then, with both hands free, he reached out for Brodie and kissed him.

Brodie’s moan echoed Duncan’s own relief. Resting his hands atop Duncan’s knees, he leaned forward into the kiss. Their lips parted slightly, freeing their tongues to offer tentative, exploring, hopeful caresses.

Duncan slipped an arm about his waist, and the warmth of Brodie’s skin through his shirt flooded him with an uncontainable heat. This was everything he remembered, yet much more. And now they’d nothing to blame it on but their own desire.

Brodie broke away again, his breath coming hard and shallow. “I, erm…I need to lie down.”

Duncan pulled him forward into his lap, then lowered them onto the bed, curled into each other. “Better?”

“Mm.” Brodie kissed him again, with twice the confidence as before.

Duncan stroked Brodie’s back, sliding his palm over the sharp contours of his shoulder blades and the gentle slope of his waist, strumming his ribs with his thumb. For three and a half weeks, Brodie’s body had been but a hazy memory. Now Duncan wanted to memorize each inch of him before moving on to the next. There was so much to explore, and all the time in the world.

To show he understood this fully, he took Brodie’s hand and said, “I know you’re not ready for much, being ill and all.”

“That sounds like a challenge.” Brodie gently pulled on Duncan’s lower lip with his teeth.

Duncan groaned, wanting to strip them both naked now now now . He nestled his hips against Brodie’s, pleased at the way they fit together—and even more pleased at their matching hard-ons. “Check you. Seems you can get it up for me after all.”

Brodie’s spine went rigid. He gave Duncan a look of pure horror, like he’d suddenly seen him for a serial killer.

“What’s wrong?” Duncan asked, his heart thumping with worry as much as excitement.

“That night before vacation. When we were drunk.” Brodie pulled his own arm back into his chest, folding into himself. “You laughed at me.”

Shit. It was just as he’d feared. “No, I was laughing at myself, and at the situation. I was never laughing at you.” He touched Brodie’s cheek, his own face flaming with shame. “Is that why you ran away that night?”

“Of course. I was humiliated.”

“Brodie…” He kissed him softly. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. And I wish we’d not been so hammered.”

“Me too.” Brodie relaxed a bit. “Then again, if it weren’t for Lorna’s mad drink recipe, we might not’ve hooked up at all. I never would’ve had the courage to touch you sober.”

“Oh, that’d make a lovely public information film. ‘Hey, kids, got someone you fancy but too scared to say so? A wee dram will get your happy-ever-after, or at least a sloppy shag. So get it doon ye!’”

Brodie’s laugh faded into a dreamy smile. He pulled his left arm up to rest his head upon it, then used that hand to stroke Duncan’s hair. “Did you fancy me, then? Before Oblivionator?”

“Honestly?” Duncan paused, just to see relief replace the anxiety in Brodie’s eyes when he added, “Aye, I did.”

“Really?”

“I didn’t think you liked me, though. You hate football and you think athletes are stupid.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. I could tell by the way you talked to me in study group.”

Brodie frowned. “I’m sorry. If we’re being honest, then you’re right—I didn’t truly like you until this week. I didn’t know you were so clever, or so kind. I didn’t so much fancy you as want you.” His eyes narrowed. “I didn’t want to want you, because aye, I hate footballers, but I couldn’t stop picturing you naked. Worst of all, I pictured us naked together and imagined how inferior I would look next to you.”

“Inferior? Are you mad? You’re b—” The word stuck in his throat. It sounded too romantic, too extreme, too much .

“What, ‘bonnie’?” Brodie said sharply. “Like a wee lassie?”

He had to say it now. “No, you’re beautiful. Like a man.”

Brodie’s hand went still on Duncan’s head. He stared at him for a moment, then looked at the wall, blinking rapidly. “I’ve never heard that before. I’ve never really felt like a man.”

“You felt like a woman?”

Brodie shoved his shoulder. “No, ya tumshie. I feel like a boy. I’m eighteen and sometimes I still feel fourteen. Being a virgin doesn’t help.” He rubbed his nose. “By the way, I’m a virgin. Apparently I just admitted that.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Still, Duncan was curious. “What about you and your boyfriend?”

“Geoffrey? We did lots of things, but we never, you know.” Brodie smoothed a wrinkle in the red pillowcase between them. “I think Geoffrey believed that way he wouldn’t truly be gay. Hand jobs and blow jobs and all, that’s just mates having a bit of fun. A way to kill a Friday night in the most boring place on earth.”

“What about since you’ve come to Glasgow? You’ve not exactly been a priest your first year at uni.”

“True, I’ve had some good times.” Spots of pink appeared on Brodie’s cheeks. “I guess by now, I’ve decided to wait for the right loon—the right lad, I mean.”

“Don’t correct yourself. I like when you speak Doric.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. You don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not.”

“I know, but—it’s become a habit, fitting in to avoid mockery.”

“Story of our lives, aye?”

“Aye.” Brodie smiled, but then his lips turned soft and serious as his fingers tightened on Duncan’s hair. “Can we stop talking now?”