Page 8

Chapter 8

“Imagine this is your cock.”

“Okay.” Brodie threw a nervous glance about the noisy restaurant, then crooked a dark eyebrow at Duncan from across their table. “I wouldn’t be able to walk, were that the case, but I’m imagining.”

With his fingers looped around Brodie’s slim, bare forearm, Duncan slid his hand up and down as fast as he could.

“Ow!” Brodie pulled away. “Seriously?”

“Sorry.” Duncan wanted to give Brodie’s reddened skin a soothing caress. “But aye, that’s what a dry hand job’s like for a circumcised guy. No natural lubrication whatsoever. A few American lads I met had never seen an uncut prick up close and in person, much less knew what to do with one.”

“Mystified by the foreskin?”

“Mystified, intrigued—and in some cases, repulsed.” Duncan attempted a coy shrug. “But my Scottish accent helped.”

“I see. Roll a few R s and suddenly they can’t stop thinking about your tongue.”

“Pretty much.” Duncan sipped his Coke, reveling in Brodie’s laughter. It was a good sign—that and the fact Brodie was able to make the ten-minute walk down to Glasgow’s West End, where he’d insisted on taking Duncan for a real date to thank him for the meals he’d brought that week. They’d been lucky to get a snug at The Left Bank, which was pure crowded as usual on a Friday night. At least Brodie could rest better on his comfy couch-like seat than he could in a typical restaurant chair.

The server arrived with their food, cutting off the discussion. As Duncan spread a thick layer of chipotle mayo on his chickpea-and-sweet-potato burger, he said, “Be honest. Do I talk about America too much?”

“No, it’s fascinating.” Brodie lifted his own burger, the regular beef sort. “Where else could I possibly learn that they call lifts ‘elevators’? Oh wait—everywhere.”

“Sorry. I must sound a total prat.”

“It’s kind of adorable.” Brodie plucked a rosemary chip off Duncan’s plate and popped it into his own mouth. “Then again, we’ve just started dating, so everything we do is adorable.”

Duncan kicked him under the table. “Ya wee cynic.”

Brodie kicked him back. “Ya big romantic.”

Duncan reached down to grab his leg, then stopped, remembering they were in public. At least here the background music and chatter were loud enough they could say what they wanted without being outed. But they couldn’t do what they wanted.

As if reading his mind, Brodie straightened his posture and leaned back, diminishing their flirtatious vibe. “The LGBTQ group is having a dance party a week on Friday. Want to go with me?”

“Brilliant, yeah! I’ve got a match the next day, though, so I can’t stay out late. Sorry.” Duncan tensed, expecting to hear the usual frustration at his limited social life. It was hard for lads he dated to understand the sacrifices he made for the team.

But Brodie shrugged. “I haven’t exactly got a muckle puckle energy myself these days.”

Duncan grinned with relief, wondering why he’d been nervous about this date. Aside from a few awkward moments, it had so far been a belter. He decided to let himself relax, enjoy his food, and stop trying so hard to impress Brodie.

“I can’t wait for you to meet my mates in the LGBTQ group,” Brodie said. “Maybe you’ll think of joining?”

“Activism’s not my thing,” Duncan answered through a mouthful of burger.

“We’re more than that. Besides, you play for a gay football team, so you’re already an activist.”

“I help by setting an example, not by whingeing.” He stopped chewing when he heard his own words.

Brodie looked stunned. “What did you say?”

“Sorry.” Duncan wiped his mouth with his napkin, as if that would take back the insult. “I meant, not by campaigning.”

“Right,” Brodie said through gritted teeth. He stabbed his fork into one of the roasted potato wedges on his plate, so hard that the adjacent piece flew off the table and bounced across the polished hardwood floor.

Duncan laughed at the mishap, then covered his guffaw with a cough. So much for impressing him. “Erm, talking of football, do you think you might come to that match next weekend?” He put on his best puppy eyes, hoping to erase the memory of his insensitivity. “You promised.”

“I promised I’d come someday. When’s the next season start?”

“September, but—” Duncan cut himself off, too ashamed to tell Brodie he was in danger of being chucked from the Warriors. “It’s more fun near the end of the season, especially since we’ve a chance to win promotion to the Premier division.” That chance was diminishing. The Warriors needed to win all four remaining games, and the two teams ahead of them in the table had to lose or draw more often than not, which wasn’t likely. “My parents will be at that match, so you can meet them.”

“Meeting your parents?” The caution in Brodie’s eyes morphed into astonishment. “Isn’t that—I don’t know, rushing things?”

“It’s nae big deal. They know most of my friends. And you’re more than a friend.” He gave him a hopeful smile. “Right?”

Instead of answering, Brodie studied the butterfly-effect lantern above their table with a pensive gaze. “So they’re okay with your being, you know?—”

“What, gay?” Duncan snorted. “They’re more than okay with it. They see it as a business asset.”

“I don’t follow.”

“They own a home-decor shop in the Merchant City,” he said, referring to the Glasgow district famous for high-end retail and gay nightlife. “They’ve loads of LGBTQ customers, so they’re big fans of our ‘community.’”

“And this is a problem how?”

Duncan hesitated. He always felt awkward talking about his parents—not because they were terrible, but because they were fabulous, yet still his parents.

“I waited until I was sixteen to come out to them,” he told Brodie, “because I knew they’d throw a party. Which they did, literally. They showed me off to all their gay friends like I was some sort of prize, like I gave them street cred. ‘Look what we made. Now buy some dining chairs lest the wee poof starves to death.’”

Brodie’s lip curled. “Now who’s whingeing—about having supportive parents, of all things? Boys and girls kill themselves every day because they don’t have what you take for granted.”

Duncan sighed, wanting to explain but knowing that every word could make it worse. “I don’t take Mum and Dad for granted. I’m grateful for their support. But I want them to value me for who I am , not for what I represent.”

“How do you know they don’t?”

Duncan set down his burger, unable to swallow another bite. “Before I came out, they didn’t show much interest in me. They were so busy with the shop, they never came to my football matches or my school events. They forgot most of my birthdays, and when they did remember, their idea of celebration was to hand me a tenner so I could buy my own gift. Preferably something involving home decor.”

“Huh.” Brodie’s expression was inscrutable.

“But now that I’ve come out, I’m the apple of their fucking eyes.” Duncan stabbed his chips with his fork, spearing one atop the other. “I know I’ve got it good, parentwise. Some of my gay and trans friends have parents who beat them or chuck them into the street, or who ‘tolerate’ them but don’t look at them the same way anymore, or don’t look at them at all. When people tell me I won the gay-parent lottery, I say, ‘I know,’ because that’s exactly what it feels like. Like one day everything changed by pure luck, and one day—” He stared at the chips aligned on his fork tines. “One day, it could all change back, and they’ll be gone again.” He finally raised his eyes to look at Brodie. “Surely you hate me now.”

Brodie shook his head. “None of us has it easy. It’s just different sorts of difficult.”

Duncan smiled despite the tension, or maybe because of it. “So what’s your sort of difficult? Driving about on a Friday night with your secret boyfriend, listening to The Smiths’ ‘There Is a Light That Never Goes Out,’ reveling in the tragedy of it all?” At the sight of Brodie’s face, Duncan’s stomach sank. “Sorry. Again. I was kidding. Is that—is that really how it was?”

“It was.” Brodie’s eyes glittered with anger. “Forgive me for being an eighties gay cliché, since that’s the decade my village is stuck in. The 1880s, that is.”

“But you’re here now, and that’s what matters. You need never feel a second-class citizen again. One day when you’re ready, you can marry the man you love and raise children with him.” He spread his hands. “The great gay tragedy’s over, mate.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Then kiss me.” Brodie leaned forward. “Right here, right now, amongst all these straights. Then when we walk home up Great Western Road, take my hand and don’t let go.”

Duncan scanned the restaurant and saw nothing but typical West End clientele—young, hip, progressive folk. It was probably safe. “I’ll do it if you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to. Because we’re not in San Francisco or one of your Merchant City clubs. We’ve got even odds at best. But maybe you feel lucky.” Brodie reached into his pocket and pulled out a pound coin. “Heads, all these lovely hipsters smile at us. Tails, some drunken breets follow us home and kick our balls in. Ready?”

Brodie tossed the coin. Duncan snatched it out of the air and held it tight. “Okay. You’ve made your point.”

“Which is?”

“That we don’t have equality. Not yet. Not until we can show our feelings for each other in public—anywhere in public—without fear.”

Brodie nodded, his eyes hard as marble. “Now, that might not seem a tragedy to you, but it is to me. And that’s what we whingeing activists are trying to change.” He rose unsteadily to his feet, nearly knocking his head against the dangling lantern. “If our server pops by, please tell her I’m ready to pay the bill. I’m tired and want to go home.”

Duncan watched Brodie as he made his way toward the gents’, his head down and his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Then he reached across the table and opened his fist to place the pound coin next to Brodie’s phone so he would see it when he returned.

Lastly, Duncan flipped the coin over, showing heads.

* * *

“Straight to bed with you,” Duncan said as they shuffled toward their flat’s entry door. Brodie’s steps had grown so heavy, Duncan practically had to hold him up—not that he minded the excuse to put an arm around him in public. He was far from the only lad in Glasgow helping a mate stagger home on a Friday night.

They’d barely spoken since their row in the restaurant. Duncan hoped Brodie’s silence was from fatigue and not lingering resentment—or worse, second thoughts about the two of them.

Inside their flat, music was thumping from three open doors, including that of Shu-Fen’s room beside Brodie’s.

“We could sleep in mine tonight,” Duncan said. “My end of the hall’s quieter. Petra’s not back from vacation yet.”

“No.” Brodie let go of him. “I mean, yes, you should sleep there. I’ll sleep in my room.”

“But—”

“I’m shattered, and you’ve a match tomorrow. We’ll sleep better if we sleep apart. These beds aren’t made for two.”

“Okay.” He took Brodie’s hand. “I’ll see you after the match?”

Brodie nodded, then started to turn away. “G’night.”

“Hey.” Duncan stepped forward and kissed him. Brodie’s hand tightened on his for a moment, then let go as he pulled away.

“I knew it!”

They turned to see Shu-Fen stepping out of her room. She waved her plastic cup, sloshing a bright green liquid over the edge. “Duncan, I thought that was you I heard through the wall last night.” She stopped and put her hand to her cheek. “Oh God, please tell me it was you I heard through the wall last night.”

“It was.” Duncan’s face warmed, with pride more than embarrassment.

“Good. It’s about time you two got together.”

“Why?” Brodie said.

“Just look at you,” she scoffed as she pushed past them into the kitchen. “Fucking adorable.”

When she was out of earshot, Brodie said, “Why do straight lasses love to gay-matchmake?”

“How can they help it when we’re fucking adorable?” Duncan offered a cheesy wink-and-finger-point as he turned away. He decided to ignore Brodie’s grumbled protest of “We are not adorable.”

Later, lying under his own covers for the first time since Tuesday night, Duncan spread his legs wide, then rolled to his side, bending his knees to stretch his lower back. It was rather nice to have extra space again.

For about five minutes, that is. Then his arms felt empty, and doubt chilled his skin. Was he fooling himself, thinking he and Brodie could make this work? Brodie was so sensitive, and Duncan…well, he always seemed to say the wrong thing lately, or laugh at the worst times. To someone like Brodie, he must seem the world’s most callous bastard.

Maybe Brodie’s feelings for him this past week had been but a side effect of his virus, or an outgrowth of his gratitude. Maybe he’d been too ill and weak for rational thought. He only fancied me because he was sleep-deprived.

Mind spinning, Duncan fetched the paperback version of Fever Pitch from his shelf and returned to bed. He flipped to an arbitrary chapter, because no matter what was wrong or right in his life, here he could always find perspective. Some people drew comfort from randomly selected Bible verses; Duncan’s solace lay in Nick Hornby’s obsession with Arsenal Football Club.

The book opened to one of his favorite passages, the account of the 1979 FA Cup Final against the universally despised Manchester United. Nick’s lifelong dream at that point was to see Arsenal win the Cup at Wembley, so in typical fan fashion, he’d made a bargain with the universe: if Arsenal won, he would be okay with failing his final exams and with Margaret Thatcher becoming Prime Minister.

Arsenal went up by two goals, and bliss was within reach, but United scored twice within the final five minutes. Nick was slammed with an all-too-familiar grief. Fans behind him—grown men and women—were sobbing their faces off. It was literally the worst thing that had ever happened in the history of everything.

Then…Arsenal scored. Nick’s resigned sorrow turned to disbelieving joy. His dream had come true. His life was complete at the age of twenty-two.

Duncan shut the book and rested it on his chest, marking the page with his thumb. He knew well what happened next. Nick Hornby and Arsenal each descended into a decade-long depression, abandoned by girlfriends and midfielders, unable to correct their repeated mistakes.

Duncan felt himself on a similar precipice, as his emotions seemed to be slipping out of control since that fateful cup quarterfinal. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose the Warriors and Brodie. Maybe he’d lost them already.

A knock came at his door. He slapped the book onto his nightstand and scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping on the covers as hope leapt into his throat.

He opened the door to see Brodie in his Passenger T-shirt and plaid pajama trousers, clutching a pillow to his chest.

“I was thinking.” Brodie looked down at his own twitching toes. “Maybe we’re a wee bit adorable.”

* * *

Brodie stared at the ceiling, too tired to sleep. Beside him, Duncan sprawled on his stomach, one arm and one leg looped over Brodie’s body, his face the very portrait of peace.

The gap between the curtains let in enough streetlight for Brodie to study Duncan’s room. Its layout was identical to Brodie’s—bed to the left of the window, desk to the right, wardrobe at the foot of the bed, sink beside the armchair facing the door—but that’s where the similarity ended. Where Brodie’s posters featured musicians or artwork, Duncan’s had sweaty men in football shirts bearing the names of corporations. The majority wore red and white stripes, matching the duvet Brodie lay under now. Must be Duncan’s favorite team , he thought, but couldn’t remember which that was. Newcastle, perhaps?

He switched on his phone to get a bit more light. In violation of student-housing rules, Duncan had taped a poster to the side of his wardrobe facing the bed. It bore images of a man who was preternaturally handsome and apparently very good at kicking a ball into a net. In one picture he was conveniently soaking wet, every ab muscle evident through the translucent white shirt. Another picture showed him celebrating with his top off, flexing his pecs and screaming at the crowd.

Brodie closed his eyes, but it was too late to avoid the flash of memory: a ring of boys in muddy white football shirts cornering him in the alley behind the village bait shop. Shoving him to his knees ( “Your favorite place to be!” ). Waving their pricks in his face ( “Fair hungry now?” ). Giving him a clout on the head every time he closed his eyes or looked away ( “Dinna be shy, min!” ). Force-feeding him lugworms until he spewed.

And always, in the background, the North Sea’s waves kept rolling, and the gulls kept laughing.

He turned his head to look at Duncan, hoping his face would keep those memories at bay. Soft breath whistled quietly through that perfect, turned-up nose, the one that crinkled when he was trying not to laugh.

Duncan couldn’t be like the footballers Brodie had known in school. While he wasn’t exactly leading a gay-pride parade, he was out and proud with the Warriors. He fought the sport’s rampant homophobia every day. He was making a difference.

So why did Brodie still feel so distant from him at times? Why couldn’t he tell Duncan about his mother’s rejection? Had he sensed Duncan couldn’t understand what it was like to be condemned by one’s own flesh and blood? That hunch had certainly been confirmed at dinner tonight. They were from different worlds.

Brodie placed his phone back on Duncan’s improvised bedside table (a storage crate topped by a red-and-white chessboard). His hand brushed a book lying open face down: Fever Pitch , Duncan’s favorite tale of obsession.

“Haven’t you ever loved far past the point of sanity?” he’d asked. The thought terrified Brodie. If he had let himself love Geoffrey, he never would have survived his daily disloyalty. The only way to keep his heart safe was to expect nothing from men, give nothing to them.

A tap on his calf drew his attention back to the sleeping Duncan, whose feet twitched beneath the covers. Was he dreaming of a heroic sprint down the pitch, ending with a final kick past the outstretched arms of a goalkeeper? What sorts of thoughts filled that bold, carefree mind?

Brodie carefully slid out from under Duncan’s arm and leg. With a faint mumble, Duncan rolled away, still asleep. Brodie picked up the book and crossed to the armchair beside the desk. He tilted the desk lamp away from the bed before switching it on.

Then he opened the book to the page Duncan had been reading. Perhaps these words could help him solve the puzzle of this allegedly beautiful game, and this definitively beautiful boy.