Page 9

Chapter 9

“Will there still be tickets available?” Brodie asked Lorna as they approached the East End park where Duncan’s match was soon to begin.

Lorna and Paul found this question hilarious.

“This is amateur football, mate,” Paul said. “Nae tickets. Nae seats either, usually, but at least this park’s got the terraces.” He pointed to the rows of long, mossy, concrete steps, most of which were sheltered by a roof with peeling white paint.

“Is this your first match, Brodie?” Lorna asked as they went round the back of the stands to the entrance. “Are you a football virgin?”

“Please don’t use those two words together.” Brodie shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets to hide their trembling. His skin felt thin today, perhaps due to the damp wind or the lingering virus—or maybe because of his nerves.

Reading Fever Pitch last night had left him more puzzled than ever. But he reckoned the best way to understand Duncan’s great passion was to overcome his own football phobia and put himself in the thick of it. If nothing else, he’d show Duncan he was trying to bridge the gap between them.

“Oh.” Brodie stopped in his tracks. “There they are.”

Not fifty feet away, the Warriors and their opponents were warming up on the pitch’s patchy grass. It took only a moment to pick out Duncan in the row of high-stepping footballers in pale-blue shirts.

Lorna tugged his right arm. “This way.”

“Why not sit here in the middle?”

“It’s an away game for Warriors,” Paul said, “so their supporters sit at the end. The section with no roof, of course.”

“How do you know which—ah.” Brodie gaped up at the score of fans who provided a welcome blare of color against the drab background of concrete and clouds. A few waved rainbow flags, one loon wore a rainbow clown wig, and one quine flourished a stuffed version of My Little Pony ’s Rainbow Dash on a stick. “I assume that’s the Rainbow Regiment?”

“The one and only.” Lorna unzipped her hoodie to reveal a rainbow tie-dyed shirt. “Ooh, they’ve finished warmups.” She dragged Brodie to the rope fence separating the stands from the pitch. “Harris, ya wee knob! We brought a surprise!”

Duncan looked over from where he stood talking to a tall, lean, ginger-haired man in a Warriors kit. At the sight of Brodie, Duncan’s face brightened with his signature broad smile. He abandoned his teammate and darted over to the fence.

“What are you doing out of bed?” he asked, still grinning. “Lorna, was this your idea?”

“It was Brodie’s,” she said. “He didn’t want to tell you earlier in case he changed his mind at the last minute out of fear.”

“Out of tiredness, you mean.” Brodie glared at her.

“You do look pale,” Duncan told him.

Brodie shrugged. “I was born pale.”

“Harris, let’s go!” the ginger teammate shouted. Even from this distance, Brodie noticed a desolate quality about the man. His shoulders hung heavy, and his mouth looked permanently etched into a grimace.

“That must be Fergus,” he said.

Duncan nodded. “I gotta dash. But I’m happy you’re here.” Blue eyes gleaming, he placed his hands beside Brodie’s atop the fence. “Really happy.”

Swept up in the emotion and the swell of support around him, Brodie leaned forward, just an inch. Duncan did the same. They hesitated, moved a little closer, paused again.

Then they kissed. It wasn’t long or passionate, but its very existence lit up every dark corner inside Brodie, lit him up with the hope and pride denied to him for so long. The kiss silenced the voices that said he couldn’t feel this way about another boy—or if he did, that those feelings must be forever hidden behind closed doors.

That one kiss cleansed him of a lifetime’s shame.

When it was over, Duncan squeezed Brodie’s hand. “Now we’re sure to win.” With a wink and a smile, he turned away to join his team.

Brodie stared after him until Lorna waved her hand in front of his eyes. “Earth to Campbell. Come in, Campbell.”

He blinked at her. “Sorry, I’m just…”

“Catatonic?”

“I’ve never been kissed in public before.”

Lorna’s smile turned sad, then happy again. “Get used to it.”

He glanced around, his apprehension returning. “Did anyone see us?”

“No, just everyone.” She put her arm around his waist and steered him to sit on the terraces’ front row with her and Paul. “I think a few of the Rainbow Regiment lads are pure jealous.”

He looked over his shoulder to see nothing but smiles and thumbs-up. The two guys behind him, wearing matching rainbow-tartan kilts, offered him a handshake and a fist bump. The word “adorable” reached his ears, making them burn with the best sort of embarrassment.

As the players spread across the pitch for the start of the match, Brodie let himself relax a little. Maybe this wouldn’t, in Duncan’s words, pure suck.

* * *

Duncan’s sunny mood darkened two seconds after they lined up for kickoff.

“We win today and youse lose your chance at promotion,” the Shettleston Star’s obnoxious center-back called to Duncan across the midline. “Can’t wait to see your wee pansy faces covered in tears.” He mimed rubbing his eyes, shaking his mass of dark curls in mock sorrow.

“Shut it, McCurdy,” shouted the Shettleston captain. “You trying to motivate them?” He turned back to Duncan. “Sorry about him, mate.”

“Nae bother,” Duncan lied. Evan and Fergus had taught the Warriors how to tune out the sly taunts from opponents and their fans. Before the Cup quarterfinal, Duncan had always responded in the best way possible, by scoring goals. But these last two weeks he’d responded in the worst way possible, by fouling his opponents until he got a yellow card.

Today he’d control his temper no matter what.

As play began, McCurdy dogged his every step, and Duncan realized with dismay that Shettleston’s biggest dickhead had been assigned to mark him in man-to-man coverage. There’d be no escaping the shaggy brute or his vile words—words that came pouring out whenever Duncan was in earshot and the referee was not.

But Duncan kept moving, tracking his teammates, shifting around the defenders to provide a target for one of his midfielders’ killer passes.

“How about a side bet?” McCurdy said, following him across the midline as Shettleston went on the attack. “We win, you have to suck my cock. You win, you get to suck my cock.”

“Sounds like I lose no matter what,” Duncan replied, hoping to distract McCurdy. Guys like him always went off their heads when they got a taste of their own banter.

The Star attack was losing momentum as their passing grew sloppier. Duncan went on full alert. Any moment now, the Warriors would create a turnover and a chance for a counterattack. Their wide midfielder Shona Redfield was deceptively fast—and as a woman, usually underestimated.

“That’s your boyfriend over there, aye?” McCurdy murmured over Duncan’s shoulder. “The yin whose throat you put your tongue down?”

Duncan’s steps slowed—only a bit, but enough that the defender caught his reaction.

“Aye, I saw youse kissing,” he added. “Everyone saw. Fuckin’ disgusting, so it is.”

Duncan’s hands clenched, but before he could smash McCurdy’s face, he saw Shona intercept the ball.

Showtime.

“There ought to be a law against?—”

McCurdy’s voice faded as Duncan pivoted, sprang into a full sprint, and left him in the dust. Shona sent a beautiful pass straight to Duncan’s strong foot, then shot ahead in an overlapping run to receive Duncan’s pass near the edge of the Shettleston penalty area. The rest of the Warriors midfielders joined them, and with Colin on the far side, the six of them spread the Star defense with a series of rapid, precise passes.

When Colin sailed in a high, clear cross, Duncan surged forward, muscling aside both center-backs—including McCurdy—and headed the shot past the near post. His foot slipped on the wet grass, but before he hit the ground, he saw the ball bounce off the back of the net.

Roaring in triumph, Duncan rolled to his knees and raised his arms. Before he could take another breath, Colin was upon him.

“YAAAAAAAASSSS!” Colin dragged Duncan to his feet. “Our first goal in three weeks. Ya beauty!”

Shona crashed into them, shouting Duncan’s name. The other Warriors joined the jostling group hug. When they finally dispersed, he stumbled away in a daze, only to see Fergus standing to the side, hands on his hips, looking tired and alone. He met Duncan’s eyes, then offered a faint grimace and a brief thumbs-up. Duncan looked away without acknowledging the feeble gesture.

Trotting back to the center of the pitch for the kickoff, Duncan saw Brodie leaping up and down with Lorna and Paul. Behind them, rainbow flags waved, providing the perfect background of joy and pride. Duncan waved at them, then on impulse, blew Brodie a kiss. The Rainbow Regiment cheered louder.

As well they should, he thought. Warriors had their mojo back.

* * *

“This is dead brilliant!” Brodie sat beside Lorna again after they’d hugged and high-fived the entire Rainbow Regiment. “Why’d you never tell me how amazing this feels?”

“You’d never have believed us,” she said. “Also, it’s not usually this good. Football tends to be long stretches of misery dotted with moments of ecstasy.”

“Kinda like life,” Paul added.

Brodie laughed, his cheeks sore from smiling. From where he’d stood, it seemed Duncan had been in complete control as that scoring play evolved, like he’d anticipated every pass and every run. He’d slithered between those huge defenders—who must have each had five inches and fifty pounds on him—and left them looking small and powerless.

After all these years of hating football, Brodie finally got it .

He watched as Duncan streaked down the pitch to receive another long pass. “He’s so quick, it’s blinding.”

“Aye, he’s got great pace,” Paul said. “Fantastic ball-handling skills, too.”

Lorna tittered. “I’m sure Brodie’s well aware of that by now.”

“Wheesht!” Brodie bumped his shoulder against hers, his face flaming. “We’re in public.”

“A friendly public. Okay, Paul, if you can explain ‘ball-handling skills’ with a straight face, I’ll buy two rounds after the match.”

Somehow Paul managed to discuss such topics as “dribbling,” “receiving,” and “trapping” without joining Lorna and Brodie’s cackles.

“Could you explain ‘first touch’ again?” Brodie said. “I didn’t quite follow?—”

His laughter died on his lips as he saw Duncan spin to face one of his opponents, fists clenched. Then Duncan stopped himself and focused on the flow of the game again. But his posture was stiffer than before, and he’d lost the easy grace that had marked his first twenty minutes of play.

“Something’s wrong,” Brodie said. “That player, number five, with the mad hair? He said something to Duncan.”

“Winding him up,” Paul said, “because he knows Duncan got booked in his last two matches.” He turned back to the pitch and shouted, “C’mon, Harris, keep the head!”

The ball shot across Brodie’s field of view, straight toward Duncan. It took an awkward ricochet off his torso, and by the time he got it under control, number five was bearing down on him. Duncan flubbed the pass to Fergus, his foot scuffing the ground before it struck the ball, which bounced weakly to the side. One of the Shettleston players seized it, and before the Warriors could recover to defend, the ball was in the net.

The score was even. Duncan had fallen from hero to bungler in a matter of minutes. Brodie’s chest felt suddenly full of lead.

“Took his eye off the ball,” Paul said with a sigh. “Shame, because he was in wide-open space. If he’d held onto it, Warriors might’ve scored again.”

“Brodie, I think you’re right.” Lorna pointed her undeployed purple umbrella at number five. “That yin’s got inside our Duncan’s head.”

As if he’d heard her, the Shettleston player in question turned in their direction, setting his eyes on Brodie. Then he grinned, wide and slow.

Brodie’s skin crawled. He knew that look all too well. It was the look of a predator who smelled weakness. And right now, Duncan’s weakness was Brodie himself.