Play On: A Glasgow Lads Novella (18 page)

Out on the pitch, a whistle blew to signal the end of warmups.

Duncan let go of Brodie, sweeping a kiss over his cheek as they parted. “C’mon, let’s go watch Warriors kick some meaningless arse.”

They sat close together within the loving fold of the Rainbow Regiment, who cheered at the sight of them. One of the Regiment lads presented Brodie with the rainbow tartan kilt he’d apparently ordered a few weeks before.

Then Duncan’s parents arrived, with a warm greeting for Brodie, who still seemed overwhelmed at their unquestioning acceptance. Fergus came too, with a few mates from his architectural firm, who seemed similarly overwhelmed by the Regiment’s raucousness.

“You think your manager will agree to do the charity match?” Brodie asked Duncan as the teams lined up for the kickoff.

“I think she’ll love it. Fergus might take more convincing. He thinks we’ve had enough drama for one year.”

“Perhaps John could make the sales pitch. He’s quite the force of nature.”

“I got that impression.” He tugged the hem of the kilt in Brodie’s lap. “Gonnae put that on for me?”

“It’s not proper fitted yet. I’ll wait until next season to wear it.” Brodie gave him a wicked smile. “Publicly, at least.”

At the thought of a naked-but-for-his-kilt Brodie, every nerve in Duncan’s skin went on full, happy alert. “Shall I get one too?”

Brodie’s eyelids went heavy with desire as he gazed at Duncan’s mouth. “I think that would be…” He paused, searching for the words. “Affa fine.”

The whistle blew, and the game began. On the pitch, the Warriors took control of the ball, playing for nothing but pride. But when all was said and done, Duncan knew, pride was the only thing that mattered.

Thanks for reading!

I hope you enjoyed Duncan and Brodie’s story. Fergus and John’s full-length novel,
Playing for Keeps
, is now available.
Pick up your copy here
.

If you enjoyed this book, please consider introducing the Lads to your friends—online, offline, or anywhere in between. Thanks.

• Review Play On on Amazon
  
• Review Play On on Goodreads
  

Want more Warriors all to yourself? How about exclusive bonus material, including early sneak peeks at Colin’s novel,
Playing to Win
, weeks before its September release? Then sign up for my mailing list at
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You’ll receive loads of Glasgow Lads stuff found nowhere else in the world—deleted scenes, author commentary, development diaries, and more. It’s like having a wee window into my brain (there’s loads of empty space in there to make yourself comfortable).

You might even learn a few Scots curse words, which could be pure dead useful one day.

Glasgow Lads Series

More Warriors are on the way! Each stand-alone novel features a new couple, with prominent appearances by other characters we’ve come to know.

• Play On
  (novella), May 2015
  
• Playing for Keeps
  , June 2015
  
• Playing to Win
  , September 2015, now available for preorder
  
• Play It Safe (short story), November 2015
  
• Playing with Fire, January 2016
  

…and more to come after that!

I can’t wait to share all the Lads’ stories with you. Sign up for my mailing list at
www.averycockburn.com/signup/
to be the first to know about new releases, as well as receive exclusive bonus material and even free books.

About the Author

Avery Cockburn (rhymes with Savory Slow Churn—mmmm, ice cream…) lives in the US with one infinitely patient man and two infinitely impatient cats.

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www.averycockburn.com

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.

“R
ULE
O
NE
: N
O
drama!”

Fergus Taylor felt a rush like no other as his football teammates shouted the last two words with him. They gathered close as one body, hands stretching toward the center of their circle.

“Rule Two,” he began, and together they all yelled, “Play faster!”

Fergus inhaled the heady mixture of skin, grass, and mud, all baking under an unusually bright Scottish sun. A beautiful day for the Beautiful Game.

“Rule Three: Hunt rebounds!”

Pulse pounding, he clutched the round leather ball to his hip so hard he thought it would burst.

“Rule Four: Check your shoulder!”

The players’ voices overflowed with trust in their newly elected captain. Which, incredibly, was Fergus.

They clustered in, holding tight, releasing the final collective shout. “Rule Five: NO DRAMA!” Their fists shot together toward the cloudless sky.

Then Fergus stepped back, watching his teammates greet one another, exchanging hugs and high fives as if it had been two years instead of two weeks since they’d last practiced. Maybe it was the weather imparting a feeling of newness. Only an hour before, a ten-day spell of rain had finally ended, leaving the pitch beneath their feet and the mountains to their north a bright pistachio green.

The players lined up side by side facing Fergus, looking like a mural painted to show Glasgow’s diversity of races, genders, and orientations. The Woodstoun Warriors Amateur Football Club’s eleven starters and twelve substitutes also varied greatly in size, skills, and experience. They had but one thing in common: a completely insane amount of pride.

They needed it, after the way last season had ended.

Now that the inspirational bits were over, it was time to get to work. “All right, mates,” Fergus said. “Charlotte asked me to run a training exercise while she does some club business.” As he described their manager’s new drill, Fergus tossed the ball between his hands, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. His players seemed to be watching him closely for lingering symptoms of heartbreak. It was best for everyone if Fergus pretended he was fine.

For the exercise, he divided the Warriors into smaller groups, leaving out one of their forwards, Colin MacDuff. “Come with me,” he told Colin. “I need your insights.”

“Ooh!” Colin scampered after Fergus to the side of the pitch, leaving the others behind. “Does that mean I’m to be vice-captain?”

“No, I need you to be something more important.”

“A mascot! I’ll paint my face like Braveheart and go screaming up and down the pitch during matches.” He demonstrated with bulging eyes and protruding tongue, waving his tattooed arms until the black ink blurred with his pale skin. “Aye? Put the frighteners on our opponents.”

Fergus humored him with a smile. At eighteen, Colin was the Warriors’ youngest player and most prolific scorer. But it was his manic energy that Fergus valued most. There’d been days when the forward’s antics were all that salvaged the team’s spirits. “I appreciate the offer, but you’ll scare our opponents better as our new playmaker.”

Colin’s face fell slack as he gaped up at Fergus. “I’m to take…
his
place? You’re making me the attacking midfielder?”

“Technically, Charlotte’s making you attacking midfielder.”

“Yaaaaas!” Colin punched the air and spun around, then grabbed at his mass of spiky black hair. “Wait, why am I standing here? Shouldn’t I be out there practicing my new position?”

“If you’re to control the flow of our offense, you need to see what we’ve got. Learn our players’ strengths and weaknesses.” Fergus blew the whistle to begin the drill.

He and Colin watched in worried silence. Their teammates’ focus was still in the shambles left by their former captain. It made Fergus extra grateful that they’d been willing—eager, in fact—to begin preseason training in early June, a month sooner than usual. Several had just finished university exams and would have loved a few weeks’ holiday. But they’d returned. For him.

The best way to repay their devotion was to make them champions.

“I know you telt me to watch the players,” Colin said, “but who’s that lad with Charlotte?”

Fergus shaded his eyes and peered across the pitch to see their manager standing near the bench, chatting to a boy barely taller than herself. “Must be that first-year from the Glasgow Uni LGBT group. They want us to play a friendly preseason match for charity.”

“Oh, aye, Duncan mentioned it.” Colin gestured to the Warriors’ striker, who had just paused to wave to their visitor. “His boyfriend is pals with this guy. So what’s the charity?”

“New Shores. They help asylum seekers who were persecuted in their home countries for being gay. But I’m not sure we should play the match.”

“Fuck’s sake, why not? It’s a good cause, and it’d be good practice. God knows we need it after losing—”

Fergus blew the whistle before Colin could utter the name. “Start again, mates, and this time, faster! I want to see one touch
only
before you pass!” Then he told Colin, “I’m worried this charity match could turn us into a spectacle.”
Again.

Colin snorted. “Our team’s made up of poofs, dykes, and trannies.”

“Plus Robert,” Fergus added, having long ago given up correcting Colin’s insensitive terminology.

“Plus Robert. My point is, we’re already a spectacle.”

“We’re not the only gay football club in Scotland.”

“We’re the only one with lasses—and lads who used to be lasses, and vice versa—and the only one playing in a straight league.” Colin shifted from foot to foot, discharging excess energy. “There’s naebody like us, so why not get some fuckin’ exposure and make the world a better fuckin’ place and all?”

Fergus suppressed a shudder at the word
exposure
. After recent events, it was the last thing he wanted, the last thing the team needed. “I’m sure that’s what that eager wee pup over there will say.” He shaded his eyes again to peer at their visitor. Wearing a white Oxford shirt with a dark tie and trousers, the lad looked out of place on this tattered pitch. Yet he held himself with an animated ease and confidence, as if to say,
I belong anywhere I want to be
. A smooth talker, for certain.

Colin elbowed Fergus’s side. “Charlotte wants you, ya blind bastard.”

Sure enough, their manager was waving at him. And the boy next to her had caught him staring.

As he jogged across the pitch to join them, Fergus realized: this was no boy. The stranger’s chest and shoulders were thick and broad, and the challenge in his dark gaze—combined with the disarming smile he unleashed as Fergus approached—were 100 percent grown man.

“Hiya,” he said, holding out a hand to shake. “I’m John Burns.”

That voice—deep and solid, yet strangely buoyant—made a dormant part of Fergus awaken and uncoil. His steps slowed as he concentrated on not stumbling.

“John. Yes.”
What does that mean? “Yes” what?
“Thanks for coming. Coming to the practice session, that is.” Dismayed at how this lad had already rattled him, Fergus stopped several feet away.

“Nae bother,” John said with a smirk.

“Sorry, I’d shake your hand, but I’m all sweaty.” Fergus put his hands behind his back to hide their dryness.

Charlotte gave him a
what-the-fuck?
look, then cleared her throat. “I’ll run the next drill while youse two discuss the charity match. Fergus, I’m up for it if you are.” She put her whistle in her mouth, then took it out again. “Oh, before I forget.”

From her pocket she produced a clear plastic bag. Fergus’s heart stuttered when he saw the strip of dark cloth within.

“Normally you’d wear it only during a match.” Charlotte pulled the captain’s armband from the bag and gave it to him. “But I think it’d mean a lot to your players if you wore it today.”

My
players. Not his. None of us is his now.
Fergus rubbed the rough black material between his thumb and forefinger. He remembered the times Evan had come to bed wearing nothing but the armband. How it had looked against his perpetually tanned skin. How it had felt under Fergus’s palm as they’d kissed and clutched and fucked.

The manager’s whistle snapped Fergus back to the present. He looked at John, worried he’d been caught out daydreaming, but their guest had already turned away to watch the players.

Fergus braced himself for a sales pitch. John would tell him what a brilliant opportunity the charity match was for his team, how they’d gain new supporters while helping those in need. He’d gloss over the bit where the Warriors would be put on display like circus animals.

Instead John kept his eyes on the field and said, “Tell me about your team, Fergus.”

This guy was good. By feigning interest in the Warriors, he’d gather information he could use to manipulate Fergus into agreeing to the match. It didn’t hurt that the sound of his own name rolling off John’s tongue had made Fergus’s jock strap feel suddenly tight.

He cleared his throat. “Right. Warriors belong to the Scottish Amateur Football Association. They were formed in 2005 by—”

“I know all that. Tell me about the players.” Lifting his chin, John tugged his maroon-and-blue-paisley tie to loosen the knot. “And yourself,” he added with a sideways glance as he undid his shirt’s top button.

Fergus rubbed the side of his neck, which had grown suddenly warm. He couldn’t assume John was gay; those LGBT organizations were full of straight allies. Gay or straight, John wouldn’t be above flirting to get Fergus’s cooperation.

“So, erm, I’m the captain and usually play deep midfield—that’s the part closest to the defense,” he added, unsure how much John knew about football. “Colin, the one standing on the far touchline, he’s our new attacking midfielder—what some call a ‘playmaker’ or ‘number ten.’”