Playing to Win (35 page)

“Motive? What motive?”

“Political motives, because you’re a Yesser. Just like the arseholes who’ve been harassing me online.”

“Fuck.” Colin started down Maryhill Road toward the park where the Warriors’ first league match of the new season would start in an hour. He’d been looking forward to this day for months.

But now that Andrew had sent him a pic of the gruesome Bystander page, all Colin wanted was to hop on a train to London to be by his side.

“So who could be doing this ‘fascist faggot’ stuff?” he asked Andrew as he stepped into the bike lane to avoid a clump of Yes campaigners blocking the pavement. “It has to be someone who’s been in your flat while you were out or asleep, not just someone who knows your address.”

“That’s a pretty short list—only a few close mates, plus the lady who feeds my fish. Then there’s my family, of course, and Timothy, and you. Obviously Reggie—”

“Wait. Timothy? The stableboy?”

“Stablemaster. He and I, we were—” Andrew stopped himself. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

Colin felt his head turn hot, and not just from the sun beating down on it. “Who ended it, you or him?”

“It was mutual.” Andrew paused. “I suppose I ended it. Not officially, I just…didn’t invite him back.”

Andrew didn’t need to add that Timothy couldn’t invite
himself
back, due to the difference in their “stations.”

“It wasn’t a thing,” Andrew continued. “I mean, yes, it was a thing, but not a
thing
-thing.” He sighed. “We weren’t like you and I, not ever.”

Colin forced his feet to keep moving, resisting the urge to kick every piece of rubbish on the pavement. “Why didn’t you mention him the night of the rock? He wasn’t on the list we made of people with a grudge against you.”

Andrew hesitated. “I didn’t want you to know about him. I thought it might give fuel to your theory that I’ve a penchant for—that I use money to take advantage of men who—” He cut himself off again, clearly floundering.

Colin took mercy on him. “Nae worries about that now, okay?”

“Okay.” Andrew took a deep breath. “I know it seems wrong to be involved with a staff member, someone who was under my power. But I don’t regret it and I don’t apologize for it. Timothy gave me a safe place to be myself when I was younger. Without him, I don’t know how I would’ve survived.”

“I get it.” Colin switched his kit bag and phone to his right side so he could drift his left hand over the metal fence surrounding Firhill Complex—a silly ritual he always did for luck. “It’s good you had someone you could trust back then.”

Andrew gave a grateful sigh that made Colin want to climb through the phone line to feel his breath. “Thanks for understanding.”

Colin forced his mind back to the mystery at hand. Something Andrew had mentioned was nagging at him. “You said your family’s been to your flat. Would one of them do it?” He remembered the way the Sunderlands had looked at him Wednesday night. “To turn you against me?”

“I don’t know. At this point I wouldn’t put anything past my brother.”

Colin stepped onto the empty football pitch and waved to Charlotte and Fergus, who were standing near the touchline. “Andrew, I gotta go, but please, gonnae be careful down there, okay? Phone me tonight when you’re home safe. I don’t care how late it is.”

“I will. Have a good game. I’ll be following John’s tweets to see how you do.”

“Shall I score a goal for you?”

“I’d love that.” Andrew’s voice had regained its signature purr. “Make one a header and I’ll see you’re appropriately rewarded upon my return.”

Colin marveled at how quickly Andrew’s thoughts could turn from personal security to sex. If only his own thoughts could follow.

They said goodbye, and Colin forced a brave smile as Fergus approached. “Oi, skipper! Big opening day.”

“Glad you’re here for it, mate.” The tall ginger captain gave him a back-slapping hug. “How’s the knee?”

“Amazing.” Reviving his role as team clown, Colin did a goofy jig to demonstrate. “Nice to finally get that fucking brace off.”

“Here’s hoping you’ll trade one brace for another today.” When Colin squinted at him, Fergus said, “Get it? A ‘brace’ as in scoring two goals in one game?”

“Och, right. Spend all night thinking that one up, did you?”

“I swear it sounded funnier in my head.” Fergus examined Colin with that surrogate-big-brother look. “You all right? Something on your mind?”

“Just—you know, indyref stuff.”

“The whole team’s on edge,” Fergus said. “I might have to dust off my unity speech.”

Colin nodded. The Warriors’ last training session had degenerated into political bickering after Robert had celebrated a goal by tearing off his practice jersey to reveal a Yes Scotland T-shirt underneath. He claimed he’d forgotten he was still wearing it after his and Colin’s canvassing shift, but no one believed him.

So Charlotte, whose feelings on independence were still a mystery—which probably meant she planned to vote No—had forbidden further political displays. She’d even asked their fan club, the Rainbow Regiment, not to unfurl any indyref banners at Warriors matches.

“You think it’ll hurt our play today?” Colin asked Fergus.

“Maybe, but our opponents will be in the same state. Everyone in Scotland’s a mess just now.” His gaze went distant, out over the edge of the park. “It’s like the air tastes different these days, you know?”

“Aye, it tastes bitter. But in kind of a good way. Like that pure quality beer you had at your housewarming.”

Fergus smiled. “The black IPA? I’ll see to it we’ve got some for our indyref party Thursday night.”

Colin’s stomach did a quick, tight tumble at the words
Thursday night
. Now that independence could actually happen, the thought of losing was starting to terrify him. Thursday night felt like the end of one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books he loved as a kid. One page held a hard-fought triumph; the other page, certain death at the hands of the ant people/evil power master/zombie pen pal.

But Colin wasn’t the only one with his hands on the book. Someone else was turning the pages.

Through the park gate, more Warriors were arriving, clad in their violet-and-white-striped shirts and black shorts. With one deep breath, Colin slammed shut the steel doors inside his mind, blocking all non-football problems, a skill he’d unfortunately had many opportunities to hone.

It was time to play.

= = =

Though Colin wasn’t in today’s starting eleven—which he’d expected—Charlotte promised to send him in later as a substitute. “Unless you moan and whinge at me,” she said, “in which case you might as well glue your arse to that bench.”

He didn’t mind being a substitute. He’d rather finish the game than start it, and he knew his knee wouldn’t last ninety-plus minutes yet. Besides, this way he could evaluate both teams’ strengths and weaknesses from the outside.

Barrowfield AFC had just been promoted into the second division from the third, which meant they should have sucked. Instead, they seemed determined to prove they belonged here, playing with offensive passion and defensive discipline. Meanwhile the Warriors had only managed two shots, neither of them on target.

“Why won’t Evan pass to Shona?” Colin asked Charlotte, mirroring her frown and folded arms as they observed the play from the bench. “He dicks around out there until Duncan is open, and half the time the ball gets stolen or he’s suffocated along the edge.”

“He says she’s slow.”

“Shona’s proper fast, just not compared to Duncan. But neither am I.”

“You and her both make up for it by being clever. I’ll take deviousness over speed any day.”

Colin smiled inside. He loved confusing defenders with decoy runs or “pre-fakes,” making them think he was going one way with his feet or with a pass, then doing the opposite. Best of all was playing a long con, letting defenders think they’d worked out his pattern, then surprising them when he found a chance to score.

The crowd behind them began singing the Warriors’ version of “Football Crazy,” made famous by their viral video promoting July’s charity friendly match. Colin turned to see the bleachers crammed out with fans waving rainbow flags and banners. In the front row, six guys were each covered head to toe in one color of the rainbow, including painted faces and puffy clown wigs.

As each Warrior took control of the ball on the pitch, the Rainbow Regiment shouted his or her name. Even the new fans knew all the Warriors, thanks to the team’s revamped website, which featured players’ photos and essential stats such as favorite night clubs, how they liked their eggs cooked, and which celebrity they’d most love to “turn.”

At the center of the Rainbow Regiment sat Fergus’s boyfriend, John, right next to Duncan’s boyfriend, Brodie. Seeing them made Colin wish more than ever that Andrew were here—not just to hear his voice, but to know he was safe. The image of that marked-up magazine, with its blood-red slash across Andrew’s throat, was still etched upon Colin’s mind.

A collective shout from the crowd snapped Colin’s attention back to the pitch, where Evan had face-planted, a Barrowfield winger streaking away with the ball. Evan rolled to his knees and spread his arms to beg for a foul, but the referee ran past, shaking his head.

“Stop whingeing and get back to defend,” Colin murmured under his breath, even as Charlotte yelled something to the same effect.

By the time Evan got to his feet, Barrowfield’s three forwards were relaying the ball outside the Warriors’ penalty area. But center-backs Robert and Liam, together with Fergus in deep midfield in front of them, quickly shut down the attack.

Thank God something’s still working.
Those three players, along with their goalkeeper, Heather, formed the Warriors’ rock-solid spine.

Halftime arrived, and the starting players trudged back to the bench, faces twisted with frustration.

“I’m making an offensive change,” Charlotte said once they’d all gathered round, water bottles in hand. “MacDuff’s coming in for the second half.”

Everyone nodded excitedly, Katie and Duncan giving Colin the thumbs-up signal.

“Hollister, you’re coming off.” Charlotte held up a hand to silence Evan’s protest. “We’re switching to a 4-3-3 formation to solidify our attack, so we need one fewer midfielder.”

“But I’m your
best
midfielder!” Evan said, right in front of all the others, the prick.

“Your selfish play would indicate otherwise,” Charlotte replied. “You keep waiting and waiting to make that mythical perfect pass to Harris. A pass that poets will pen sonnets about. Meanwhile, you’ve got Redfield making herself wide open.”

Duncan spoke up. “If we’re playing 4-3-3, who’s the center forward? Me, right?”

“For now it’s MacDuff,” Charlotte said. “Putting him upfield as a lone striker means he’ll cover less ground. We need his goals, but I also need to keep his running distance to a minimum, especially on artificial turf.”

Duncan nodded reluctantly, eyeing Colin’s knee. “Okay. That makes sense.”

Colin frowned. This assignment had come because of his injury, not his talents. But he’d prove today that his leg was brand new, and then he’d have any position he wanted. Including Evan’s.

Charlotte nodded to Colin. “Start warming up.”

He gave a quick salute, then jogged down the touchline alone, happy to leave the arguing behind. Cheers rose from the spectators as they realized he was to be subbed in.

Colin kept his eyes on the turf beneath his feet as he mentally reviewed Barrowfield’s strengths and weaknesses—which center-backs committed too early to tackles, which fullbacks hesitated to come inside, which midfielders seemed on the verge of heat exhaustion…

He was going to be the difference. Again. More than mere football was at stake. The hopes and aspirations of the LGBT community, in Glasgow and on the internet, rode with the Warriors. This morning the team’s Twitter feed had been flooded with countless wishes of
Good luck!
and
Score a goal for me!
from people who’d never been to a single match. The world was watching.

As halftime ended, Colin jogged onto the pitch, feeling every nerve ending in his body firing at once. He was so ready.

Then a woman’s voice rang out, clear as day:

“Colin! Gie laldy!” Words of encouragement he’d heard a hundred times from a hundred friends and fans. But from this person, he’d not heard it in years.

He stopped, turned, and saw her at the end of the top row, sitting up straight like a queen on a throne, her long black waves of hair billowing in the wind.

He didn’t speak the word so much as mouth it. His throat was too tight, too dry, to make actual sounds.

“Mum…”

S
LOWLY
C
OLIN
LIFTED
his hand, though it felt his arm would crack in two from the tension. His mother mirrored the motion, raising her own right hand and holding it, palm out, as if giving a long-distance high five.

Their eyes met, and it seemed he could see her irises, pale green like his own, even from this distance.

“Oi!” one of his opponents shouted. “Gonnae join us today or what?”

Colin dropped his hand as laughter erupted from both sets of fans. He felt like a wean, waving to his mummy in the middle of a match.

The whistle blew to start the second half, and Barrowfield quickly took the ball into their attacking third. Lingering back near the midline, Colin rubbed his arms, forcing himself to focus on the play. It had been so long since he’d heard his mother’s voice in real life—and not just in his head—everything around him now felt like an alternate reality.

The Barrowfield right winger drove a bullet of a shot toward the goal. Heather leapt like a cat and got her hand on it just in time, sending it flying up over the crossbar.

A corner kick was awarded to Barrowfield as a result. Normally Colin would have moved up to help defend the goal, but as the lone striker, his job was to hang back to execute a counterattack. Two Barrowfield defenders stayed equal with him, one on either side, while the other two moved forward in hopes of heading in a goal from the corner kick.