Playing With Fire (Glasgow Lads Book 3) (16 page)

“What?” Robert shouted over the buzzer. “I’ve never—I don’t even own any adult coloring books.”

“His favorites are the pornographic ones,” Liam said to more laughter. “Says they’re pure relaxing.”

“Ya wee bastard,” Robert said with mock outrage. “You’ve nae chance of winning, so you’re just making shit up to embarrass me.”

In retrospect, Liam had to admit it was true. By this point in the quiz show, he was behind 5-2, so he’d fought back by winning over the audience with jokes.

No wonder he’d lost—Liam clearly didn’t know his fellow center-back as well as he thought he did. Maybe one of Robert’s Grindr pals would have fared better.

Their manager arrived then, holding a bulging kit bag and her ever-present clipboard.

“Charlotte, have you seen our new video?” Katie asked her.

“I have.” Charlotte smiled at Liam. “How many hits has it got now?”

“Only a few hundred.” Katie paused the show. “I had to nag Robert all week to get him to upload the thing to YouTube so I could tweet the shit out of it. He finally did it last night—on a Friday, when no one’s online. But whatever. I’ll keep pimping it until it goes viral.”

“Until what goes viral?” asked Evan Hollister as he entered the dugout, sweeping off his jacket hood to reveal perfectly coiffed blond hair. Their former captain was shadowed, as always, by his protégé, center forward Duncan Harris.

“Liam and Robert’s game show. It’s—” Katie stopped herself, then switched off her phone screen. “It’s all right.”

A minute ago Liam would’ve loved a reprieve from his and Robert’s erstwhile camaraderie, but he couldn’t resist a dig at Fergus’s ex. “Show him, Katie.” He turned to Evan. “It’s hosted by John Burns—you know, Fergus’s fiancé? He was brilliant. The audience fuckin’ loved him.” Liam gave an exaggerated shrug. “But everybody loves John.”

Evan’s eyes shifted down. “Yes, he’s very nice.” He turned away to sit at the far end of the bench.

Duncan gave Liam a
leave-it-alone-mate
look, then asked Charlotte, “Is you-know-who playing for Shettleston today?”

“If you mean McCurdy, I cannae say for sure.” Charlotte flipped the plastic-sheathed pages on her clipboard. “His eight-match suspension ended two weeks ago, but he was on the bench last week. Might’ve lost his place to a better defender.”

“McCurdy or no,” Liam said, “that team’ll be out for blood today.”

Katie held up a hand. “I’m missing something. Who’s McCurdy?”

“Sorry,” Liam said. Katie had fit into the team so seamlessly, he often forgot she’d only joined them in the summer. “McCurdy’s a bigoted prick who threatened Duncan’s boyfriend during a match last spring. Duncan gave him a wee shove, then McCurdy tried to throttle him.”

“Oh my God.” Katie looked up at Duncan. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, he didn’t, thanks to Fergus.” The forward darted a glance at Evan. “We were all a bit on edge at the time.”

“Aye,” Liam told Katie, “cos our captain, see, had just run off to Belgium with his new lover.”

“Carroll, that’s enough,” Charlotte growled.

Liam shut his mouth, his mission of shaming Evan accomplished.

“I already knew that last part,” Katie whispered. “About Evan’s Belgian.”

“I know.” Liam gave her a smirk. “I just like to remind him of his sins whenever possible, since we cannae make him wear a scarlet
A
for Arsehole.”

“Carroll’s got a point about Shettleston, though.” Charlotte directed this comment to Duncan. “We all need to keep our heads out there. The last thing we need is bad blood between us and another club.”

Liam frowned as he searched his kit bag for his shin guards. As an LGBT team playing in an otherwise straight league, the Warriors had to behave better than the other teams, lest they attract even more criticism than usual. Last season Charlotte had shown them a film about Jackie Robinson, the first black player to join an all-white baseball team. The shite that poor lad had to swallow—from opponents
and
teammates—made Liam’s stomach turn. At least the Warriors had one another.

Sort of.

“Why do you think Robert took so long to post the video?” Katie asked Liam as she twisted her long dark hair into a ponytail. “Heather finished it Sunday.”

“I don’t know.” Liam tried to yank his shin guards apart, but their straps were tangled together. “Ask him.”

“You haven’t talked to him this week?”

“No.” Liam took a deep breath. Any anger or guilt he felt needed to be stuffed deep inside for the next two hours. “He’s probably busy just with uni,” he told Katie.

“So am I, but—”

“Aw, fuck, look at this.” He ran a finger over a hairline crack in his shin guard.

“You didn’t notice that when you washed them?” Katie asked, then blanched. “Oh. You didn’t wash them.”

“They don’t need it every week.” He wiggled the guard to test its integrity. Sure enough, it gave a little under the slight stress. “But I should’ve inspected them. I’m such a dunderhead.”

“You can’t play with broken shin pads.” Katie rummaged through her kit bag. “Dammit, I usually bring an extra pair, but not today. With the rain, I knew I’d need spare boots and socks and—”

“You can use these.”

Liam looked up to see Evan standing before him, holding out a pair of gorgeous red shin guards made of fiberglass, which must have cost five times Liam’s simple plastic ones.

“They’re not as big as a defender’s guards,” Evan said, “so if you want to wait and see if Robert’s got a spare—”

“No, these are brilliant.” Liam met Evan’s eyes, which nearly matched his pale-blue Warriors away jersey. “Cheers, mate. I owe you.”

Evan shook his head sadly. “No one in this team owes me anything,” he muttered as he returned to the other end of the bench.

Liam sighed, then whispered to Katie, “Seems I’m the one who should be wearing the
A
for Arsehole.”

As he shoved his broken shin pad back into his bag, Liam cursed his own carelessness. After their last match, he’d had been so preoccupied with getting naked with Robert—and then falling out with Robert—he’d forgotten to inspect his equipment.

More proof that hooking up with his best mate had been a huge mistake.

= = =

Everything is shit today.

Robert wiped the rain from his face and tried to focus on the pitch in front of him instead of the man beside him. It didn’t help that they were playing in his home district of Shettleston, where every street was loaded with memories of Liam.

At least at the moment they were forty-some yards apart, near the corners of the penalty area while the Warriors went on attack at the other end of the field.

“Stay aware out there, lads!” called their goalkeeper, Heather. Robert held up a hand to show he’d heard her, knowing Liam was no doubt making a cutting remark under his breath.

Robert was all
too
aware today—aware of how the space between them snapped with tension, of how Liam’s body language had changed around him. Thanks to Robert’s “awareness,” the Warriors were now down a goal near the end of the first half.

Focus on now
, he coached himself, steadying his breath.
Forget that gift of a score you just gave up. Forget that pre-kickoff ritual, when you nearly blew Liam’s hair off with your spurned-man wrath. Just do your fucking job.

Out on the right wing, far ahead of Robert, fullback Jamie made an overlapping run, looking to provide a wicked cross for forwards Duncan or Shona to strike into the net. But the Warriors soon lost possession, and the Shettleston Star went on the attack.

Robert’s gaze darted to either side, searching for blue Warriors shirts through the sheets of rain. Katie was tracking back quickly to defend on the left, but Jamie was slower. Shettleston’s new striker, a lanky, scruffy-bearded fellow named Boyd, was headed Robert’s way, the black and white stripes on his jersey blurring with his speed.

Fergus moved right to hinder Boyd and push him outside, onto his weaker foot. Robert started to drop back to defend the penalty area, confident Fergus could handle it.

With a masterful toe poke, Fergus liberated the ball from Boyd. But the pitch was so wet, the ball rolled only a few feet before stopping in a puddle. Boyd pivoted, picked up the ball again, and continued on, leaving Fergus skidding in the slick grass.

Robert took off, straight for the Star striker. He knew if he closed in too quickly, Boyd would simply go around him—the worst possible outcome. But some forwards feared Robert’s size and strength. Sometimes he could scare them into making a mistake.

“Rab, drop back!” he heard Liam call behind him. “He’s too fast!”

Think I can’t take him? Think I’m a
coward
?

He sped up, focusing on the tilt of the striker’s hips and shoulders that would signal which direction he meant to turn. When Boyd angled right, Robert stepped with him, extending his foot to reach for the ball in a block tackle.

Then he slipped. Cold grass and mud met his arm as he slammed to the ground. The striker sidestepped him without a single touch.

Robert rolled to his feet, turning toward the goal, expecting to see Boyd preparing to shoot. Instead he saw Liam do what he himself should have done, calmly staying with the striker, slowing him down without outright tackling him, giving the other defenders a chance to get back and help. Boyd cut to his right, but Katie was there, closing ranks with Liam.

As Robert sprinted toward his proper position, he saw a Shettleston midfielder streak into the box, calling for the pass. It came—a weak one, thanks to Katie’s interference—across the face of the goal. By the time the midfielder could shoot, Heather was nearly upon him. His strike ricocheted off her, out into the corner of the penalty area. Jamie then cleared it with a booming kick back up the pitch, where it bounced out of play off a Star winger. Over in the away section of the stands, the Rainbow Regiment jumped and cheered.

Robert raised both hands in apology to Heather and his fellow defenders. “Sorry he got past me. Well done.”

“You’ll get him next time!” Katie threw a grin at Robert on her way up the pitch for the throw-in.

Robert sensed Liam approaching from his left and instinctively shifted away.

“Oi!” Liam said. “Are your eardrums drowning in this rain? Shall I call a doctor?”

Robert stopped and turned to him. “No.”

“Then I guess you’re just ignoring me.” Liam’s face was scarlet with anger. “Fergus talked about this not ten minutes ago. Boyd’s too fast to run at straight on. You gotta jockey back, slow him down.” Liam pointed to his own head. “He’s the nervous sort, mind? Challenge him near goal and he freezes. But challenge him at the halfway line like you just did and he’ll leave you in the dust.”

“Okay.” Robert tried to move away, but Liam tapped his arm.

“Did we discuss this, or was I dreaming?”

“Aye, we did,” Robert said, too stunned to protest. Liam never tore into his teammates, especially not him. What had happened to the Warriors’ calm, supportive vice-captain?

“Boyd’ll be harder to deal with now. Making you look a fool just gives him confidence.”

Robert’s face burned. “I didn’t look a fool.”

“Did you feel a genius, tumbling on your arse like that? You never even touched him.”

“Fuck off,” Robert snapped.

Silence thudded between them, a silence quickly filled by the rumble of a train accelerating west out of the Shettleston station. Robert glanced past Liam at the passing engine, remembering how when they were boys, the two of them would climb up to sit atop the fence beside the tracks. They’d wave at the train’s passengers—or make obscene gestures, depending on their mood—until the police or their mothers dragged them home.

The whistle blew at the other end of the pitch. Robert and Liam moved forward and apart as play began.

“Be ready for a counterattack,” Liam called. “And mind what I said.”

Robert raised a hand of acknowledgment. He didn’t need anyone telling him what to do, not when he could read opponents’ plays better than most defenders. He was fed up with Liam’s commands—
jockey back on Boyd, stay in the closet, get off with other guys, don’t think I’m special
.

Robert’s spirit suddenly sagged, and the weight went from his toes to his heels, as if the raindrops had become a liquid much denser than water.

“Rab, drop back!”

Caught flat-footed, Robert lurched into action at Liam’s call, but he was too late. Boyd was surging toward him—and now past him—in the dreaded Shettleston Star counterattack.

Robert turned to see Liam chasing down the striker, closing in at an angle. He sprinted forward to help, knowing he was too late.

Just outside the penalty area, Liam launched himself into a sliding tackle. His outstretched foot struck the ball perfectly, but his momentum carried the rest of him into the legs of the striker, who went flying.

Robert cursed when he heard the whistle blow. Liam was getting booked for a reckless tackle, and it was all Robert’s fault.

The referee dashed over, reaching into his pocket as he pointed at Liam. On the ground, Boyd was making a meal of the foul, rolling about and clutching his knee, pounding the grass in alleged agony.

Liam nodded at the yellow card the referee brandished at him. Then he reached down to the striker, whose pain seemed magically alleviated by the awarding of the foul. Robert joined the rest of the team—save Duncan and Evan—inside the box to defend against the ensuing free kick. Heather gestured to him and Liam, instructing them to form their usual two-man wall directly in the path of the kick.

They stood together with nearly two feet of space between them. Robert could hear Liam’s heaving breath, smell the rain and mud on his skin.

“Move together, ya dobbers!” Heather shouted.

“I think she means us,” Robert said.

They shifted closer, knocking into each other, then bouncing off.

“I don’t bite,” Liam said with a snarl.

Robert ignored him, eyes glued to the ball at the feet of the Shettleston captain, a midfielder whose powerful right leg was legendary in their league. Once the Warriors were lined up, the referee stepped away and blew the whistle.