Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) Read Free Page A

returned her focus to the pitch. Before she could start scribbling, John asked, “What’s with the ‘Rule One, No Drama’ thing? Whose idea was it?”
    “The rules are a new thing,” she said, sketching a formation with rapid, slashing strokes. “Doesn’t matter whose idea. Fergus and I are of one mind on that matter.”
    Sensing he’d worn out his welcome, John stood and thanked Charlotte for her support. Then he added, “Just one more wee thing. About your captain—”
    “Aye, he’s single.” Charlotte raised somber eyes to John. “But grievously wounded.”

C HAPTER T WO

    T HE CHANGE IN John’s posture as he stepped out of the subway station wasn’t subconscious. Walking through the shadow of the majestic red-brick Ibrox Stadium, he deliberately clenched his fists, broadened and hunched his shoulders, and slowed his pace to a swagger.
    One day, John promised himself, he’d live north of the River Clyde. He’d be free to walk however he wanted, be the sort of man he wanted, twenty-four hours a day. Until then, to survive, he’d be an Ibrox lad. At least on the outside.
    On the inside, he mulled over Charlotte’s warning about Fergus. She hadn’t given details, but it was clear her new captain was on the rebound. John had always avoided heartbroken men, since he himself couldn’t offer anything more meaningful than a casual hookup. Not while he had so much to hide.
    So north of the Clyde he was gay, and south of the Clyde he was…something else. Something secret. Something shameful. Something necessary.
    Still, as he made his way around a busy roundabout, trying not to get run over by cars exiting the circle, John couldn’t stop thinking of how that haunted chill had melted from Fergus’s hazel eyes as they’d laughed together. How his voice, with its sweet Highland lilt that made John’s toes curl, had come to life. Not to mention how those legs, when seen from below, went on and on and on.
    Reaching his own quiet side-street, he saw three men his father’s age sitting on a low, grimy concrete wall in front of a terrace home that belonged to no one.
    “All right, mates?” John said as he passed through their collective cloud of cigarette smoke. As a boy, he’d spent many a summer afternoon at this makeshift streetside pub, listening to these men dissect the latest Rangers match over a bottle of tonic wine. He’d thought they were so cool, having every day off and all.
    “Wee Burns!” said Jimmy Stokes, who’d taught John to play pool when he was six and poker when he was ten. “Gonnae do the walk the weekend?”
    “Nah, I cannae.” John pivoted to answer without actually stopping. “Got an exam.” His last exam had been ten days ago, but Stokes wouldn’t know that.
    “Good luck, ya clever wee bastard!” Stokes smiled as he blew a cloud of smoke in front of his sunken, stubbled cheeks. Seeing him in the harsh sunlight, John realized how much older he looked than Dad.
    “Cheers.” John opened the small iron gate in front of his house. Its squeak almost covered Stokes’s next words:
    “Shame about Keith,” he said. “Fuckin’ travesty of justice, punishing a man for the thoughts in his heart.”
    John pretended not to hear him.
    Inside, the house was eerily silent, without the usual blare of TV. John found his father sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of whisky, still wearing his suit from today’s sentencing.
    “You’ve not changed yet?” John asked him as he opened the refrigerator.
    “Just got home. My mates took me out for a pint and a pie after.” He stared at the upside down Daily Record in front of him. “I wasnae hungry, though, so there’s leftovers in there if you want it.”
    “Yaldy, I’m starving.” John grabbed the polystyrene takeaway container and a bottle of Tennent’s. “You shouldnae be eating pub food anyway. Cholesterol, mind?” Instead of sitting at the table, he popped open the box on the worktop beside the sink. The steak-and-ale