Play On: A Glasgow Lads Novella (10 page)

Brodie’s mouth opened wider and wider as this revelation sunk in. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because my alleged guilt gave me an excuse to be with you.”

A wave of relief swept over Brodie, almost sweeter than the orgasm. “You didn’t need an excuse.”

“Didn’t I? You had just told me to fuck off—politely, of course—so me caring for you round the clock just to be nice would’ve been awkward.” Duncan rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “You would’ve known I fancied you, and if you didn’t feel the same way, it might’ve been creepy. Like I was some stalker nurse or something.”

“So we were both lying.”

“More like sharing a convenient story. It suited our ulterior motive, didn’t it?”

“Which was?”

“This.” Duncan kissed him softly. “We couldn’t admit we wanted to be together, so we used your dreaded virus as an excuse.”

“And here we are.” Brodie slid a hand down the front of Duncan’s T-shirt.

“At last.” He pulled Brodie’s thigh over his own, giving it a possessive pinch. Brodie was glad he’d decided not to put on a new pair of briefs, the better to feel Duncan’s fingers through these thin cotton trousers.

“You’re incredible, ken?” he told Duncan. “No one’s ever made me come like that, like the world was ending. You’re utterly out of my league.”

“Out of your league because I give good head? It’s nothing you can’t do.”

“I haven’t got half as much practice.”

“Hmm. It’s true there are some things you can learn only by doing, through trial and error.” Duncan’s lips drifted across Brodie’s. “But other things, you can learn by observation. Close observation.”

Brodie’s mouth watered. “Are you saying I’ve just had my first lesson in Advanced Fellatio?”

“Intermediate at most, but cheers, that’s flattering.”

Brodie swallowed his nervousness and slid his fingers under the waistband of Duncan’s sleep trousers. “Then maybe I should practice what I’ve learned, pronto.”

“I
MAGINE
THIS
IS
your cock.”

“Okay.” Brodie threw a nervous glance about the noisy restaurant, then crooked a dark eyebrow at Duncan from across their table. “I wouldn’t be able to walk, were that the case, but I’m imagining.”

With his fingers looped around Brodie’s slim, bare forearm, Duncan slid his hand up and down as fast as he could.

“Ow!” Brodie pulled away. “Seriously?”

“Sorry.” Duncan wanted to give Brodie’s reddened skin a soothing caress. “But aye, that’s what a dry hand job’s like for a circumcised guy. No natural lubrication whatsoever. A few American lads I met had never
seen
an uncut prick up close and in person, much less knew what to do with one.”

“Mystified by the foreskin?”

“Mystified, intrigued—and in some cases, repulsed.” Duncan attempted a coy shrug. “But my Scottish accent helped.”

“I see. Roll a few
r
’s and suddenly they can’t stop thinking about your tongue.”

“Pretty much.” Duncan sipped his Coke, reveling in Brodie’s laughter. It was a good sign—that and the fact Brodie was able to make the ten-minute walk down to Glasgow’s West End, where he’d insisted on taking Duncan for a real date to thank him for the meals he’d brought that week. They’d been lucky to get a snug at The Left Bank, which was pure crowded as usual on a Friday night. At least Brodie could rest better on his comfy couch-like seat than he could in a typical restaurant chair.

The server arrived with their food, cutting off the discussion. As Duncan spread a thick layer of chipotle mayo on his chickpea-and-sweet-potato burger, he said, “Be honest. Do I talk about America too much?”

“No, it’s fascinating.” Brodie lifted his own burger, the regular beef sort. “Where else could I possibly learn that they call lifts ‘elevators’? Oh wait—everywhere.”

“Sorry. I must sound a total prat.”

“It’s kind of adorable.” Brodie plucked a rosemary chip off Duncan’s plate and popped it into his own mouth. “Then again, we’ve just started dating, so everything we do is adorable.”

Duncan kicked him under the table. “Ya wee cynic.”

Brodie kicked him back. “Ya big romantic.”

Duncan reached down to grab his leg, then stopped, remembering they were in public. At least here the background music and chatter were loud enough they could say what they wanted without being outed. But they couldn’t
do
what they wanted.

As if reading his mind, Brodie straightened his posture and leaned back, diminishing their flirtatious vibe. “The LGBT group is having a dance party a week on Friday. Want to go with me?”

“Brilliant, yeah! I’ve got a match the next day, though, so I can’t stay out late. Sorry.” Duncan tensed, expecting to hear the usual frustration at his limited social life. It was hard for lads he dated to understand the sacrifices he made for the team.

But Brodie shrugged. “I haven’t exactly got a muckle puckle energy myself these days.”

Duncan grinned with relief, wondering why he’d been nervous about this date. Aside from a few awkward moments, it had so far been a belter. He decided to let himself relax, enjoy his food, and stop trying so hard to impress Brodie.

“I can’t wait for you to meet my mates in the LGBT group,” Brodie said. “Maybe you’ll think of joining?”

“Activism’s not my thing,” Duncan answered through a mouthful of burger.

“We’re more than that. Besides, you play for a gay football team, so you’re already an activist.”

“I help by setting an example, not by whingeing.” He stopped chewing when he heard his own words.

Brodie looked stunned. “What did you say?”

“Sorry.” Duncan wiped his mouth with his napkin, as if that would take back the insult. “I meant, not by campaigning.”

“Right,” Brodie said through gritted teeth. He stabbed his fork into one of the roasted potato wedges on his plate, so hard that the adjacent piece flew off the table and bounced across the polished hardwood floor.

Duncan laughed at the mishap, then covered his guffaw with a cough.
So much for impressing him.
“Erm, speaking of football, do you think you might come to that match next weekend?” He put on his best puppy eyes, hoping to erase the memory of his insensitivity. “You promised.”

“I promised I’d come someday. When’s the next season start?”

“September, but—” Duncan cut himself off, too ashamed to tell Brodie he was in danger of being chucked from the Warriors. “It’s more fun near the end of the season, especially since we’ve a chance to win promotion to the Premier division.” That chance was diminishing. The Warriors needed to win all four remaining games,
and
the two teams ahead of them in the table had to lose or draw more often than not, which wasn’t likely. “My parents will be at that match, so you can meet them.”

“Meeting your parents?” The caution in Brodie’s eyes morphed into astonishment. “Isn’t that—I don’t know, rushing things?”

“It’s nae big deal. They know most of my friends. And you’re more than a friend.” He gave him a hopeful smile. “Right?”

Instead of answering, Brodie studied the butterfly-effect lantern above their table with a pensive gaze. “So they’re okay with your being, you know—”

“What, gay?” Duncan snorted. “They’re more than okay with it. They see it as a business asset.”

“I don’t follow.”

“They own a home-decor shop in the Merchant City,” he said, referring to the Glasgow district famous for high-end retail and gay nightlife. “They’ve loads of LGBT customers, so they’re big fans of our ‘community.’”

“And this is a problem how?”

Duncan hesitated. He always felt awkward talking about his parents—not because they were terrible, but because they were fabulous, yet still his parents.

“I waited until I was sixteen to come out to them,” he told Brodie, “because I knew they’d throw a party. Which they did, literally. They showed me off to all their gay friends like I was some sort of prize, like I gave them street cred. ‘Look what we made. Now buy some dining chairs lest the wee poof starves to death.’”

Brodie’s lip curled. “Now who’s whingeing—about having supportive parents, of all things? Boys and girls kill themselves every day because they don’t have what you take for granted.”

Duncan sighed, wanting to explain but knowing that every word could make it worse. “I don’t take Mum and Dad for granted. I’m grateful for their support. But I want them to value me for who I
am
, not for what I represent.”

“How do you know they don’t?”

Duncan set down his burger, unable to swallow another bite. “Before I came out, they didn’t show much interest in me. They were so busy with the shop, they never came to my football matches or my school events. They forgot most of my birthdays, and when they did remember, their idea of celebration was to hand me a tenner so I could buy my own gift. Preferably something involving home decor.”

“Huh.” Brodie’s expression was inscrutable.

“But now that I’ve come out, I’m the apple of their fucking eyes.” Duncan stabbed his chips with his fork, spearing one atop the other. “I know I’ve got it good, parentwise. Some of my gay and trans friends have parents who beat them or chuck them into the street, or who ‘tolerate’ them but don’t look at them the same way anymore, or don’t look at them at all. When people tell me I won the gay-parent lottery, I say, ‘I know,’ because that’s exactly what it feels like. Like one day everything changed by pure luck, and one day—” He stared at the chips aligned on his fork tines. “One day, it could all change back, and they’ll be gone again.” He finally raised his eyes to look at Brodie. “Surely you hate me now.”

Brodie shook his head. “None of us has it easy. It’s just different sorts of difficult.”

Duncan smiled despite the tension, or maybe because of it. “So what’s your sort of difficult? Driving about on a Friday night with your secret boyfriend, listening to The Smiths’ ‘There Is a Light That Never Goes Out,’ reveling in the tragedy of it all?” At the sight of Brodie’s face, Duncan’s stomach sank. “Sorry. Again. I was kidding. Is that—is that really how it was?”

“It was.” Brodie’s eyes glittered with anger. “Forgive me for being an eighties gay cliché, since that’s the decade my village is stuck in. The 1880s, that is.”

“But you’re here now, and that’s what matters. You need never feel a second-class citizen again. One day when you’re ready, you can marry the man you love and raise children with him.” He spread his hands. “The great gay tragedy’s over, mate.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Then kiss me.” Brodie leaned forward. “Right here, right now, amongst all these straights. Then when we walk home up Great Western Road, take my hand and don’t let go.”

Duncan scanned the restaurant and saw nothing but typical West End clientele—young, hip, progressive folk. It was probably safe. “I’ll do it if you want me to.”

“I don’t want you to. Because we’re not in San Francisco or one of your Merchant City clubs. We’ve got even odds at best. But maybe you feel lucky.” Brodie reached into his pocket and pulled out a pound coin. “Heads, all these lovely hipsters smile at us. Tails, some drunken breets follow us home and kick our balls in. Ready?”

Brodie tossed the coin. Duncan snatched it out of the air and held it tight. “Okay. You’ve made your point.”

“Which is?”

“That we don’t have equality. Not yet. Not until we can show our feelings for each other in public—anywhere in public—without fear.”

Brodie nodded, his eyes hard as marble. “Now, that might not seem a tragedy to you, but it is to me. And that’s what we whingeing activists are trying to change.” He rose unsteadily to his feet, nearly knocking his head against the dangling lantern. “If our server pops by, please tell her I’m ready to pay the bill. I’m tired and want to go home.”

Duncan watched Brodie as he made his way toward the gents’, his head down and his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Then he reached across the table and opened his fist to place the pound coin next to Brodie’s phone so he would see it when he returned.

Lastly, Duncan flipped the coin over, showing heads.

= = =

“Straight to bed with you,” Duncan said as they shuffled toward their flat’s entry door. Brodie’s steps had grown so heavy, Duncan practically had to hold him up—not that he minded the excuse to put an arm around him in public. He was far from the only lad in Glasgow helping a mate stagger home on a Friday night.

They’d barely spoken since their row in the restaurant. Duncan hoped Brodie’s silence was from fatigue and not lingering resentment—or worse, second thoughts about the two of them.

Inside their flat, music was thumping from three open doors, including that of Shu-Fen’s room beside Brodie’s.

“We could sleep in mine tonight,” Duncan said. “My end of the hall’s quieter. Petra’s not back from vacation yet.”

“No.” Brodie let go of him. “I mean, yes, you should sleep there. I’ll sleep in my room.”

“But—”

“I’m shattered, and you’ve a match tomorrow. We’ll sleep better if we sleep apart. These beds aren’t made for two.”

“Okay.” He took Brodie’s hand. “I’ll see you after the match?”

Brodie nodded, then started to turn away. “G’night.”

“Hey.” Duncan stepped forward and kissed him. Brodie’s hand tightened on his for a moment, then let go as he pulled away.

“I knew it!”

They turned to see Shu-Fen stepping out of her room. She waved her plastic cup, sloshing a bright green liquid over the edge. “Duncan, I thought that was you I heard through the wall last night.” She stopped and put her hand to her cheek. “Oh God, please tell me it
was
you I heard through the wall last night.”

“It was.” Duncan’s face warmed, with pride more than embarrassment.

“Good. It’s about time you two got together.”

“Why?” Brodie said.

“Just look at you,” she scoffed as she pushed past them into the kitchen. “Fucking adorable.”

When she was out of earshot, Brodie said, “Why do straight lasses love to gay-matchmake?”