Play On: A Glasgow Lads Novella (7 page)

Brodie’s phone beeped with a Facebook notification. Another comment on the sponge-bath thread, no doubt. He’d made such an arse of himself.

After a glance at this latest Spongebob Squarepants quote (
Remember, licking doorknobs is illegal on other planets!
), Brodie scrolled up to his original comment, preparing to delete it. Avoid embarrassment and exposure at all costs—that was how he’d always lived.

Then he stopped, thinking of everything he’d said to Geoffrey. How they should be proud of who they were. How their pride changed the way others thought of them, and of gays in general. How the more “out” they were, the more “normal” they would come to seem.

Everywhere you look,
his mother had said,
there they are.

Aye, Ma, we are.
He looked at Duncan.
Even on the football pitch.

“What if we pretend it was you?”

Duncan turned halfway in the chair and took out an earphone. “Pretend who was me?”

“The original poster on this thread, the one who missed the lad in the Passenger shirt. You could answer my Spongebob comment, then I’d reply, and so on.”

Duncan furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“Just for a lark.”

“But what if people think we’re serious?”

“We’ll make it funny.”

“They’ll still think we’re gay.”

“We
are
gay. And we’re both out.”

“Yeah, but this is a public site with thousands of strangers. You sure you’re okay with—”

“Forget it. I’m away for a shower.” Brodie slid out of bed and went to his wardrobe for clean clothes, feeling utterly knocked back. If Duncan didn’t want to be linked with him online, he clearly wasn’t interested in a real-life connection.

After his shower, Brodie returned to his room. Duncan didn’t even look up from his notes. Determined to be equally focused on exams, Brodie grabbed his statistics textbook and sat on his bed.

The notification light on his phone was blinking blue. Facebook.

He checked the app to find a new comment on the thread.

Duncan Harris: I think you meant “sponge bath,” mate, not “Spongebob.” And I intend to give you one, when the time is right. Sadly, I’ve no sponge, so my tongue will have to do.

Brodie let out a soft gasp. His skin prickled all over, and he felt suddenly weakened and invigorated at the same time.

“Too much?” Duncan asked without looking at him. “I can delete it if you want.”

Deleting the reply wouldn’t change the fact it had been sent to everyone else who’d already posted a comment. But it would do a certain amount of damage control.

Then again, this page and countless others were filled with straight couples’ flirtations, both real and mock. Why couldn’t he and Duncan share a harmless bit of banter? This was why Brodie had come to Glasgow—to find love and lust and everything in between, all without fear.

Before he could lose his nerve, he replied.

Brodie Campbell: I think after a tongue bath we’d both end up filthier instead of cleaner.

Duncan’s tablet chirped. He checked it, then laughed out loud. “Good one, mate,” he said, keeping his back to Brodie. Then he set the device aside and returned to his notes.

“That’s it?” Brodie asked. “You’re letting me have the last word?”

“Nope.” Duncan chewed the end of his pen, then scribbled on his notepad. “Just letting you simmer.”

All day, between bouts of studying, eating—and in Brodie’s case, napping—they maintained their flirtatious Facebook patter with hourly updates. Others had noticed, posting dozens of replies that fell into two general camps: “LOL” and “STFU.” It had been a proper lark, easing their revision-week boredom. Still, Brodie couldn’t tell if that’s all it was.

Are you as confused and turned on as I am?
he wondered that night as his gaze bored into the back of Duncan’s skull.
Give me a sign.

“Who’s Clyde?” Duncan asked.

Brodie shook his head, which was already pounding from eyestrain. “Sorry?”

“Is there a Clyde at the library?”

“He’s the mouse in Level Ten. Why?”

“Erm…you’d better have a look at the
Spotted
main page.”

Brodie opened his Facebook app to see a new anonymous post.

To Brodie and Duncan, the callous bastards who hijacked my sincere post to my ex-boyfriend: I envy you two. It must be nice not to know what love is, to never feel the pain when the person you want more than anything in the world won’t even look at you, much less touch you again. Wherever you are, all I wish is that ONE DAY SOON you’ll know what it’s like.

Brodie swallowed as he tapped the
Read More…
link to see the rest of the post:

Also, if I ever spot you cocksuckers in this library again, I will knock you both flat and introduce Clyde to your rectal cavities.

He looked at Duncan. “I felt sorry for her until that last part.”

“I’m going to apologize. I’ll say that you mistook her post for one by me about you—which is true—and that I played along. That I pretended the post was mine to spare you the awkwardness of your mistake.”

“That makes me sound pathetic.”

“I could say her post was so beautiful that I wished it was mine.” He met Brodie’s eyes. “I could say it felt like something I could’ve written.”

Brodie shivered inside. He wanted to ask if that were true, but feared the answer would be a laugh and an
Of course not!

“I can’t let you lie.” Brodie quickly thumbed in a response to the new post.

Brodie Campbell: Sorry. :(

Duncan glanced at his tablet. “‘Sorry frowny face’?”

“I feel vaguely bad, and nothing expresses that like ‘Sorry frowny face.’”

“Aye, but now if
I
say ‘Sorry frowny face,’ it’ll look like we’re mocking her.”

“Then come up with something better. You are, after all, the lead bastard cocksucker.”

“Hey! At least I’m not a Bed Hog,” he said, kicking the side of Brodie’s mattress.

“Then you’re part of the Bed-Hog Police, which is arguably worse.”

“Fair point.” Duncan scooted his chair closer. “I should probably reassess your bed-hogging tendencies and file an official report.”

Brodie’s comeback died as he realized what Duncan meant. Speechless, he shifted over to make room, offering half his pillow as well. Duncan picked up his tablet, then slid beneath the covers.

As they lay there, side by side on their backs, Brodie fixed his gaze on the ceiling, wishing for the courage to make something,
anything
happen. The inch-wide gap between their arms, legs, and hips hummed with energy.

Finally Duncan clapped his hands together once. “Terribly sorry, old chap,” he announced in a posh English accent. “I grievously underestimated your bed-sharing abilities. I shall attempt to salvage your reputation post haste.” He awakened his tablet, displaying the
Spotted
post.

“Leave it. There’s been enough drama for one day.” Brodie squinted at the bright white display, then put a hand to his pounding temple. “Och, I cannae look at any more screens.”

“No
River City
tonight?”

“Sorry, my head’s fair killing me.” He hoped Duncan would turn out the light and take his mind off the pain in the best way possible.

“I could read to you until you fall asleep.”

Nothing had ever sounded so romantic. “All right.” Brodie rolled over to face the wall. “As long as it’s not our psychology text.”

“Let’s see what else is on my tablet. Oh, here’s my favorite book! At home I’ve got the hardcover and the paperbacks with the American cover and both the film covers—the 1997 Colin Firth film and the 2005 one with Jimmy Fallon—and in my room I’ve got the original paperback. It’s pure marked up.”

When Duncan finally hit pause on his enthusiasm, Brodie asked, “Which book?”

“Nick Hornby’s
Fever Pitch
, of course.”

Oh God.
“I love Nick Hornby.”
But I hate football.
“I thought you wanted to forget the game.”

“Eh, I guess it’s not so painful when I’m here with you.”

Brodie smiled against his pillow, despite his dread of the book’s subject matter. “On you go, then.”

With a happy sigh, Duncan began reading aloud, about the obsessive nature of the football fan, the sort of man whose identity and happiness were inextricably entwined with the fate of a round leather ball. The sort of man Brodie would never understand, but was more than happy to lie beside tonight.

D
UNCAN
READ
UNTIL
his voice was too hoarse to hear himself above Brodie’s snores. Then he switched off his tablet and let his gaze wander over the walls as he decided whether to stay or go.

On the pinboard above the desk—the only place students were permitted to hang things—was a series of three Georgia O’Keeffe desert mountain prints. Their warm, vivid colors matched the sheets and duvet. As far as Duncan knew, Brodie had no connection to the American Southwest. If anything, he came from a world that was the exact opposite, the cold, stormy coast of northeast Scotland, a place Duncan, like most humans, knew only from the 1980s film
Local Hero
.

He lifted his head to search the room for framed photos of Brodie’s home, expecting to see a beach, a fishing boat, or one of the steep, rocky braes the north coast was so famous for. But there was nothing, not even one family picture.

This puzzle only made Duncan more determined to better know this beautiful, fragile lad, which meant spending every minute he could with him. Including tonight.

But first he had to turn off the light. He eased out from beneath the covers, then crept over to the switch near the door. At that moment, Brodie groaned in his sleep and rolled onto his back, flinging out his left arm and leg to fill the empty space.

“Of course,” Duncan whispered. He knew he should walk out now. Dozing off beside Brodie would’ve looked natural and casual. Waking Brodie to make him move over, on the other hand…

Go with your gut
, Evan had always said. Then again, Evan was a treacherous twat whose gut had apparently told him to fuck off to Belgium when his team needed him most.

Duncan’s own gut told him there was something more than friendship here. It told him to slide beneath the covers and wrap himself around Brodie, bury his face in his thick, dark hair, then let whatever was meant to happen, happen.

Or maybe it wasn’t his
gut
telling him to do this so much as his cock. Either way, he listened.

Duncan switched off the light, then returned to the bed, where he tapped Brodie’s knee through the duvet. “Freeze, Bed Hog, you’re under arrest,” he said in an American cop-show drawl.

“You’ll never take me alive,” Brodie murmured as he rolled to face the wall again.

Duncan got into bed but lay on his back, uncertain whether to turn away from Brodie or toward him. Today’s Facebook flirtation had left him on edge. Their online banter was the sort mere pals could have, pals who were so comfortable with each other, they wouldn’t misinterpret the joke as a come-on. Pals who could share a twin bed without hooking up.

“Why do you love football?” Brodie asked.

Duncan blinked hard, startled out of his pondering by Brodie’s clear, alert voice. “Why shouldn’t I love it?”

“Don’t be defensive. You’re not on trial.”

“Aren’t I?”

“Don’t start that again,” Brodie said. “The turning-my-statement-into-a-question thing. You’ll make an annoying psychologist.” He kept facing the wall but shifted beneath the covers, his leg nearly brushing Duncan’s. “You know that book you were reading?”

“
Fever Pitch
?”

“Aye. I don’t get it. Why does he care so much about that Arsenal team? They don’t give a fuck about him.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s about being part of something bigger than yourself. Whether you’re playing for a team or just supporting one, for ninety minutes the world isn’t about you. It’s a bit like religion. There’s love and faith and even hymns—and it’s all built on suffering.” Duncan snickered at that last bit, though he thoroughly meant it.

“See, that’s what I don’t get,” Brodie said. “The guy in that book, he’s so miserable most of the time. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Feelings don’t make sense. That’s why they’re feelings.” Duncan’s face warmed with passion. He had to find a way to make Brodie understand. “Haven’t you ever loved something far past the point of sanity?”

After a long moment, Brodie said, “No,” in a voice that left the answer’s truth a complete mystery. Before Duncan could respond, Brodie asked, “I assume Arsenal’s your favorite team?”

“God, no. I’m Scottish, I’ll not support a London side. My favorite’s Sunderland. They’ve been pretty crap my whole life. This year they look doomed to be relegated—that’s when the last-place teams get sent down to a lower league.”

“Okay,” Brodie said, clearly uninterested.

“My point is, they never win, but they’ve got the best supporters in the world. When they play at other stadiums, the away fans’ section is always sold out, even when it’s a six-hour bus ride to Southampton. Before every match, the crowd sings Elvis Presley’s ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love.’”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, it’s pure romantic.”

“Pure masochistic, more like.”

“Maybe, but everyone in English football—except Newcastle fans, of course—says Sunderland supporters are the best.” Duncan finally reined in his blethering. “So why do you hate football?”

“Because I’m weird, apparently.” Brodie inhaled, then exhaled, through his nose. “Also, the footballers in school used to bully me.”

Duncan turned his head to look at Brodie, who was still facing the wall. The heaviness in his voice belied his casual use of the word “also.”

“Was it bad?” he whispered.

“It’s over,” Brodie said emphatically. But then he folded into himself, pulling up his knees, perhaps on reflex at the memories. This crowded him into Duncan. “Sorry.” He straightened his legs again and restored the space between them.