Page 19 of Playing to Win

On the TV, the BBC presenters seemed eager to change the subject from England’s defeat to a discussion of celebrity attendees, the camera picking out famous folk in the stands. “Who’s that arsehole?” Colin asked.

“He’s onEastEnders, ya dobber,” Emma said. “Do you live under a rock?”

“Sorry, I’m too busy having a life to watch shite television.”

“It’s not shite!” Emma grabbed her inhaler off the coffee table and chucked it at his head. He snatched it out of the air with ease and tossed it back to her.

“Nice save,” Gran said. “Maybe you’ve a future as a goalkeeper.”

“If that’s my future, then kill me now.” He turned to the cluttered dining table, where his kit bag sat waiting for a last-minute inspection. When he’d first joined the Warriors, Colin would often forget to bring one piece of equipment or another to practice session. His manager’sno-eejits-allowedpolicy quickly cured his carelessness. Though they were an amateur team, Charlotte demanded they act like professionals.

Behind him, his father scoffed at the television. “State of these wanks, waving their Union Jacks.”

“People cannae have those at Commonwealth Games,” Emma said. “Nae flags of countries who aren’t competing, the rules say. Scotland, England, and Wales have all got their own teams.”

“Don’t forget Northern Ireland,” Dad said.

“I said Northern Ireland.”

“No, you didnae,” Colin said, then repeated the last word over her rising chant of “Did did did did did!” until she broke off laughing.

Suddenly her laughter morphed into a deep cough. Colin kept his focus on his kit bag, rather than rushing over to make sure his sister wasn’t turning blue. If he stressed out, Emma would too, which could bring on a full-blown asthma attack.

“Anyway,” Emma said when she’d caught her breath, “there’s nae Team United Kingdom or even Great Britain, so nae Union Jacks allowed.”

“Rules don’t apply to people with titles,” Dad told her.

Colin froze.People with—

He turned back to the television to see a familiar face on the screen. The caption readLord Andrew Sunderland, King of Selfies.

Sitting in the Ibrox director’s box, surrounded by a clump of sycophants, was the same man who last night, as slumming hipster Adam Smith, had so eagerly tugged down Colin’s trousers. His hair had returned to its golden-brown tousled heap, and his clothes to a smart light-brown blazer with white dress shirt. Unaware the world was watching (probably), he held his phone at arm’s length as his mates crowded around him. He alone waved the Scottish Saltire, the blue flag with the white St. Andrew’s cross, while his mates brandished the Union Jack or England’s red-and-white St. George’s cross.

Andrew paused to deliver that brilliant, knee-weakening smile for his own camera. Colin turned away again. His hands shook as he rewrapped the sandwich, which now felt like glue in his mouth and lead in his stomach. Last night now seemed nothing but a dream.

Forget him, he told himself.He’s already forgotten you.

= = =

Halfway down the long series of concrete steps that led toward the center of Drumchapel, Colin stopped. He turned to examine the trio of high-rise tower blocks, the central one of which had been his home for twelve years, and tried to see them through Andrew’s eyes.

On a sunny day like this, they looked quite decent, save for the tallest one, due for demolition next year. Its sickly gray-brown exterior was stained and dilapidated, just as his own building had been before the refurbishment two years prior. Now, his tower and the one beyond it bore a blue, white, and gray facade that gleamed in the sunshine. From the outside, they looked as smart as any middle-class block of flats.

But Andrew wouldn’t see that. He’d see the tower blocks’ notoriety, for the drugs ring that had been pinched there. Or he’d see their cost to the taxpayer, since the blocks were 100 percent social housing.

He’d see rubbish.

Colin spun on his good leg, then continued down the remaining steps, resisting the urge to look out over Glasgow and wonder which street Andrew belonged to.

He reached the main road just as his bus was approaching. A lass his age waited at the stop, cooing into a blue pushchair stroller.

“Big day for you!” she told her baby. “Gonnae be good for Mummy?”

The bus creaked to a stop, and the girl made her way to the wheelchair entrance. As she boarded, Colin noticed her wide-open diaper bag dangling precariously from her shoulder. He flashed his bus pass at the driver, then hurried over to help her before—

“Och, fucking hell!” the lass cried.

The diaper bag’s contents had spilled all over the wheelchair lift. Two pale-yellow baby bottles rolled off the stair and onto the street.

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