Page 26 of Playing to Win

Colin shrugged. “I found new mates. Things got better. But first they got worse.” He switched arms, extending the one with the black thistle tattoo. “I did these to myself.”

Andrew looked closer. About a dozen leafy prickles extended from the thistle’s long stem, which ran from elbow to wrist. At the center of each prickle was a thin, raised, white scar.

Oh God.He reached out, then pulled his hand back.

“It’s okay,” Colin said softly. “You can touch them.”

The scars felt like harp strings under Andrew’s fingers, and reminded him of another wounded soul he’d cared for years ago. The thought of Colin hiding in his room, shedding his own blood because he’d no one to cry out to, no one to trust—

“Och, now you’re the one all peely-wally.” Colin touched Andrew’s cheek, which indeed felt pale from the inside. “Should I have told you the fake story behind the tattoos? Usually when people ask, I say I’m such a patriotic Scot, I wanted national symbols permanently etched upon my body.” He spread his arms in V formation, like a cheerleader. “Freeeeedom!” he squealed. The ladies at the next table laughed, then swooned when Colin spared them a wink and a smile.

“No.” Andrew sat up straight and collected himself. “I’m glad you told me the truth.”

“Me too.” Colin frowned down at his sandwich without picking it up. “But I don’t know why.”

= = =

The rest of the day, they played.

In the pubs, it was foosball, billiards, arcade games, then who could down a pint faster. In the clubs, it was who could dance longer, who could get more drinks bought for them, who could collect more phone numbers. It was almost like they were mates.

Colin knew they would never be mates.

Ten o’clock found them in a trendy pub not far from their hotel, sharing a plate of nachos topped with haggis and cajun chicken. “What’s our tally at the moment?” Andrew asked as he set his empty whisky glass on the polished wooden bar between them.

“Ten all.”

“Can’t be.”

“It is. We’ve each won ten contests.”

Andrew gave that dismissive wave that made Colin want to bite his hand off. “A foosball match is no equivalent to a dance marathon.”

“It was a foosballtournament, ya wee fandan, which I won seven-nil. You’re lucky I’m not counting each match as a separate victory.” Colin shoved a nacho into his mouth, enjoying Andrew’s wince at seeing him talk with his mouth full. “So how do we break the tie? And what prize does the winner get?”

“Here’s a proposal.” Andrew skated his finger around the rim of his glass. “You decide what our last contest will be, and I’ll decide the prize.”

“Fair enough.”

“Good.” Beneath the bar, Andrew’s knee brushed against Colin’s. “The winner can play master in the bedroom tonight.”

Colin swallowed hard, the edges of the tortilla chip scraping his throat. He’d rather die than become anyone’s servant, least of all this man’s. But the reverse—making Andrew do his bidding—was well worth the risk.

“Agreed. Now for our final contest…” He scanned the bottles above the bar. “This is important. Better have another drink to ponder it.”

“Of course.” Andrew ordered the next round, and when the whiskies arrived, he told the bartender, “I’ll settle our bill now as well.”

As the bartender turned to the register to fetch Andrew’s card, Colin downed his whisky in a single gulp, then clapped Andrew on the shoulder. “Race you to our room.” He took off.

“Wait!” he heard Andrew call out behind him. “I haven’t paid the—oh, blast it.”

Colin laughed as he sprinted down the stone-block pavement, dodging startled pedestrians and decorative iron lampposts. With such a head start, he might even have time to wait for Andrew in the shower. The thought of that lithe body naked, wet, and lathered beneath his palms nearly made Colin stumble as he veered left onto Princes Street and—

Wait. The street sign on the stone church beside him read SANDWICK PLACE. Wasn’t this their hotel’s street?

“Fuck.” He must have got turned around by all these crooked medieval roads and alleys. Which meant Andrew would win the race for sure, which meant…NO.

A pair of fashionable-looking women stepped out of the Pret A Manger to his left. “Pardon me,” he called, hurrying up to them. “Can youse help me find—”

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