Page 66 of Playing to Win

On the Wednesdays and the following Monday, Andrew and Fergus taught Colin and John how to reel. The Glaswegian lads seemed keen to exasperate their instructors, “upgrading tradition” with improvised steps. Colin got rather sulky when he discovered he’d have to dance with girls.

“What’s the point in going to this thing if I cannae dance with you?” he’d asked Andrew. “If Fergus and John cannae dance with each other?”

“It’s not a nightclub,” Fergus pointed out. “In reels, everyone dances with everyone, whether you like them or not. It’s a group thing.”

“Group-think, more like,” John had muttered, but with that mischievous twinkle in his eye that always seemed to defuse Fergus’s indignation.

Seeing John and Colin together made Andrew realize how similar and different they were, and why he liked the one but craved the other. They both had that magnetic charisma that drew people to them automatically. They were both fueled by a burning desire to change the world. But John, like Andrew, had a politician’s sixth sense of when to pull back, when to turn on the charm to avoid insult. Colin simply pushed, and pushed, and pushed. It drove Andrew mad in every possible way.

Colin brought this intensity to their daily workouts at Andrew’s gym, where they shared fitness tips and competed in all areas (except swimming, which Colin inexplicably claimed was bad for his knee). Colin won on leg, shoulder, and arm strength, as well as overall stamina, while Andrew annihilated him in flexibility, balance, and ab strength. But Colin gamely attempted every yoga position Andrew taught him, even the advanced ones, and he never gave up until he succeeded.

Of course, they always saved energy for the bedroom—and the living room, and the kitchen. They fucked on every horizontal surface in Andrew’s flat, as well as several of the vertical ones. And they always left the living-room blinds open, in contempt of Andrew’s rock-hurling stalker (who’d been silent since that night).

Yet they never cuddled, not while watching a film on the couch, nor lying together in bed before Colin went home to his family each night. Andrew began to long for the soothing simplicity of a casual caress. But every time they touched, that unquenchable fire would spark to life again, and the only thing to do was let it burn itself out, in sweat and cum and screams.

“I’m so excited,” Colin said now, for the forty-seventh time. “So. Fucking. Excited.”

“I know.” Andrew marked the Skymall catalog’s page with his finger and flipped to the next section. From the corner of his eye he saw Colin’s face plastered against the 757’s window, watching the North Atlantic drift by beneath scattered clouds.

“I’ve never been in an aeroplane before.”

“Really?” This grabbed Andrew’s attention from the selection of cheesy novelty items. “Were you frightened at takeoff?”

“No.” Colin’s eyes widened. “Should I have been?”

“Most people are nervous their first time. They fixate on airline disasters.”

“That’s daft. Statistically speaking, planes almost never crash. You’re more likely to be killed in a dog attack during an earthquake while simultaneously being struck by lightning.”

Andrew smiled as he turned back to the catalog. He adored Colin’s geeky fascination and adeptness with numbers, juxtaposed with his muscles and tattoos. Also, he was thrilled to make Colin’s air-travel debut a worthy one—in the first-class section, of course.

“What’s that magazine you’re so obsessed with?” Colin asked.

“The Skymall catalog is the only upside to flying an American airline. I choose the most outrageously tasteless item and have it sent to my m—to my parents.” Since the departure of Colin’s mum, Andrew avoided mentioning his somewhat close, mostly harmonious relationship with his own mother. “I once bought them this.” He showed Colin the “King Tut’s Egyptian Throne,” costing $999.00. “But they wouldn’t be amused by that sort of spending these days. So I’m trying to decide between the ‘Macedonian Battle Helmet’…” He displayed the page he’d marked.

“Looks authentic.”

“Mm-hm. Or this.” He flipped forward to the garden section.

Colin tilted his head. “A Chewbacca statue?”

“It’s a yeti, you philistine. A representation of Bigfoot is precisely what Dunleven’s carefully groomed rose garden requires.”

“Seems a bargain at a hundred twenty-five dollars.” For once, Colin’s voice held no discernible edge when he spoke of money. Perhaps he was going to rein in his anxieties and resentments for one weekend.

“That’s sorted, then.” Andrew tucked the catalog into his rucksack beneath the seat in front of him. “By the way, I fetched your kilt from the tailor yesterday. It’s in my wardrobe bag, along with my own.”

“We’re wearing them in New York?”

“Of course. Americans love kilts. We’ll have that city eating out of our hands in seconds flat.”

Colin leaned his elbow on their shared arm rest and put his chin on his hand. “Can we fuck in our kilts?” he asked in a low, sonorous voice.

Andrew’s cock stirred at the thought. “Anything you want.” He kissed the tip of Colin’s nose. “It’s your birthday.”

“Yaldy!” Colin tapped the insteps of his feet together like hands clapping. Then he started singing will.i.am and Cody Wise’s “It’s My Birthday,” loudly enough that the couple across the aisle looked their way.

Andrew shrugged at them. “It’s his birthday.”

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