Page 112 of Playing to Win

“Yeah, I didn’t feel so alone anymore. And between the players and fans of both teams, I metsomany hot guys. Hot gay lads who love the football. Do you know how rare that is?”

“Try finding hot gaytoffswho love football. I think I’m the sole member of that club.”

“That must make you president.” Colin gave a soft laugh. “You know, a year ago I thought I’d die without the game. It saved me. But then I started at uni, and that was a thing. Then I started campaigning for independence, and that was another thing.” He sighed. “Then I met this wee fandan called Lord Andrew, and that was the biggest thing of all.”

“Oh,” Andrew whispered as his stomach tingled. Colin had spoken Andrew’s title with almost no sarcasm.

He wanted to ask if Colin still felt the urge to cut himself. He wanted to reach through the phone and hold him. He wanted to hop on the next train north—even if it meant traveling coach class—to be with him again.

Out in the hallway, the grandfather clock struck midnight. “Happy Referendum Day,” he told Colin. “How are you feeling?”

“Excited. Terrified.” Colin let out a long breath. “Scotland’s always been the land of glorious defeats. We’re so proud of how bravely we fight, like victory doesnae matter. But this time it’s not enough to fight well, cos if we lose…it’s over. We’ll never get another chance.” He cleared his throat. “So we’ll talk Friday, then? Tomorrow’s gonnae be mental, and we’d best stay out of each other’s faces until it’s all over.”

“Okay.” Andrew turned from the window, sipping the last of his tea to clear the lump in his throat. “I’ll be home Sunday night.”

“Will you, aye? Sure you won’t stay in London for good if Scotland votes Yes?”

“If Scotland votes Yes, I’ll accept it and move on. Will you do the same if it’s a No?”

“Nah. Sorry.”

Andrew pulled back the covers and got in bed. “Thanks for being honest, at least.”

“I’m always honest with you.”

“You’re the only one.”

“Then you need new people in your life.” There was a shifting noise on the other end of the line, like the receiver was brushing cloth. Andrew imagined Colin rolling over in bed, his head indenting the pillow, his wild black hair standing out against the white Waldorf Astoria pillowcase.

Andrew lay down on his own pillow. “I wish I was there with you.”

“Me too,” Colin said. “It’s weird, but…I don’t want to hang up.”

“Me neither.” It felt like when this call ended, everything would end. “I was five years old when I first learned you could die in your sleep. I was afraid to close my eyes at night, in case I never opened them again.”

Colin was silent for a long moment. “We’ll be okay, Andrew.” He paused. “Right?”

Andrew reached up to switch off the bedside lamp. “Let’s just keep talking until we fall asleep, shall we?”

So they did, with lengthening pauses between sentences, and then between words, words that slurred, expressing thoughts that bent back on themselves. They talked until their exhaustion outweighed their dread.

After Colin stopped responding to soft utterances of his name, but before the call shut down, Andrew took a deep breath.

“I love you, Colin,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I’m too feart to tell you when you’re conscious. But I hope somehow you know it. Especially tomorrow.”

Then, without hanging up, he laid the phone on the pillow beside him, gazing at the photo of Colin linked in his contacts. Andrew had taken the picture whilst Colin was speaking to the crowd of canvassers that Sunday afternoon in Drumchapel. He’d looked confident and happy and so, so fierce.

When his phone screen went black, Andrew closed his eyes, seeing Colin’s image behind his lids. It was how he wanted to remember him, in his dreams and beyond.

Because tomorrow, no matter what, everything would change.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

AFTERNEARLYAyear of hoping and dreaming, of chapping doors and making calls, the most important day of Colin’s life passed in a flash.

At seven a.m., he arrived with his dad and gran at the Drumchapel polling station, where they stood in a long, merry queue. Then he went to work at a phone bank for the last push of calls—reminding Yes voters where their polling stations were and finding volunteers to drive those who needed rides. The mood in the Yes Scotland campaign office was sky high.

It was the same on Twitter, where the #VoteYes hashtag showed countless encouraging reports. Teenagers casting their first ever ballots. Old people casting them for the first time in decades, finally feeling they’d something worth voting for. People changing their minds to Yes while standing in the polling booth, their fears giving way to hope, their doubt giving way to faith in their fellow Scots.

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