Page 18 of Playing to Win

As Andrew’s family was always reminding him, his greatest asset was his fame, and his greatest claim to fame—besides being fabulous—was his sexuality. Were he straight, he’d be just another insufferable toff. But being gay made him a lightning rod for attention. It brought him masses of fans and haters. It brought risk. It brought power.

And now it had brought him Colin MacDuff. If there were ever a lad who didn’t fit into Andrew’s master plan, it was him. He was poor, he was coarse—and quite likely a supporter of Scottish independence, if his rants against the Westminster government were any indication.

Colin had nothing to offer but a bit of filthy sex, something Andrew could find anywhere, any time. He wasn’t worth the bother.

Andrew sat on the couch with the LBB and his tea, then unlocked his phone, intending to delete Colin from his contacts. But the social-networking icons on his home screen soon distracted him. Andrew wished for the willpower to awaken his phone without checking to see how many people had tweeted at him, tagged him, and liked or favorited his posts.

He went to Instagram first, to see if anyone had tagged him at yesterday’s parties. Of course they had. Andrew scrolled through the photos, ensuring none was awful.

Then a thought occurred to him. He searched for photos uploaded in Glasgow in the last twelve hours. A flood of Commonwealth Games pics met his eyes, but then he found what he was looking for. What he was dreading:

A short video in a darkened warehouse, with the captionBest Crowd Dive Ever. Andrew hit play, then the speaker icon to turn on the sound.

There he was as “Adam Smith,” perched atop that storage container, legs slowly ascending.What fantastic form, he thought, making a mental note to share the video to his private email.

Off camera, a familiar voice screamed, “Andrew, no! Gonnae no do it!”

The camera swung to face the shouter, revealing Colin’s upturned face, pale with fear. “Mate,” said the guy holding the camera, “Looks like you’ve met your match.”

Then the view swooped back up to show “Adam” in full vertical position, ready to dive.

Offscreen, Colin’s voice was raw and tight. “Please! I’m sorry. Oh God, I’m so sorry. Please don’t…” He was nearly sobbing. “If he dies, I’ll fucking kill myself.”

Andrew’s fingers spasmed on the phone, and he barely noticed his onscreen body leaping, spinning, falling, then disappearing into the crowd.

The video restarted automatically. Andrew flung the phone to the other end of the couch, as if it were a spider he’d found crawling on his leg. As Colin pleaded with him from the tiny speaker, Andrew pulled the Little Black Book to his chest and dug his fingers into the back cover, crumpling the Cartier ad printed there.

Forget him, ordered the voice originating from the part of his brain controlled by—well, by his brain.He is the one thing in this world you cannot afford.

CHAPTERFIVE

COLIN’SHANDSTINGLEDwith anticipation as he suited up for football practice for the first time in weeks. With an ear-popping Mell Tierra dance mix thumping in his headphones, he sat on his bed to draw up his white sport socks, the top of the left one nearly reaching his black hinged supportive knee brace. Then came his boots, a pair of red-and-black Nike T90s, the sort Wayne Rooney used to wear. Colin was lucky he shared a shoe size with fellow Warriors forward Duncan Harris, who was minted enough to buy new boots each year and give Colin his old ones.

As he dressed, he steered his mind away from the previous night’s rave and near-incarceration by reviewing the new drills his manager had implemented last week. Colin could have stayed home during his rehab, but instead he’d attended every practice session to observe the team’s progress and ensure they didn’t forget him.

A knock came on his half-open door, and his gran stuck in her pink-curler-covered head. “You excited, lad?”

“Stoked!” He gave her a thumbs up, then reached for the loosely wrapped sandwich she offered. “What’s this?”

“Jeely piece with peanut butter. Lots of carbs for energy, but it’ll keep you full.”

“Cheers, Gran.” He got up to kiss her cheek, hiding his wince of pain.

She pulled back and frowned at him. “How’s the knee, then?”

Okay, maybe his wince wasn’t so hidden. He took a massive bite of sandwich so he wouldn’t be able to answer, then simply replied with a vigorous nod.

Colin knew exactly what had aggravated his knee last night. Not dancing, not climbing the storage container, not diving into the crowd. He’d tweaked it when he’d lurched to catch Andrew as they’d left the dance floor, when the toff’s own knees had given out.

“Gonnae no favor it too much,” his gran said, following him down the hall of their flat. “You’ll end up hurting the other as well.”

Cheers erupted from the living room, where Colin found his dad and thirteen-year-old sister, Emma, exchanging high fives. The television showed BBC’s broadcast of the Commonwealth Games from Glasgow’s Ibrox Stadium.

“Samoa beat England in rugby sevens!” Emma shook her arse at the telly screen, taunting their despondent southern neighbors in red-and-white kits. No one in this flat gave a toss about rugby of any sort, but it was always a good day when England lost.

Colin took another bite of the PB&J. “When do Scotland play?”

“We’re up next against South Africa,” his dad replied. “No danger we’ll win.”

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