Page 3 of Playing to Win

“In that case, it sounds like my sort of castle.”

Andrew laughed, a loud and inelegant chortle for one so sophisticated. He turned and opened two of the three beers he’d fetched from the fridge, then handed one to Colin. “To falling castles.”

“Aye.” Colin tapped his bottle against Andrew’s, then examined his face as they sipped. Aside from the lack of glasses and stubble, it was exactly how he’d remembered it. High, swooping cheekbones, razor-straight nose, and soft, firm lips. All perfectly proportioned and symmetrical, right down to the shape of his nostrils and earlobes. The sole flaw, a beauty mark in the center of that left dimple, only underscored his face’s perfection.

“How’s your knee?” Andrew asked. “You’ll be back on the pitch soon, I hope?”

Colin hesitated, reluctant to let down his guard by talking about the injury. “It’s much better. I’m able to run again, nearly every day. Lucky for me I got hurt in June, so I’ve not missed any league matches.”Just last week’s charity friendly match that turned the Warriors into international gay icons.“Our manager hopes I’ll be playing by the start of the season in September.”

“I hope so too. Rehab is dreadfully dull, isn’t it?”

“The worst.” Colin felt himself soften at the sympathy. “I wanted to set fire to that fucking exercise bike. Pedaling and pedaling for hours, going nowhere.”

Andrew laughed again, making Colin’s stomach flip. He averted his eyes, glancing at a sunset-streaked Glasgow through the window over the sink.Keep the head, he told himself.Gonnae no look at the dimples.

“I look forward to seeing you return,” Andrew said. “God knows the Warriors need some goal-scoring. They were playing on the back foot during that entire match with Morningside. It was painful.”

Colin finally gave in to the instinct to step away. “I thought your sort preferred rugby or cricket to football.”

“I’m a huge fan ofle beau jeu. Infamously so, I’m afraid.” He gave a suggestive chuckle—no doubt referring to his rumored liaisons with several pro footballers—then sidled closer, nearly whispering. “And I think you’ll find I’m not any sort of person.”

There, it was happening again—that velvet voice rippling under Colin’s skin, over his shoulders, down his back, and straight to his cock.

Run, every instinct urged him. But Colin wasn’t a coward, despite his initial panic upon seeing Andrew again. Perhaps tonight would offer a chance to get even. He could have his revenge and maybe a little fun to boot. If he could just keep his cool.

Colin held his ground and eased into small talk. “So you met John at uni. What do you study there?”

“Economic and Social History. Like John, I plan on a life in politics, though obviously not in the same party. I’m a Tory, of course,” he said, as if it were a good thing, “and John is—well, I don’t know what he is this week. Labour, Scottish Nationalist Party, Green? I can’t keep up.”

“National,” Colin said with emphasis. “It’s the ScottishNationalParty, not Nationalist.”

“Right.” Andrew flipped his hand as if shooing away the pesky party who currently held power in Scotland—what little power the United Kingdom afforded them, that is. “Who knows, perhaps one day John and I will compete to be this country’s first gay Prime Minister.”

John himself had just entered the kitchen, but Andrew kept his focus on Colin. Instead of joining them, John gave Colin an encouraging bob of the eyebrows, then left with a pair of beers from the fridge.

Colin smirked at Andrew. “So you’re gonnae work for a living? What about your gentlemanly duties?”

“You mean running the estate? No, I’m the second son, so when my father dies, I get nothing. Which means I’m free to do whatever I want with my life, as long as I don’t sully the family name.” A muscle beneath his eye twitched for a microsecond. “What about you, with university? Forgive me if you already told me, you know, before.”

“I’m at Caley, studying business.”

“Caley?” Andrew tilted his head sharply, like a puppy hearing a mobile phone ring for the first time. “What’s that?”

“Glasgow Caledonian University.”

“Ah yes! I’ve heard their radio adverts. Is that a real university, where you attend lectures and such, or is it all online?”

Colin’s fist clamped on the bottle. Andrew couldn’t have lived in Glasgow for a year and not known GCU. He was clearly just being a dick. “Aye, it’s a real uni, whose graduates have one of highest rates of employment in the UK.”

“That’s fabulous,” Andrew replied, in a tone usually reserved for praising a four-year-old’s finger paintings. “I mean, if that’s what you’re looking for in higher education.”

“What else would anyone look for?”

“Oh, I don’t know, intellectual challenge? Growth as a human being? Contributing to the world’s body of knowledge?”

The smug tone shattered Colin’s restraint. He slammed his beer bottle on the worktop. “How about finding a fucking job so I can feed my fucking family? So I don’t feel so fucking helpless the next time you fucking Tories cut fucking benefits in the name of fucking austerity?”

Andrew looked unfazed. “Ah, see, this is a sign that we fucking Tories are getting it right. Our policies have made you resolve to be self-reliant.” He squeezed Colin’s forearm. “Now you’ll be a productive member of society, rather than continue your parents’ toxic welfare habits.”

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