Page 1 of Men in Shorts

Chapter1

Saturday 5 April: Scottish Amateur Football Cup Quarterfinal, Petershill Park, Glasgow

Mud.

Sweat.

Blood.

Defeat.

Duncan Harris tasted them all at once, yet he kept running, kept driving for that mad round leather ball. After ninety-plus minutes of play, his natural strength had long abandoned his limbs. Now his only fuel was rage.

Down by four goals, the Woodstoun Warriors had no hope of victory, but if Duncan could score now, near the final whistle, his team could walk out of here today with a scrap of pride. They could give their legion of drizzle-damp, rainbow flag–waving fans something to cheer about. They could silence the haters, at least for a moment or two.

But their opponents kept possession with a series of leisurely passes, savoring their shocking upset that would send them to the semifinals. In their smug certainty of victory, they’d finally stopped taunting the Warriors with homophobic slurs.

Focus,Duncan commanded himself.For one more minute. Just focus.

An idea struck him then. With nothing to lose, he came to a halt and let his body go still. His arms dropped to his sides, his feet stopped shifting, and his weight went back on his heels. Finally his shoulders slumped in utter submission.

His charade worked. The opposing winger’s next pass was a fraction slower than the ones before it. Duncan sprang forward, snagging the ball on his right instep. With a quick pivot, he was off on a breakaway.

A few steps later, he realized he’d surprised his own teammates as well. No one was flanking him to receive a pass. No one possessed his speed. This task was his alone.

As he sprinted down the pitch, the roar of the crowd faded until he heard nothing but the huff of his own breath and the pounding of his feet against the wet turf.

A flash of blue and yellow told him a defender was approaching. Duncan faked a lunge to the left, forcing the fullback into a wide stance. Then he poked the ball straight through the defender’s legs, zipped around him, and picked up his own pass.

It was Duncan versus the goalkeeper now. The keeper rushed forward through the penalty area to cut down the angle, but with a nimble stutter-step, Duncan left him looking as stationary as a foosball figure.

From that point, a five-year-old could’ve scored. Duncan could’ve walked the ball in, or given it a gentle tap—or fuck’s sake, just let it roll in of its own momentum. But his mind betrayed him.

Evan would have been so proud of that play. You just showed the world why he chose you, why he fought for your place in the team. If only he were here to see it.

That’s when the rage returned. Duncan yanked back his foot, slammed the shot with all his might?—

—and booted it straight into the crossbar.

The ball ricocheted into the arms of the keeper, who swiftly spun and punted it far down the pitch. Ears ringing, Duncan stared up at the crossbar, which still shook from the impact of his shot.

“Yaaaaasss! Hahaaaa!”

Duncan turned at the sound of the keeper’s yell. Near the Warriors goal at the other end of the pitch, the opposing striker was knee-sliding toward the corner flag, arms raised in triumph. A moment later he disappeared beneath a swarm of bouncing, hugging teammates.

“What the—” A glance at the scoreboard told Duncan their opponents had just added their sixth goal.

The final whistle blew. All at once, Duncan was slammed by the pain of a dozen cuts and bruises, and the exhaustion of a ninety-minute battle with futility. He sank down against the goal’s near post until he felt the cold, wet artificial turf under his shorts. Then he put his head in his hands, covering his ears to muffle the noise of the crowd.

It’s over.Despair flooded his veins. The months of sacrifice—dawn runs, sore muscles, bored boyfriends who couldn’t tolerate Duncan’s early Friday-night bedtimes and demanding practice schedule—all would’ve been worth it if they’d won.

“Sorry, mate.”

Duncan looked up to see the opposing goalkeeper extending a hand. He wanted to sit and sulk, but he grabbed hold anyway, for the sake of sportsmanship. The keeper pulled him to his feet, his ribbed glove rasping against Duncan’s scraped palm.

“Don’t be sorry,” he told the keeper. “You were the better team today.” It was true. Their opponents had shredded them—physically and mentally—when they discovered the Warriors’ hearts had been ripped out minutes before the match began.

“Aye, we were better, for once.” The keeper flashed a disbelieving grin, which he promptly muted. “I meant, I’m sorry about your captain. He’s a right shit for what he did.”

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