Page 102 of Men in Shorts

Andrew hoped this feeling wasn’t just paying him a brief visit. He hoped it was here to stay.

* * *

At.Fucking. Last.

Colin’s chest felt ready to explode with anticipation. Finally, after nearly four months, he was moments from playing in an actual football match.

Duncan limped across the muddy pitch, escorted by the physio. When he reached Colin, the two forwards high-fived.

“All right, mate?” Colin asked him.

“Fucking cramp. Nothing serious, no thanks to that center-back Wilson. Bastard’s been fouling me all match.” Duncan gave Colin’s arse a hard smack. “Go and win it for us, ya bam!”

Colin charged out onto the pitch to join the Warriors for the free kick. He made straight for Evan and Fergus, who were conferring near the ball.

“What’s the plan?” Fergus asked, using his sleeve to swipe the rain off his freckled face.

“With this mad wind,” Colin said, “Charlotte wants us to take it short, keep it on the ground. Like we practiced last week?”

Fergus exchanged a nod of consensus with Evan. “Remind everyone in the wall where they need to go.”

“Aye aye, skipper,” Colin said with a salute. As he jogged toward his frazzled-looking teammates, he realized Evan hadn’t argued with Charlotte’s decision. In the past, their former captain would’ve insisted he could sink the free kick into the net from any distance in any weather.

Colin spread the word of their impending fake-out—all quiet and casual-like, so as not to clue up their opponents. The Warriors formed their usual line at the edge of the penalty area, jostling with defenders as if they expected Evan to sail in a high chip for them to head into the goal.

Amidst the raucous cheers of the Rainbow Regiment, Colin heard a new chant rising:

“Beware MacDuff! Beware the Thane of Fife!”

He peered through the rain toward the stands—such as they were—to see Andrew at the center of the Regiment, leading the Shakespearean rallying call.

When they’d first met, Colin never would have dreamed someone so posh was capable of such loyalty. How many aristocrats wiped their lovers’ brows through feverish nights, or rubbed their backs whilst they boaked their guts into the toilet, or tolerated the defeatist rubbish Colin had spouted in his darkest moments (“Just let me die,”he’d said several times, often over something as minor as a urinary tract infection)?

This win’s for you, ya wee fandan.

The whistle blew, and Evan charged toward the ball. For a second, even Colin was fooled, thinking the midfielder would disobey Charlotte’s order and shoot for glory.

Instead Evan ran past the ball toward the corner of the pitch. Colin, Jamie, and Shona burst forward, fanning out as the rest of their team fell back toward the goal along with their confused opponents.

Fergus’s precise pass reached Colin’s foot. As he pivoted to shoot, a yellow-and-black East Fife shirt blocked his view of the goal. The center-back charged at him, boots splashing in the sodden grass. Colin faked to the right, darted to his left, then crossed the tattered white line into the penalty area.

The defender tugged Colin’s shirt hard. The world began to tilt. Instinct kicked in, and Colin dug deep for a bolt of white-hot energy, enough to keep his feet and break free of his opponent’s grip. Glimpsing that imaginary line between himself and the net, Colin shot for goal.

But the defender had pulled him off-balance, so his foot merely scraped the ball, which took a leisurely bounce toward the near post. The goalkeeper slipped as he lunged to make the save, and for a second Colin thought he’d won the game with the crappest of goals. But at the last moment the flailing keeper fingertipped the ball behind the byline.

Colin smeared the damp hair back from his forehead and groaned.

Shona patted his back. “Brilliant chance there. And at least we won the corner.”

There was that. Fergus was strolling toward the corner flag to take the kick, his posture exuding a literal calm amidst the storm.

Evan nudged Colin as they moved into position. “That defender Wilson fouled you when he pulled your shirt. If you’d gone down, we’d have got a penalty kick.”

Colin scowled. “I don’t want to cheat.”

“It’s not cheating to fall when you’re fouled. Every veteran player does it. And every young player resists it.”

“Are you saying I need to grow up?”

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