Page 13 of Men in Shorts

Sprinting down the pitch near the end of practice—toward what should have been an easy score—Duncan pulled up short, stymied by yet another half-hearted pass from Fergus that went far behind him and out of play.

As the other side prepared to throw in the ball, Duncan darted over to the midfielder, utterly fed up. “What the hell’s your problem, mate?”

Fergus turned away, rubbing his eye. “No problem,” he said in his soft Highland lilt. “I passed it to you. You weren’t there.”

“You don’t pass to where Iam, you pass to where I’mgoing.” Duncan followed him, gesturing at the goal. “That way I can keep running proper fast, which is my job, then score, which is my other job. Fuck’s sake, we’re taught this when we’re five years old. Have you gone off your head?”

Fergus whipped around, towering over Duncan, his haunted gaze chilling the air between them. “What do you think?” he whispered.

The whistle blew then, signaling the end of practice. Fergus turned away with a hollow scoff.

Duncan glanced at the touchline to see their manager, Charlotte Atchison, glaring at him, her face scrunched up against the low-angled evening sun. Hoping to avoid a lecture, he hustled to the other end of the pitch to gather equipment from their training drills.

He knew he was on thin ice as it was. His recent short temper had made him commit careless fouls, enough to earn a yellow-card caution in each of the Warriors’ two league matches since that fateful Cup quarterfinal. If he wasn’t careful, Charlotte would drop him for the next match, and maybe more.

As he collected the scattered footballs into their large net storage bag, he saw his fellow starting forward, Colin MacDuff, trotting toward him.

“Here, I’ll gi’e you a hand. Or a foot. Catch!” Colin lobbed one of the footballs at Duncan, who spread the bag wide open to let it sail in. “Result!” Colin raised his arms in triumph.

“Quality, mate. Do it again.”

Colin sent him another shot, but this one sailed a bit wide, to Duncan’s right side. He stopped it with his thigh, then tapped it up and over with his instep, straight into the bag.

“Get in!” Colin mimed a long-distance high-five, then walked toward the closest football. “So what’s got you round the twist, man?”

Duncan started to protest that he was fine, then stopped himself. He appreciated the spiky-haired, multi-tattooed North Glaswegian’s brutal honesty. As the two youngest Warriors, they’d had a friendly rivalry from day one. By working on their shooting skills together outside of practice, they’d clawed their way into the starting eleven. They were a team within a team. If there was anyone Duncan could talk to, it was Colin.

“Pissed off about Evan, I guess.”

“We all are. What makesyouso special?”

“I didn’t say?—”

“Look,I’mthe hellraiser on this squad.” Colin fired a bullet of a shot that smacked Duncan’s knees. “I’mthe loose cannon, the powder keg, the bampot.” He kicked another ball, this one at Duncan’s chest.

“Ow! Knock it?—”

“You’re the cool yin, Mister Fuckin’ Reliable. Naebody rattles you.”

“But I don’t?—”

“You cannae out-daft me, so gonnae no try it, ya dick.” Colin kicked the last ball straight at Duncan’s face.

Instinctively Duncan bent his neck to head the ball straight back at Colin, who caught it in his arms.

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll chill.” Duncan opened the ball bag. “You are the bam, after all.”

“Sorry? Cannae hear you.”

“You’re the bam!” he shouted.

“Fuckin’ right.” Colin hurled the ball into the bag, then began leaping about like a chimpanzee on Adderall. “I’mthe bam!I’mthe bam!”

“Harris! A word?”

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