Page 2 of Men in Shorts

“No, Evan’s a good—” Duncan stopped himself. “Hewasa good guy.”

The goalkeeper shook his head as he jogged away to join his teammates, who were hugging and whooping at the other end of the pitch. Duncan turned to applaud the fans in the stands, where he saw his friend Lorna at the fence. She and her boyfriend, Paul, along with the rest of the Rainbow Regiment, were still brandishing their banners and flags. Still proud.

He waved at them, searching the crowd for a face he knew he wouldn’t find. His friend Brodie hated football, and besides, he’d gone home for spring vacation. But after what had happened the last time they’d seen each other, Duncan hoped Brodie would change his mind. Maybe he’d take the train back to Glasgow for the day. And the night.

He hadn’t.

Duncan turned back to join his teammates, ready to console and commiserate. They’d been eliminated from this tournament, but there were still six regular-season matches to play. They were on track to place second and be promoted to the amateur Premier division—a first for an all-LGBTQ team. It could still be a successful season. It had to be.

The Warriors were scattered across the pitch like chess pieces after an abandoned match, each man or woman alone. Some hobbled about in a daze, some sat and stared into the distance, some lay flat on their backs, drained of strength and hope. Duncan saw his own heartbreak reflected in each sweat-streaked, tear-stained face.

One day, he knew, they’d rise together. But tonight, they were falling apart.

* * *

Sixteen days later

Pulling back his rain-soaked hood, Brodie Campbell scanned the ground floor of the University of Glasgow library with a growing dread. On the first morning after spring vacation, the place was pure crammed. “Christ A’michty, fit a madhouse,” he muttered.

“Told you we should’ve come earlier.” Lorna dragged him toward the closest lift, which was opening just now. “C’mon, there’ll be seats upstairs—I hope.”

They squeezed onto the lift amid a flood of sodden, desperate-looking students. One week before exams, the air buzzed with anxiety.

Brodie wished his own tension were merely academic, but his mind was preoccupied with the inevitable moment he’d see his friend Duncan again for the first time in three weeks. The first time since their disastrous, drunken hookup the night before vacation.

On the lift’s rear wall, someone had stuck a sign handwritten in a red marker:

DESK HOGS MUST DIE

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The lion’s share of the exclamation points formed a second row beneath the letters.

“Welcome to the jungle,” Brodie told Lorna.

“It’s survival of the angriest during revision period.” She swiped a drop of rain off the tip of her nose. Her phone beeped. As she pulled it out, her long, dark hair hid the screen from Brodie’s view. “Oh!” She lifted her head and called out, “Level Two, please.”

The lift filled with groans. “You couldn’t use the stairs?” asked a brawny lad standing near the door.

“Just press the button, ya dobber,” Lorna said. “My mate here is ill.”

With shouts of alarm, everyone backed away from Brodie—as much as they could in the cramped space.

“I’m not ill.” His face heated under the hostile gazes. “I mean, I’m not contagious.”Not the airborne sort of contagious.

The doors opened, saving Brodie from further explanation. He followed Lorna out into the study area, which was as crowded and chaotic as the one on the ground floor. “Thanks for embarrassing me,” he told her. “Soon someone’ll post a warning onSpotted—‘Beware the lad in a gray hoodie spreading plague.’”

“No doubt.” Lorna surveyed the tables before them. Conversation was allowed on this level, so the volume of chatter was high. “You shouldn’t read that stupid site anyway. It’s a disaster.”

“I read itbecauseit’s a disaster.” Brodie pulled out his phone to check theSpotted: Glasgow Uni LibraryFacebook page. The site was already filling with the usual anonymous complaints and come-ons. Also, someone had posted a new photo of Clyde, Level Ten’s resident mouse. “Besides, we’re psychology students, so it counts as research.”

“Aye, right,” she said, rolling her eyes.

He nudged Lorna as they began their search for empty seats. “Listen to this post. ‘To the Hugh Jackman lookalike who sits by the Level Four keyboards: get your claws out and rip my clothes off. Please.’”

“At least she said ‘please.’”

“Could be ahe. Here’s another. ‘To the beautiful lad in the Passenger T-shirt: I can’t wait to give you another ride. Next time, I promise we won’t crash.’”

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