Page 21 of Men in Shorts

“NoRiver Citytonight?”

“Sorry, my head’s fair killing me.” He hoped Duncan would turn out the light and take his mind off the pain in the best way possible.

“I could read to you until you fall asleep.”

Nothing had ever sounded so romantic. “All right.” Brodie rolled over to face the wall. “As long as it’s not our psychology text.”

“Let’s see what else is on my tablet. Oh, here’s my favorite book! At home I’ve got the hardcover and the paperbacks with the American cover and both the film covers—the 1997 Colin Firth film and the 2005 one with Jimmy Fallon—and in my room I’ve got the original paperback. It’s pure marked up.”

When Duncan finally hit pause on his enthusiasm, Brodie asked, “Which book?”

“Nick Hornby’sFever Pitch, of course.”

Oh God.“I love Nick Hornby.”But I hate football.“I thought you wanted to forget the game.”

“Eh, I guess it’s not so painful when I’m here with you.”

Brodie smiled against his pillow, despite his dread of the book’s subject matter. “On you go, then.”

With a happy sigh, Duncan began reading aloud, about the obsessive nature of the football fan, the sort of man whose identity and happiness were inextricably entwined with the fate of a round leather ball. The sort of man Brodie would never understand, but was more than happy to lie beside tonight.

Chapter6

Duncan readuntil his voice was too hoarse to hear himself above Brodie’s snores. Then he switched off his tablet and let his gaze wander over the walls as he decided whether to stay or go.

On the pinboard above the desk—the only place students were permitted to hang things—was a series of three Georgia O’Keeffe desert mountain prints. Their warm, vivid colors matched the sheets and duvet. As far as Duncan knew, Brodie had no connection to the American Southwest. If anything, he came from a world that was the exact opposite, the cold, stormy coast of northeast Scotland, a place Duncan, like most humans, knew only from the 1980s filmLocal Hero.

He lifted his head to search the room for framed photos of Brodie’s home, expecting to see a beach, a fishing boat, or one of the steep, rocky braes the north coast was so famous for. But there was nothing, not even one family picture.

This puzzle only made Duncan more determined to better know this beautiful, fragile lad, which meant spending every minute he could with him. Including tonight.

But first he had to turn off the light. He eased out from beneath the covers, then crept over to the switch near the door. At that moment, Brodie groaned in his sleep and rolled onto his back, flinging out his left arm and leg to fill the empty space.

“Of course,” Duncan whispered. He knew he should walk out now. Dozing off beside Brodie would’ve looked natural and casual. Waking Brodie to make him move over, on the other hand…

Go with your gut, Evan had always said. Then again, Evan was a treacherous twat whose gut had apparently told him to fuck off to Belgium when his team needed him most.

Duncan’s own gut told him there was something more than friendship here. It told him to slide beneath the covers and wrap himself around Brodie, bury his face in his thick, dark hair, then let whatever was meant to happen, happen.

Or maybe it wasn’t hisguttelling him to do this so much as his cock. Either way, he listened.

Duncan switched off the light, then returned to the bed, where he tapped Brodie’s knee through the duvet. “Freeze, Bed Hog, you’re under arrest,” he said in an American cop-show drawl.

“You’ll never take me alive,” Brodie murmured as he rolled to face the wall again.

Duncan got into bed but lay on his back, uncertain whether to turn away from Brodie or toward him. Today’s Facebook flirtation had left him on edge. Their online banter was the sort mere pals could have, pals who were so comfortable with each other, they wouldn’t misinterpret the joke as a come-on. Pals who could share a twin bed without hooking up.

“Why do you love football?” Brodie asked.

Duncan blinked hard, startled out of his pondering by Brodie’s clear, alert voice. “Why shouldn’t I love it?”

“Don’t be defensive. You’re not on trial.”

“Aren’t I?”

“Don’t start that again,” Brodie said. “The turning-my-statement-into-a-question thing. You’ll make an annoying psychologist.” He kept facing the wall but shifted beneath the covers, his leg nearly brushing Duncan’s. “You know that book you were reading?”

“Fever Pitch?”

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