Page 32 of Men in Shorts

The book opened to one of his favorite passages, the account of the 1979 FA Cup Final against the universally despised Manchester United. Nick’s lifelong dream at that point was to see Arsenal win the Cup at Wembley, so in typical fan fashion, he’d made a bargain with the universe: if Arsenal won, he would be okay with failing his final exams and with Margaret Thatcher becoming Prime Minister.

Arsenal went up by two goals, and bliss was within reach, but United scored twice within the final five minutes. Nick was slammed with an all-too-familiar grief. Fans behind him—grown men and women—were sobbing their faces off. It was literally the worst thing that had ever happened in the history of everything.

Then…Arsenal scored. Nick’s resigned sorrow turned to disbelieving joy. His dream had come true. His life was complete at the age of twenty-two.

Duncan shut the book and rested it on his chest, marking the page with his thumb. He knew well what happened next. Nick Hornby and Arsenal each descended into a decade-long depression, abandoned by girlfriends and midfielders, unable to correct their repeated mistakes.

Duncan felt himself on a similar precipice, as his emotions seemed to be slipping out of control since that fateful cup quarterfinal. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose the WarriorsandBrodie. Maybe he’d lost them already.

A knock came at his door. He slapped the book onto his nightstand and scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping on the covers as hope leapt into his throat.

He opened the door to see Brodie in his Passenger T-shirt and plaid pajama trousers, clutching a pillow to his chest.

“I was thinking.” Brodie looked down at his own twitching toes. “Maybe we’re a wee bit adorable.”

* * *

Brodie stared at the ceiling,too tired to sleep. Beside him, Duncan sprawled on his stomach, one arm and one leg looped over Brodie’s body, his face the very portrait of peace.

The gap between the curtains let in enough streetlight for Brodie to study Duncan’s room. Its layout was identical to Brodie’s—bed to the left of the window, desk to the right, wardrobe at the foot of the bed, sink beside the armchair facing the door—but that’s where the similarity ended. Where Brodie’s posters featured musicians or artwork, Duncan’s had sweaty men in football shirts bearing the names of corporations. The majority wore red and white stripes, matching the duvet Brodie lay under now.Must be Duncan’s favorite team, he thought, but couldn’t remember which that was. Newcastle, perhaps?

He switched on his phone to get a bit more light. In violation of student-housing rules, Duncan had taped a poster to the side of his wardrobe facing the bed. It bore images of a man who was preternaturally handsome and apparently very good at kicking a ball into a net. In one picture he was conveniently soaking wet, every ab muscle evident through the translucent white shirt. Another picture showed him celebrating with his top off, flexing his pecs and screaming at the crowd.

Brodie closed his eyes, but it was too late to avoid the flash of memory: a ring of boys in muddy white football shirts cornering him in the alley behind the village bait shop. Shoving him to his knees (“Your favorite place to be!”). Waving their pricks in his face (“Fair hungry now?”). Giving him a clout on the head every time he closed his eyes or looked away (“Dinna be shy, min!”). Force-feeding him lugworms until he spewed.

And always, in the background, the North Sea’s waves kept rolling, and the gulls kept laughing.

He turned his head to look at Duncan, hoping his face would keep those memories at bay. Soft breath whistled quietly through that perfect, turned-up nose, the one that crinkled when he was trying not to laugh.

Duncan couldn’t be like the footballers Brodie had known in school. While he wasn’t exactly leading a gay-pride parade, he was out and proud with the Warriors. He fought the sport’s rampant homophobia every day. He was making a difference.

So why did Brodie still feel so distant from him at times? Why couldn’t he tell Duncan about his mother’s rejection? Had he sensed Duncan couldn’t understand what it was like to be condemned by one’s own flesh and blood? That hunch had certainly been confirmed at dinner tonight. They were from different worlds.

Brodie placed his phone back on Duncan’s improvised bedside table (a storage crate topped by a red-and-white chessboard). His hand brushed a book lying open face down:Fever Pitch, Duncan’s favorite tale of obsession.

“Haven’t you ever loved far past the point of sanity?”he’d asked. The thought terrified Brodie. If he had let himself love Geoffrey, he never would have survived his daily disloyalty. The only way to keep his heart safe was to expect nothing from men, give nothingtothem.

A tap on his calf drew his attention back to the sleeping Duncan, whose feet twitched beneath the covers. Was he dreaming of a heroic sprint down the pitch, ending with a final kick past the outstretched arms of a goalkeeper? What sorts of thoughts filled that bold, carefree mind?

Brodie carefully slid out from under Duncan’s arm and leg. With a faint mumble, Duncan rolled away, still asleep. Brodie picked up the book and crossed to the armchair beside the desk. He tilted the desk lamp away from the bed before switching it on.

Then he opened the book to the page Duncan had been reading. Perhaps these words could help him solve the puzzle of this allegedly beautiful game, and this definitively beautiful boy.

Chapter9

“Will there still be tickets available?”Brodie asked Lorna as they approached the East End park where Duncan’s match was soon to begin.

Lorna and Paul found this question hilarious.

“This is amateur football, mate,” Paul said. “Nae tickets. Nae seats either, usually, but at least this park’s got the terraces.” He pointed to the rows of long, mossy, concrete steps, most of which were sheltered by a roof with peeling white paint.

“Is this your first match, Brodie?” Lorna asked as they went round the back of the stands to the entrance. “Are you a football virgin?”

“Please don’t use those two words together.” Brodie shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets to hide their trembling. His skin felt thin today, perhaps due to the damp wind or the lingering virus—or maybe because of his nerves.

ReadingFever Pitchlast night had left him more puzzled than ever. But he reckoned the best way to understand Duncan’s great passion was to overcome his own football phobia and put himself in the thick of it. If nothing else, he’d show Duncan he was trying to bridge the gap between them.

“Oh.” Brodie stopped in his tracks. “There they are.”

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