Page 36 of Men in Shorts

“You like it rough, ya wee perv?” he growled as he squeezed. “You won’t like it when I put you on your knees and—OOFT!”

His hand slipped off Duncan’s neck as he tumbled to the grass beneath someone in a pale blue shirt. Duncan coughed and sputtered, his throat burning. With watering eyes he saw his savior stand up and loom over McCurdy.

“If you ever touch one of my players again,” he said in a steely voice unsoftened by his cultured Highland lilt, “I will cut off your balls and wear them for earrings. Do you understand?”

Duncan wiped his disbelieving eyes.Fergus, of all people, had come to his rescue.

* * *

Brodie leaptto his feet with the rest of the crowd, then rushed to press himself against the rope fence. It took every ounce of self-control not to duck under it, run onto the pitch, and hurl himself in front of the Shettleston players swarming toward Duncan.

Both teams were converging, turning the row into an all-out brawl. Brodie could barely hear the referee’s whistle over the shouts of the crowd behind him.

“This is immense!” Paul kicked the fence post in glee as Lorna raised her phone to take video. “First Duncan scores a header, now we’ve got a right punch-up. Brodie, you picked a belter of a first match.”

Brodie watched Duncan take a few halting steps away from the melee, rubbing his neck with both hands.

“I hope he broke your throat,” shouted a man to their left, in the home fans’ section. “Fuckin’ faggot!”

The word was a punch in the gut. As the Rainbow Regiment hurled back their own indignant insults, Brodie began to sweat, despite the rapidly chilling air. He shut his eyes and tried to slow his breath, but it only accentuated the thumping of his heart. Beneath the rising shouts and the whistle of a passing train, he heard the laughter of gulls and the roar of the relentless, pitiless sea.

He would never not be hunted. They would always find him, always punish him. Such was the way of the world.

Lorna patted his back. “Aww, Brodie, sorry this got so mental. Look, it’s over now. The refs have already broken it up.”

Brodie opened his eyes to see the players dispersing. One of the officials held up a square red card toward Duncan, then his attacker, then Fergus.

“Why is Duncan being sent off?” Paul asked. “He’s the one got throttled.”

“Because he started it.” Brodie’s voice shook. “He swung at number five, then shoved him.”

“Never known him to lose the rag like that. He’s usually so calm.” Lorna stopped recording and lowered her phone. “That defender must have said something awful.”

Something about me.Brodie remembered the malicious grin the man had aimed at him.

Despite the presence of his mates and the Rainbow Regiment, Brodie had never felt so vulnerable. Here were more than a few school bullies whosuspectedhe was gay. Here was an entire crowd whoknewit. The thrill of pride he’d felt at Duncan’s pre-match kiss had morphed into the chill of fear.

Brodie searched for Duncan amongst the Warriors. The whistle had just blown to end the first half, so both teams were headed toward their respective benches. Duncan and Fergus approached their manager with their heads hung. Barely five and a half feet tall, she looked as intimidating as a giant as she stood, fists on her hips, trembling with fury. She signaled for the two players to stand aside away from the others.

“A red card means you’ve got to leave the field of play for the rest of the match,” Lorna told Brodie. “That includes the bench.”

“Technically they should go home now,” Paul added, “but apparently Charlotte thinks they need screamed at first.”

“Harris, you all right?” Lorna called out, hands cupped around her mouth. Duncan gave them a grim thumbs-up before turning to talk to Fergus. “See, Brodie, he’s fine,” she said. “And even though it’s nine against ten, we could still win.”

Paul snorted. “Are you daft, doll? We’ve lost a striker and our attacking midfielder.”

“So Charlotte will adjust the formation. She can sub out one of the defenders for a winger.”

Another Warrior, a lad with black spiky hair and tattooed arms, sneaked away from the manager’s meeting at the bench. He sidled up to Duncan, whispered something behind his hand, then darted back to his teammates.

To Brodie’s disbelief, Duncan started laughing. Five minutes after he’d tried to punch a fellow player, after he’d been throttled, then expelled from the game, he wassmiling. Like the whole incident was but a lark.

Duncan had laughed at Brodie last night at dinner. He’d made him feel a fool, sitting in that restaurant, surrounded by hipsters who had no idea the rest of the world didn’t share their enlightened views. He’d said words that cut, referring to LGBTQ activists’ “whingeing” and Brodie’s wallowing in the tragedy of homophobia, a tragedy Duncan claimed was over.

But clearly it was far from over, given that the home fans—including some children—were now chanting, “Do you take it up the arse?”

It didn’t matter that the Warriors fans were chanting back, “Don’t knock it till you try it!” People like the Rainbow Regiment couldn’t be everywhere. They couldn’t change the world.

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