Page 38 of Men in Shorts

Duncan stared at him. It was true. Therewaslife today, on the pitch, on the bench—and even in the haunted eyes of this heartbroken man.

“Don’t you defend what he did,” Charlotte said. “You’ve let me down more than anyone. At least Harris has the excuse of youth. Twenty-four years old, you are, and taking part in a brawl like a teenager. You should be showing leadership.”

“All due respect, Charlotte.” Fergus drew himself up to his full six-foot-four height. “Protecting my playerisleadership.”

She yanked back the hood of her jacket. “What did you say? Did you just call Harris ‘your player’?”

“No, I—” Fergus looked away. “I called him my teammate.”

“You said ‘my player,’” Duncan pointed out. “Just now, and also before, when you were yelling at McCurdy.”

Charlotte stepped close to Fergus and peered up into his eyes. “So you mean to be captain after all?”

“I never said that.”

“Ah, well, good job it’s not your choice.” She pulled her hood up again. “Not sure I’d choose you to lead this team after what just happened.”

“We should have a vote,” Duncan said.

“No,” Fergus told him. “The manager appoints the captain.”

“There’s no law saying that. Players can choose.” Duncan met Charlotte’s eyes. “When Evan left, this team was rocked to the fucking core. So we should all decide together who replaces him. It should be someone who’ll stand up for us no matter what.” He looked at Fergus. “Even when we ignore their good advice.”

Charlotte examined them both for a long moment, then nodded. “We’ll hold a vote next practice. Now get out of my sight.” As she turned and walked away, Duncan caught a hint of a smile on her face.

“Why do I feel like Charlotte got exactly what she wanted?” Fergus asked Duncan as they collected their kit bags from the dugout.

“Funny how that always happens.” Duncan slung his bag over his shoulder and turned toward the stands. He hoped Brodie would leave with him, for the sake of his health, and because Duncan really needed a friendly face just now.

He stopped, scanning the small crowd with growing unease. Brodie was nowhere to be seen, and most of the other spectators were turned away from the pitch, facing the exit, as if there’d been an incident there. One by one they turned to look at Duncan, with apprehension or anger.

He began to run.

Chapter11

Duncan’s breathheaved as he neared the street corner where he’d glimpsed Brodie, Paul, and Lorna on their way to the bus stop. The rain was driving full force now, cutting visibility to a handful of yards and making a dismal part of Glasgow look even worse than usual.

He dashed through the crosswalk just as the light turned red, prompting a horn blare from a rattling gray Vauxhall. Pivoting right, kit bag swinging wildly, he caught sight of Lorna’s purple umbrella ahead of him.

“Brodie!”

Lorna and Paul stopped and turned at the sound of Duncan’s voice, but Brodie just hunched his shoulders and kept walking. Duncan ran past the other two and slid to a stop on the slick pavement, catching hold of Brodie’s sleeve.

“What’s wrong? Why’d you leave?” He took a step back. “And what’s this orange stuff all over you?” It smelled like cough syrup.

“Irn-Bru, I think,” Brodie said in a hoarse, choked voice. “Or maybe Fanta, I don’t know. Who cares what was chucked at me?”

Duncan stared at his bright-red, tear-streaked face. “My God, what happened?” He reached for him.

“Dinna touch me.” Brodie hurried the last few yards to the bus stop, where he huddled under the meager shelter provided by its narrow roof.

“He was upset about the brawl.” Lorna was at Duncan’s side now, the edge of her umbrella nearly poking him in the chin. “So he walked off without telling us. By the time we caught up to him, they’d already started having a go.”

“Who?”

“The Shettleston fans,” Paul said. “Calling him names, throwing rubbish. They were raging at you for trying to punch their player, and they knew you and Brodie were together.”

They knew who he was because I kissed him. I made him a target.

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