Page 43 of Men in Shorts

Fergus chewed his chip longer than he needed to. “We’d go there on a Saturday. He’d make me stop working on my master’s thesis for a few hours, and we’d drive down in time to see the sunset over the harbor.”

“You and Evan.”

Fergus flinched a bit, then nodded. Duncan realized he hadn’t heard him say Evan’s name since their breakup. He couldn’t imagine how much the end a four-year relationship would hurt. His four-dayrelationship with Brodie had left him in pieces.

Just then, the sun broke out from behind the clouds near the horizon, bathing the hill and the city in soft golden light.

“Ah, that’s pure gorgeous.” Fergus turned to look south over Glasgow. Duncan followed his gaze past the spires of Lansdowne Parish Church and the Kelvingrove Park towers, past his ancient university, all the way to the green hills beyond the River Clyde. “When I’m inside the city, it seems so huge,” Fergus said. “It seems like the only thing that exists. Then I come up here and suddenly I see where it ends, where the land takes back the space from humans. And then Glasgow seems wonderfully small.” He took another sip of Irn-Bru, keeping his eyes on the horizon. “I’ve not come here to the flagpole since…well, you know. Since then. It’s good to get perspective.”

“This was a brilliant idea. Even the fish.”

Fergus turned back to Duncan with a skeptical smile. “That’s still to be determined. So you’ve lived in Glasgow all your life?”

“Aye. Born and bred.”

“I wondered, since your accent’s not as thick as some of the others—like Colin, for instance. Is that because of your time in the States?”

“A bit, but mostly because I went to private school. My parents aren’t minted, but I’m an only child and they wanted me to have a better life than they did. As long as I remember where it comes from.”

“And where’s that?”

“‘Harris’s Fine Interiors, at the heart of the Merchant City,’” Duncan recited in the soft, enticing voice of their radio advert, concluding with the slogan, “‘Quality. For life.’”

Fergus gaped at him, a chip halfway to his mouth. “That’s your family’s shop?”

“You’ve been there?”

“I’ve…browsed.” Fergus looked like he was trying to be diplomatic. “Mind, until a few months ago I was a full-time student, so disposable income was a foreign concept.”

“Believe me, I know the stuff we sell is pretentious and overpriced. Sadly, that’s my future, or at least my parents hope it’ll be.”

“I thought you were studying psychology.”

Duncan was surprised Fergus remembered his course. “Mum and Dad said I could get any degree I wanted as long as I came back to help run the shop after uni. When I chose psychology, they were like, ‘Great, it’ll make you a stellar salesman.’”

“Hah!” Fergus wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Is that your plan? Let the customers describe their dreams whilst reclining on one of your thousand-quid pleather sofas?”

“Exactly. Every therapy session will come with a free chenille twist rug. Choice of taupe, oatmeal, or mocha.” Duncan took a long sip from his can of Coke Zero, then lowered his voice, as if his parents might somehow hear from three miles away. “But seriously, after a year at uni, I think I’m more keen to continue for a Master’s, maybe one day be a sport psychologist.”

Fergus sat up straighter. “You mean like for depressed athletes?”

“Possibly, but sport psychology’s not just about mental illness. It’s about mental fitness, too. Being in the right frame of mind to perform, learning how to handle stress and pressure.” He gave a bitter chuckle. “When I told Brodie, he said, ‘What, the stress of being a millionaire? The pressure of everyone wanting to sleep with you?’”

“Clearly he doesn’t understand how mad this life can be, even for amateurs.”

“I think he understands now.” Duncan stared out over the city, toward the East End where he’d played his last match, and where Brodie had said goodbye. Just then, the sun vanished beneath a low bank of clouds, and the group of tourists drifted away, along with the woman and her two boys. “Anyway,” he told Fergus, “it’s an interesting field, and it’s what I want to do. Not sell sandstone toothbrush holders for twenty pounds apiece.”

“Twenty—? You’re joking.”

“On sale now for £14.95.” When Fergus laughed, Duncan added with a straight face, “If you consider how many years you’ll own a toothbrush holder, shouldn’t you have one you truly fancy, one which brings you joy to see it every morning and every night?”

“I never thought of a toothbrush holder as a long-term relationship partner. But now that I’ve seen the light, twenty quid seems a tiny sum when spread out over years of happiness.”

“Especially when you could have a matching soap dispenser for just £34.95.”

Fergus nearly spit out his cod. He covered his mouth and said, “You sure you don’t want to be a salesman? You seem a natural.”

“Take that back, ya knob!” Duncan threw his empty tartare-sauce container at Fergus, who swatted it away just in time. Beneath Duncan’s mock annoyance was a swell of relief at seeing his new captain able to laugh again, at least for a minute.

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