Page 51 of Men in Shorts

It did feel like he was coming for Brodie, like this moment was a gift for them both. So he kept his eyes opened and their gazes locked, though the orgasm threatened to blind him as it burst through his brain and body. Every muscle shuddered and spasmed with his release.

“I can feel it,” Brodie said. “I can—och, I’m—” He rocked forward, fingers digging into Duncan’s glutes. His eyes closed for a long moment, then flew open. The helpless, poignant look within was like that of a film character who’d just been shot. Duncan knew he’d never forget the sight, even if he lived to be a hundred and twenty-four.

Later, as they held each other in the darkness, warm beneath the covers despite the night’s chill and their own nakedness, Brodie spoke his name in a sleep-slurred voice.

Duncan’s eyelids twitched but didn’t part. “Hmm?”

After a few breaths, as his body grew heavier in Duncan’s arms, Brodie said, “I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“Everything.” He stretched his legs, then twined them with Duncan’s, feet stroking his calves. “Almost everything.”

Duncan didn’t ask him to explain. He didn’t need to. Instead he simply said, “Me, too.”

The time for recriminations and apologies was over. It was time to move forward. Time to play on.

Chapter16

Duncan knewhe should feel complete crap as he walked into the North Glasgow park where his team was about to play their final match of the season. After all, he could do nothing but watch as the Warriors attempted to stave off a fifth-place finish, having already lost their chance to win promotion to the top division, due in part to his own immaturity.

But as long as Brodie was at his side, Duncan could only feel happy. In the two weeks since they’d reunited, they’d spent almost every moment together. Brodie was now nearly recovered from his glandular fever, despite their nightly exertions in bed (or maybe because of them).

Duncan’s parents had hired both him and Brodie to work in the home-decor shop. The jobs weren’t relevant to their psychology degrees, and Duncan dreaded being dubbed an “adorable couple” by their customers. But at least he and Brodie would be together most days, and the wages were decent—in the current economy, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Brodie had also begun helping the asylum-seekers’ charity John Burns was interning with; and Duncan would be serving as a “Clyde-sider” volunteer at Glasgow’s Commonwealth Games in July. Perhaps there’d be athletes needing counseling after their dreams of winning a gold medal had been dashed or fulfilled.

To top it all off, Duncan’s heroes at Sunderland AFC had pulled off a miraculous end-of-season comeback. In what had been dubbed “The Great Escape,” the once-hapless Black Cats had rocketed from twentieth place into fourteenth, avoiding relegation and ensuring another season in the Premier League. To Duncan it was proof that romantics like himself were the wisest men of all.

He squinted up at the afternoon sky, where the clouds were thinning at last. “They said it’d be pure dreich today, but look, the sun’s—” He stopped as he realized Brodie had halted several steps ago, his eyes fixed on the side of the bleachers where the opposing fans sat.

Duncan hurried back to join him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, though he had a solid guess.

“I just need a moment.” Brodie ran his thumbs between each of his fingers once, then again. “Okay.” He took a step forward.

Duncan touched his shoulder to stop him. “You sure? We don’t need to go to the match. We can do something else today.”

“If I don’t walk in there now, I’ll spend the whole summer dreading next season.” He swept his tongue, then his teeth, over his lower lip, and swallowed hard. “Is it all right if I take your hand?”

Duncan smiled. “I’d be honored.”

They walked forward between the two bleachers. On their left, their opponents’ scant crowd of supporters sat with scowls on their faces. To their right, the Rainbow Regiment’s flags were waving, their chants ringing. Duncan was touched by the way the Regiment always turned out, no matter how unimportant the match. The pain of his own suspension had been eased by sitting with these fans the last two weeks. He’d learned a lot about the game—and how much the Warriors meant to Glasgow’s LGBTQ community—by watching it through the Regiment’s eyes.

As he and Brodie went to join them, a voice in the visitors’ section rang out. “Look at those yins holding hands. Fuckin’ poofs!”

They stopped together. Adrenaline coursed through Duncan’s body, and his grip on Brodie tightened.

“I’ll take this one.” Brodie tried to release Duncan’s hand as he strode toward the man who’d spoken.

But Duncan wouldn’t let go. “What are you doing?” he whispered to Brodie, trotting to keep up. “You can’t fight them.”

“I don’t need to. Now wheesht.” As Brodie approached their taunter, an almost stony calm dropped over his face.

“What do youse want?” the burly young man snarled. He nudged his embarrassed-looking mate. “Kyle, they’re chattin’ us up. I knew we shouldnae come to this?—”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Brodie said.

The man’s head snapped back as if he’d been punched. Duncan’s pulse raced at the sight of the muscles bulging beneath the bully’s sleeveless T-shirt. He could take both of them apart in seconds.

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