Page 64 of Men in Shorts

Fergus unfolded his towel, which was smaller than he’d expected. “We wear these through the entire place? Nothing more?”

“Nothing more,” Alan said. “If you like, you can leave it off. But in the dry sauna, you need to keep it on whilst you’re on the seat, else you’ll burn your baws off. Don’t worry, there’s a sign reminding you.”

Fergus followed John into the empty locker area. “Have you been here before?”

“Nah, but a mate of mine from uni came for his birthday.” John checked his keychain tag, then opened one of the tangerine-colored lockers.

“What did he do?”

“Says he met a married man from Liverpool. Fucked like squirrels all night.” John stripped off his shirt and chucked it into the locker without folding it. “Loads of straight guys come to these places—ostensibly straight, at least.”

“Makes sense, I guess.” It did not make sense. Club 212 made Fergus feel such a prude. He was only three years older than John, but at moments like this they seemed to belong to different generations.

A thirty-something man with a mane of ginger-blond hair entered with a casual “Hiya.” Fergus turned his back to the newcomer to remove his clothes, wrapping the towel around his waist while his shirt was still on.

They had a quick shower in the next room—just the two of them, to Fergus’s relief. On their way out, John took his hand. “Gonnae no worry, love. We’ll stick together like glue. Or something sexier than glue. I know—we’ll stick together like the pages of an old porno magazine. Wait, is that worse than glue?”

Fergus longed to cling to John for reassurance, to never let him out of his sight. But if their love was to move forward, he needed to show John—and more importantly, himself—that he had faith.

“I’ve a better idea.” He drew his fingers down the side of John’s neck, in the way that always made him shiver. “Fancy a game of hide-and-seek?”

John’s eyes popped wide with glee. “Not It!” he shouted, as Fergus knew he would. “Close your eyes and count to twenty. No, sixty!”

Fergus took a deep breath and shut his eyes. “Go on, then.”

“See you soon.” John kissed him hard and quick, then released his hand.

Fergus steadied himself against the wall outside the shower room, counting silently. At the sound of footsteps, he opened his eyes and nodded to the shaggy-haired ginger from the locker area.

“Hello again.” The guy started to pass on his way to the shower, but then stopped and turned. Before Fergus could look away, eye contact was made.

Uh-oh.

“I’m with someone,” Fergus blurted.

The man looked around and shrugged, palms up. “He’s not here, is he?”

A memory sideswiped Fergus harder than a fullback’s tackle, a memory of waiting for Evan at a club one night last March. Half a dozen lads had approached Fergus to buy him a drink or ask him to dance. He’d told them all,“I’m with someone”, and they’d all replied just like this man—“He’s not here, is he?”

And they were right. Evan never showed up that evening.

But that was Evan, this was John.

Crossing his arms, Fergus drew himself up to his full height and looked his fellow ginger in the eye. “I don’t need to see him to know he’s with me.”

Then he began his search.

The brightly lit room beside the shower area held a Jacuzzi big enough to fit the entire Warriors football team—including substitutes.

“Hiya!” said one of the three slim men within. All in their early twenties, they each sat on a different side of the pool, about ten feet from one another. The blond who’d just spoken looked relieved, as though Fergus’s entrance had interrupted an awkward moment.

“Hello,” Fergus said. “I’m only passing through.”

“First time?” asked the Asian guy, sitting closest to the door. “Ours too. None of us knows each other. It’s kind of weird, yeah?” he added with a nervous laugh.

“Yeah.” Fergus examined the spare, industrial decor around him. The floors and walls were concrete, and the pair of oddly shaped white chairs in the corner were plastic. The non-porous materials made sense—no doubt the place was hosed down with cleaning solution twice a day, like the dog kennel where he’d worked as a teenager.

He moved on, past the door to the café (Really? People EAT here?) and down an empty corridor. The ceiling, he noticed, was rather stylish, with exposed pipes and metalworks. The shiny surfaces made the club feel clean, and the wide spaces between the ceiling fixtures made it feel open, less like a prison.

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