Free Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) by Avery Cockburn Page A

some sort of performance art?” Abebi said as she entered the kitchen.
    John stood. “Aye, and I’m a starving artist, so that’s me back to cooking.” He turned to the skillet, pasting a smile on his face as his mind spun with delirious confusion.
    Perhaps he should have kept walking when he’d left Fergus’s flat. A one-night stand might have been easier for them both in the long run. It had always worked for John before. Casual partners never asked about his family, his home, his true self. Where there were no questions, there were no lies.
    But perhaps the Cold-Blooded-Limp-Dicked-Bastard incident would buy John a bit of breathing room from Fergus’s suspicions, long enough to decide whether to tell him the whole truth.
    No, not whether to tell Fergus the truth. When to tell him, and how . When the right moment came, he would find the courage to speak—because now, he might have finally met a man he could be real with.
    = = =
    “I’ll sleep like a queen, thanks to these pancakes.” Abebi pushed back her chair and gave the kitchen table a contented-looking smile. “You lads keep it quiet this morning, okay?”
    “Yes, Ma,” Fergus said with a grin, sweeping his bare foot over John’s. John licked his own maple-flavored lips as a ripple of desire swept over him.
    “Don’t ‘ma,’ me. I’m only three years older than you.” She ruffled Fergus’s hair, giving John a secretive wink on her way out of the kitchen.
    As Fergus took their plates to the sink, John remembered it was Sunday. “Are you away to Mass, then?”
    Fergus chuckled. “No, I only go to Mass when I visit Ma, and sometimes not even then. Christmas and Easter are nonnegotiable, obviously.”
    It was the same in John’s family, and for most Protestants he knew. They went to church Christmas Eve, Easter—and perhaps Palm Sunday, if there was nothing good on the telly.
    “Speaking of sacred duties,” Fergus said as he scrubbed the frying pan, “I do have football practice later. But until then I’m yours.”
    Mine , John thought as he gazed at Fergus’s bare calves. He could make out every muscle flexing and releasing as Fergus shifted his weight. When Fergus stood on his toes to swipe a spider off the window, those muscles snapped into sharp definition, right down to the powerful ankles that delivered so many perfect passes.
    “In that case,” John said, “gonnae let’s have a go at FIFA?”
    Fergus sent him a wicked smile. “You may regret that.”
    Fifteen minutes later, John was not regretting it at all, as the video-game crowd cheered on his team’s third unanswered goal. “Boo-yah!” he shouted. “In yo’ face, muthafucka.”
    “That was a complete defensive breakdown,” said the in-game commentator. “You can’t expect to make it in this league with such disorganization.”
    “Oh, shut it, Clive.” Sitting cross-legged beside John on the living-room sofa, Fergus punched his controller button to skip the slow-motion replays. “How can you be crushing me? Our sides are equally matched.”
    “Mind, I changed my formation before we started. Put your defense off balance.”
    “But how’d you even know to do that? You’re not a football fan.”
    Ah. Right. He had said that.
    “I love the game.” John stated this easily, for it was the truth. “It’s the pro leagues I don’t fancy, with all their big money and corruption—whoa, look out.” His forward intercepted a pass between Fergus’s defenders.
    “Noooo!” In desperation, Fergus had his left fullback make an awkward sliding tackle just outside the penalty area. The whistle blew to signal the foul.
    “Aww, second yellow card for your little dude there.” He nudged his jeans-clad knee against Fergus’s bare one. “Does that mean something important? I know nothing of football.”
    “Ha ha.” Fergus frowned as his defender was shown a red card and ejected from the match. “I’m a man short and it’s not even halftime.”
    “Hot damn. You are