Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

Ayrshire to live with my gran. The divorce’ll be official soon.”
    “Sorry.”
    John shrugged. “Honestly, after a decade of shouting, it’s been a relief. I love my dad, but he’s a manipulative bastard.” He leaned his elbows on the table, wearing that wicked smile again. “Case in point? When I was fourteen, he had a heart attack, one of those silent ones which don’t give you chest pains but show up later on EKG. After he saw all the attention it got him, he started faking heart attacks—the un silent sort—whenever one of us pissed him off.” John gestured with a skinny fry as though sketching a scene. “The paramedics would come, and the neighbors would gather outside the newsagent across the street, placing bets on whether this one was real. After the seventh fake heart attack, Mum said, ‘Right, then, that’s me away’.”
    Fergus chuckled. “Can’t say I blame her.”
    “But here’s the funniest bit—directly after, Dad had another real heart attack.”
    Fergus nearly choked on his prawn tempura. “How is that funny?” he asked, though he was laughing himself.
    “Well, he didn’t die or anything. It was another silent one the cardiologist found during a checkup.” John tilted his head. “Actually, if he had died from a real heart attack after all those fake ones, it’d be even funnier. Though not for him, I suppose.”
    Fergus watched John return to his food with gusto, seemingly unfazed by his father’s serial cardiac mishaps. The dark, ballsy Glaswegian sense of humor was Fergus’s favorite thing about the city (next to the architecture). No topic—least of all death—was off-limits for a joke.
    “Anyway, Dad’s doing better now.” Having finished off the skinny fries, John licked his fingers, then reached for a fresh napkin. “He finally quit smoking, and I see to it he exercises and takes his meds every day. He won’t give up all junk food, but he’s swapped his precious crisps for Wotsits—those cheesy corn puff things? At least they’re mostly air. Plus, I cook decent meals for him. It’s loads of work, but what else can I do? He’s family.”
    Inside, Fergus smiled. After Evan, it was good to meet a man who knew the meaning of loyalty.
    “Besides,” John continued, “Dad’s been totally supportive since I came out. Says he just wants me to be happy. As long as I don’t f—’ An odd look crossed John’s face. “As long as I don’t ‘flaunt it’ in front of his mates.”
    “Right.” It was often the case that totally supportive really meant conditionally supportive . “My father died when I was twelve.”
    “Oh, I’m so sorry.” John touched Fergus’s arm, but not in the flirty way he’d been doing all evening. This touch was soft, genuine.
    Fergus felt himself relax, only now realizing how tense he’d been. John’s openness made him feel he could be honest. “Sometimes I wonder if I would’ve come out at all to my family if Da had still been alive. Not that I’m glad he’s dead, obviously, but it made things easier. No expectations of what sort of man I’d become. My brother and my ma are like your father—they just want me to be happy.”
    “And are you?” John’s eyes met his, and like his touch, they had softened, trading their showy animation for a searching sincerity. “Are you happy?”
    Fergus hesitated, munching a polenta chip instead of replying. The easy answer to that question these last sixty-three days was a resounding NO . Evan had stolen not only Fergus’s favorite scarf and matching knit cap, but also his capacity for joy.
    But now that John was asking if he were happy—in that unflinching manner that battered Fergus’s defenses—the easy answer wouldn’t come.
    So he swallowed the chip and said, “Potentially.”
    “That’s all any of us can ask for, isn’t it? Potential? The rest is down to us. It’s like this table, aye?” John spread his hands to the edges, brushing Fergus’s elbow. “Sometimes life gives