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

us an empty plate, and sometimes life puts shite on that plate. It’s our choice whether to eat that shite or say, ‘No, thanks.’ But it’s the same when life gives you a plate of—what’s your favorite food?”
    “Blueberry pancakes.”
    “So sometimes life puts a giant plate of steaming hot blueberry fucking pancakes on your table. It’s still down to you whether to eat them or say, ‘No, thanks.’ You can walk away from shite or pancakes. Wait for the next course, see if something tastier comes along.”
    “But it’s better, you think, to seize the pancakes?”
    “Aye!” John raised his empty tumbler to the approaching waitress. “Carpe pancakes!”
    She rolled her eyes but brought them another round of bourbons, and then another. As their dinner went on, Fergus realized he’d neither laughed nor eaten this much in months.
    They even dared to discuss Scottish independence—a dodgy but unavoidable subject these days.
    “I’d be pure sad to leave the Union,” John said, “but I think going our own way is the only path to a better economy, especially for working-class folk.” He tapped his temple. “So I guess I’m voting Yes with my head, not my heart.”
    “For me it’s the opposite. I’m scared witless about what could happen to our economy if we break from the UK. But then I hear the opening lines of ’Flower of Scotland’ and—I don’t know, I suppose my mushy patriotic heart takes over, and I think, ‘Let’s do this!’”
    “A romantic, eh?”
    “All footballers are romantics. No cynic would suffer so much pain for so little gain.” Basking in the warmth of John’s smile, Fergus examined the remains of their meal and realized he was finally full. He sat back against the wall with a satisfied sigh, then glanced at the television above the bar. It was tuned to the news, which at the moment was focusing on Fergus’s least favorite subject.
    “Fuck’s sake,” he exclaimed. “Again?”
    “What is it?” John asked.
    “Orange Walkers,” Fergus said with a growl. “Packs of bigots all over Glasgow this time of year. Might as well be Belfast.”
    John shrugged and kept eating. “I’ve been to Belfast. There’s loads more there.”
    Fergus glared at the men onscreen marching in their blasted bowler hats and orange sashes. The next shot showed a crowd of Orange Walk spectators, swaying together and punching the air, probably singing lyrics like “Fuck the Pope” or “We’re up to our necks in Fenian blood.” It boiled Fergus’s own “Fenian blood” how such worthless, drunken scum could think themselves superior to him just because he was Catholic.
    “Don’t those racists know it’s the twenty-first century?” Fergus’s fist tightened on his fork. “This country’s moving forward without them. Most people don’t even go to church, so why persecute others for their religion? It’s all so un-Scottish, don’t you think?”
    John’s expression was inscrutable, like he’d put on a mask that was an exact replica of his own face. Then he blinked.
    “Sorry,” John said. “It’s just that, now the light’s changed—” He gestured to the window, then at Fergus. “I cannae stop noticing how your shirt brings out the green in your eyes.”
    Fergus stared at him, thinking of all the shirts he’d tried on before selecting this poplin-weave avocado. It wasn’t brand new, but it was still fashionable and exceedingly comfortable.
    And yes, it did bring out the green his eyes. A fact Evan had never mentioned.
    “Sorry,” John added, “I was listening to what you were saying. I disagree about sectarianism being un-Scottish. We’re a very tribal people. Look at all the clans and their ancient rivalries. Factions are in our blood.”
    “That doesn’t make it right. We should be more enlightened. Those parades should be banned.”
    “Because they’re offensive?”
    “Yes.”
    “Most people found gay-pride parades offensive when they first began. Some still do.