Page 104 of Playing to Win

“We could do it,” Andrew said. “People in the States care about money and ability, not class. There I could just be Andrew Sunderland, not Lord Andrew.”

Colin stared at him and tried to keep chewing.But youareLord Andrew.“You serious?”

“Dead serious. My parents would probably even pay for us to live there. From across the Atlantic I couldn’t embarrass them as much. It might not be enough money to live in New York City, but there are other lovely—”

“Wait, wait. Andrew, I cannae leave Glasgow. I’ve got three more years of uni. So do you.”

“Yes, but—listen, I did some research last night. We can apply to university in the US, perhaps even for spring semester. With your football skills, you could get a soccer scholarship.”

“What if I hurt my knee again? I’d lose my scholarship and have to pay tuition. Katie telt me that’s how it works there.”

“If that happens, God forbid, then I’ll pay your tuition.”

Stunned, Colin sat back in his chair, thinking of their weekend in New York. Sunday morning they’d gone to the roof of Rockefeller Center, where they could see the entire city and beyond, out over the land of opportunity. In America, anything seemed possible if you were clever and hardworking.

Meanwhile here in Britain, a millennium of tradition had entrenched the powers that be. No matter how hard Colin and his mates fought for a revolution, some days it seemed nothing would ever change. After last night’s stooshie with the Sunderland family, this was definitely one of those days.

“Is that who I think it is?” Andrew asked, peering past Colin down Buchanan Street.

Colin turned to see a few dozen men and women in suits and dresses walking purposefully up the center of the stone pedestrian way. He recognized among them several Members of Parliament, all from the Labour Party.

“Aye, it’s the shadow cabinet,” he told Andrew. “I heard the Better Together campaign was carting them all up here on the train for some event at Royal Concert Hall.” He gestured toward the tall building at the end of the road. “They must be walking from Queen Street Station.”

Andrew sniffed. “No taxis, of course, because they’re Labour and they want to appear ‘of the people.’”

The guitarist began to sing, and Colin instantly recognized a song from his childhood—Chumbawamba’s “Amnesia,” written about Labour’s betrayal of the working classes. Too bad the cheeky lass’s joke would be lost on these oblivious politicians.

Andrew pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. “Talking of the station, I need to head there in fifteen minutes. We can discuss my America idea when I return from London. Just think about it, okay?”

“I don’t need to think about it.” Colin set his hands on the edge of the table for support. “I’m incredibly grateful you’ve proposed this, and at first glance it seems the solution to everything.”

Andrew frowned. “But?”

“I cannae move halfway round the world just to be dependent on you. If we break up, would you still pay my tuition?”

“I wouldn’t leave you to starve, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid. Look, life here is pure difficult, I know better than anyone. But I’ve got a plan—get my degree, get a job, start a business—and I’ve got hope.”Most days, anyway.“If we go to America and things don’t work out, I could lose everything. That’s not fear talking, it’s just common fuckin’ sense.”

Andrew gave a frustrated huff. “So then what? All we need to be happy is a new world here in Britain?”

“Or, barring that, we do the best we can with the one we’ve got.”

Pouting, Andrew shifted the cardboard sleeve around his coffee cup. “I was right. You are one of the sanest men I know.”

“Considering you pal about with a bunch of inbred toffs, that’s not surprising.” He eyed the last bite of his wrap, still hungry. “I always forget to order two of these things. They look so much bigger in the photies on the menu.”

“What in God’s name…” Andrew craned his neck, peering down Buchanan Street again.

The endless mass of Labour MPs was still passing by, but they were no longer alone. In their midst rolled a rickshaw, driven by a man in a pink T-shirt and tie-dyed shorts. A familiar symphony was blasting from the vehicle. “Is that the Imperial March fromThe Empire Strikes Back?” Colin asked.

“It bloody is,” Andrew said with awe.

“People of Glasgow!” the ginger-bearded rickshaw rider announced with a megaphone. “These are your imperial masters! The Labour Party have traveled all the way from London to tell you to bow down!”

Colin laughed. The Better Together campaign must have spent a fortune in train tickets to bring all these MPs up north. Had they thought Scotland would be convinced to vote No bythisbunch of losers? The people who’d stood arm-in-arm with Tories as they shafted the poor and made food banks a fact of life? Had these backstabbers thought roses would be tossed at their feet? In fuckingGlasgow?

In any case, they were getting the welcome they deserved.

---