Page 73 of Playing to Win

“I’m never wearing this kilt again.” Colin’s head drooped against his chest. “It makes chaos.”

The door opened to an empty lift. The light in here was brighter than in the bar, making it clear how steaming drunk Colin was. In their month together, Andrew had never seen him more than slightly tipsy. A devoted athlete, Colin always wanted to be at the top of his game, even for practice sessions. Which meant his tolerance was probably lower than most men his size.

“What happened?” he asked Colin. “Did that lad roofie you?”

“No, I just had a lot. A. Lot. Like…hang on.” He squinted at his fingers and thumb as he counted. “Five?”

“In a quarter of an hour?” Andrew swiped his hands up over his face. “I’ll see that bartender sacked.”

“No!”

The door opened, thankfully quite close to the club’s entrance. Andrew led Colin down the ramp to the front door, where he found his bouncer acquaintance still stationed at the ID check. “I need to speak to your manager.”

“I said no!” Colin jerked Andrew’s arm. “You cannae sack that man. He’s my friend.”

“He’s not your friend.”

“You’re not my friend either.” He let go and staggered backward, out onto the pavement. “I saw you kissing Joey!”

Bloody hell, is that what this is about?“No, you sawJoeykissingme. Apparently you missed the bit where I pushed him away.”

“Maybe I did!” Colin shouted, as if this proved his point. “But then youse were holding hands.”

“I was trying not to lose him in the crowd. He walks so slowly for a New Yorker.” Andrew glanced at the club’s long queue, where everyone was watching them avidly. Then he stepped up to Colin, laying a hand on his arm and lowering his voice. “Look, in these three-way situations, it’s completely normal to be jealous.”

“I’m no’ jealous, I’m fine!”

“You’re drunk.”

Colin gave him awell, obviouslylook. “I’m Scottish!”

“So playing into the stereotypes now, are we?”

“Stereotypes?” Colin’s eyes burned with rage. “You’ve got me dressed in a fuckin’ kilt—the better to attract American cock, aye? I’m for sale the night, aye? All Scotland’s for sale the night. Me with my precious accent and adorable temper.” He jabbed his thumb against his own chest. “I’m like those shops in Edinburgh. Tartans and shortbreads and fuckin’ bagpipes. My arse is Scotland-land, and tonight, America’s got free admission!” Colin reached down, fumbling for the back hem of his kilt.

Oh no.“Please don’t do that.”

“They want Braveheart, I’ll gie ’em fuckin’ Braveheart.” He bent over, raising his kilt to display his bare backside to the Broadway traffic. “Freedom! Freeeeeeeeedom!”

Part of Andrew wanted to laugh. Part of Andrew wanted to join Colin in this uniquely Scottish salute to the United States. None of Andrew wanted to be the grown-up in the room right now.

Then the bouncer said one word in a low, urgent voice. “Cops.”

CHAPTERNINETEEN

DESPITEHISRELATIVEsobriety, Andrew struggled to keep up with Colin as they sprinted through Lower Manhattan. The athlete in his companion—or perhaps the young lad who’d run from bullies—had taken over. Andrew shouted ahead to Colin, directions to turn here and there, hoping to make it not worth the police’s effort to follow them.

Colin turned the next corner and stopped short. “Fuck.”

Andrew came to a grateful halt, panting hard, hoping that Colin’s shock was due to their location, not a phalanx of NYPD officers out to rid the city of indecent exposers.

“Is that what I think it is?” Colin whispered, gaping up at the immense skyscraper a few streets away.

“Ground Zero. Yes.” He hadn’t consciously directed Colin here, but now that they’d arrived, Andrew thought perhaps it would be good for him. “The memorial park is closed for the night, but we can get closer.”

They crossed Broadway—which here was called Canyon of Heroes, apparently—and made their way past St. Paul’s Chapel. “George Washington prayed here after his first inauguration,” Andrew said. “He had his own pew. Also, see that bell?” He pointed past Colin into the churchyard. “A gift from the Lord Mayor of London on the first anniversary of the 9/11 attacks.”

Colin gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment, his eyes fixed on the gleaming silver tower at One World Trade Center. As they passed the churchyard, Colin held out his arm like a child, letting his fingers drift over the vertical bars of the wrought-iron fence. The soft, rapid thump-clangs of skin against metal sounded strangely melancholy to Andrew.

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