Page 104 of Men in Shorts

The referee brushed past the defender, pulling a small notebook and a yellow card from his pocket. He held the card up in Colin’s direction, booking him for simulation.

“What?!” A rainbow-kilted fan sitting beside Brodie flailed his arms in disbelief. “That’s impossible. Colin never, ever dives.”

He did dive.Andrew felt a shiver work its way down his spine.Just not on purpose.

Chapter5

Colin coveredhis face in shame. Not for being a dirty cheating diver—which he wasn’t—but for the lack of stamina that had sent him crashing to the ground. The strength that had felt so reliable, soinfinitejust ten minutes before, had abandoned him.

Had anyone else noticed? Perhaps it was better the world think him a failed trickster than a weakling. So Colin got to his feet and made a sweeping bow toward the stands, where the Rainbow Regiment were applauding and the home fans jeering louder than ever.

As he straightened up, he was lashed with a sudden vertigo, which then vanished as fast as it had appeared.

A moment later, the goalkeeper took the ensuing free kick. The clock showed ten minutes remaining, not counting any added stoppage time.

Colin knew he had to last until the end of the match. Charlotte had already used all three substitutes, so if any Warrior left due to injury—or in his case utter fucking exhaustion—the team would be short a player for the rest of the game. He had to carry on, play hard, help them win.

But his body was begging him tostopandlie downandfuck’s sake just BREATHE for a second.

Had he been fooling himself that he could manage this? Would he ever play a full match again? Right now it seemed as likely as swimming to Iceland.

Then, over the roar of the rain and wind, Colin heard the chant rise from the Rainbow Regiment. “Beware MacDuff! Beware the Thane of Fife!”

So he picked his head up and kept going, letting the fans—letting Andrew—carry him once again.

Each time Colin touched the ball, the Regiment’s chant was briefly overcome by the home supporters’ boos and shouts of “Cheat!” But then the Warriors fans would yell louder, and since their rabid loyalty meant they always outnumbered their counterparts by at least three to one, theMacbethchant soon swamped every other sound on the pitch—and possibly every other sound in Scotland.

East Fife had the ball now, but the Warriors pressed high, forcing their opponents back into their own defensive third. Having watched most of the match from the touchline, Colin knew his opponents’ weak spots: which attackers backed down when challenged, which defenders made the sloppiest passes, which midfielders looked as tired as himself.

He saw the ball sail, buffeted by the wind, toward the East Fife fullback in front of him. The defender’s first touch was awkward, so Colin made his move—a pristine block tackle, poking the ball free with one foot, then sliding past the defender to catch the ball with his other foot. The fullback jutted out a leg to snatch the ball back, but missed and struck Colin instead.

Colin toppled over, rolling to break his fall, grateful the defender’s sharp studs had hit his shin guard rather than spearing the top of his foot. He stood up as smoothly as he could, hoping no one saw his legs wavering.

The referee approached with arm extended, signaling a Warriors free kick.

“He dived again!” The fullback gestured to Colin, who thought the lad lucky not to earn a booking for that reckless tackle. The official shook his head and pointed to the spot of the foul. Colin placed the ball there for the free kick, then looked for Fergus and Evan to see which of them would take it this time.

The referee backed away, still fielding protests from the East Fife fullback, captain, and two of their teammates. Their words were lost in the pelting rain.

With the ball at his feet, Colin noticed every Warrior had his or her eyes on him, ready to spring into action, while most of the East Fifers were still having a moan about the foul. A quote by legendary Liverpool manager Bill Shankly flitted through his mind, something about good players coming alive when the ball goes dead.

The whistle blew, and Colin quickly passed to Shona, catching their opponents off guard. Shona drove into the open space formed by the out-of-position defenders, who backpedaled wildly to stay upright on the slick grass.

Colin’s legs wanted to give out, but he darted forward, focusing on Shona, pretending she was dragging him along with an invisible rope. He slipped into the penalty area past an opponent who began to mark him a step too late.

As the center-backs converged on Shona, Colin gave a ragged yelp. Without a glance, she slid the ball straight in front of him. Colin lunged to stop it, praying he wouldn’t deflect it out of play.

But he caught it neatly on his instep, tapping it to his other side to throw off his defender. Finally he planted his foot and shot for the far corner of the net, every movement pure instinct.

As the goalkeeper stretched to intercept his strike, Colin told himself to rush forward for the rebound. But his legs wouldn’t move. All he could do was stand and watch.

There was no rebound. There was nothing but the ball in the net.

Suddenly his legs worked again.

“YAAAAAAASS!!” He raced toward the away stand, arms stretched wide, face to the angry sky, bathed by glorious rain.

The Regiment had exploded. The mass of screaming, jumping fans shook rainbow banners with a fury that made Colin’s head swim. Standing amid the technicolor hues was Andrew, luminescent even in his coal-black rain jacket. Colin blew him a kiss with a mud-caked hand.

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