Page 105 of Men in Shorts

A body slammed into him. “What a strike!” Duncan grabbed Colin around the waist and lifted him off his feet. “What a fucking strike!”

The rest of the team arrived, shouting his name, bouncing against him with the exuberance of Great Dane puppies. A few pleaded for caution, telling the others to be careful with him. But he felt invincible, every muscle and joint perfectly aligned. Theworldfelt perfectly aligned.

Colin was back. He’d delivered the Warriors another victory. No one could doubt him now.

His teammates dispersed for the kickoff, and he started to join them, hoping there was time to score another goal (howmagicthat had felt!). But first he turned for one last look at Andrew.

A wave of dizziness crashed against him. Colin staggered, closing his eyes and putting a hand to his whirling head.

“Mate, you all right?” Fergus said at his side. “Do you need?—”

“No.” Colin blinked hard. Had his teammates knocked the wind out of him during the goal celebration? “I mean, aye, I’m all right.” He looked up at Andrew, whose form swam in and out of focus.

From a distance Fergus spoke his name again, saying something about calling the physio.

“No, I just need…” Colin couldn’t finish the sentence. What did he need?

His body had an answer.LIE DOWN,it commanded.NOW.

This time he obeyed.

* * *

When Colin fell,it seemed Andrew was falling too.

“No…” He swayed against John, who lurched under his weight.

“Gonnae no worry, mate.” John steadied him. “Probably just got a bit overexcited about the goal. It was swoon-worthy, aye?”

Andrew felt he could faint, and not from the quality of Colin’s strike. “He’s exhausted. He’s been that way for at least ten minutes.” How could no one else have noticed the way Colin’s head drooped and his shoulders slumped between plays?

Around them, the Rainbow Regiment had fallen silent—as had the home fans, who moments ago had been hurling invectives at Colin’s triumphant face. Now they all waited as the physios attended to his unconscious form. Players from both teams surrounded them, blocking Andrew’s view.

He shut his eyes hard, remembering how Colin had collapsed in front of him the night he was stabbed, how his knees had buckled, how Andrew had barely caught him in time to keep his head from knocking the pavement. He remembered the shock and confusion on Colin’s face when he saw the hole in his gut.

He’d looked at Andrew as he fell, his pale-green eyes askingWHY?

Andrew picked up his bag. “I need to go to him.”

John grabbed his arm. “Fans cannae just rush onto the pitch. It’s against the rules.”

“Fuck the rules.”

“Warriors’ll get fined.”

“I’ll pay their bloody fine,” he said as he pushed past his friend.

“Drew, stop.” John seized Andrew’s shoulders, his hands slipping on the wet sleeves. “Charlotte could get suspended. That’s the last thing Colin would want.”

Andrew gritted his teeth. John was right. Not long ago, a manager in Spain had received a three-match ban because the fans kept throwing inflatable pigs onto the pitch after being warned to stop.

Not that football mattered at the moment. If the sport had hurt Colin, it could go to hell.

“You’ll see him in a few minutes when the match is over,” John said. “Look, he’s better already.”

Andrew spun to see Colin sitting up on his own, brushing off the support of the physios. “He won’t let them help him. He needs me.”

“And he’ll have you later.” John sat, tugging Andrew down beside him. “Coddle him all night if you want, but for now, let the professionals do their jobs, okay?”

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