Page 23 of Men in Shorts

“Is that like a striker?”

“In my case, yeah.”

“Ooh, glamorous.”

Duncan chuckled. “We do tend to get the most goals. But we couldn’t do it without brilliant midfielders like Evan passing us the ball, setting us up to score.”

Brodie made anahanoise with just his breath. “You fancied him, didn’t you?”

“No, it was…deeper than that. To say I fancied him is like saying someone fancies Jesus or Muhammad or the Buddha. I revered him.” Duncan’s throat began to ache. “And now he’s gone.”

“I’ve never revered anyone. Except maybe Father Christmas.”

“And how did you feel when you found out he was a lie?”

Brodie fell silent for a moment, then said in a horrified whisper, “What do you mean?”

Duncan jabbed him with an elbow. “Be serious, ya bam.”

Brodie laughed. “Seriously, I felt fine. So what if Father Christmas doesn’t literally exist as I imagined him? That doesn’t make him a lie. He’s still got meaning—love and fun and giving, holiday spirit and all. And it doesn’t take away how happy he made me when I was a wean.” Brodie shifted his head on the pillow to look at Duncan. “Evan probably still has meaning too. It’s down to you to work out what that is, now that he’s a human instead of a god.”

The ache in Duncan’s throat became a burning. It almost hurt morenotto hate Evan than it did to hate him.

“I’ll come to one of your matches,” Brodie said, “once I’m recovered.” With a hollow sigh that betrayed his exhaustion, he turned to face the wall again. “Feels like it’ll be next year.”

“I can wait.” Duncan reached across himself to touch Brodie’s arm atop the covers. “I can wait for anything.”

“Good,” Brodie said in a phantom of a whisper. Then he took Duncan’s hand and pulled it forward in front of his own chest, so that Duncan had no choice (not that he would’ve done differently if given a choice) but to turn toward him. He curled his body against Brodie’s, arm tight about his waist, nose tucked into the space behind his ear.

Now what?he wondered, pulse pounding.Should I kiss his neck, wrap my legs around his, slide my aching prick against his exquisite bum?

He got his answer shortly, as Brodie’s hand went slack with sleep, his body growing heavier with each deep, steady breath.

Duncan knew he himself wouldn’t sleep for hours, but he’d no intention of moving from this perfect spot. So he let himself relive their hookup the night before spring vacation—what he could remember of it.

Like many flats, theirs had thrown a wee bash to celebrate the end of first-year lectures. As their special guest, Lorna contributed a concoction she called Oblivion (or Oblivionator, or Oblivionation, Duncan was never sure). It featured raspberry vodka, Red Bull, and a mysterious bubbly component she refused to reveal (“The secret ingredient is madness!” she’d shouted, bouncing on Duncan’s bed in time to the new Jason DeRulo song, before clapping a hand over her mouth, dashing down the hall to the toilet, and eventually being carried home by her boyfriend, Paul).

Brodie and Duncan had ended up finishing the Oblivionerationator alone on Duncan’s bed while discussing…something to do with psychology? Duncan remembered only that they’d argued whether Freud had actually said, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” Brodie had Googled the answer, which prompted an image-search expedition of symbolic and eventually not-so-symbolic phalluses.

During this impassioned discussion, the bed had seemed to spin and pitch like a carnival ride. To keep from falling off, he and Brodie held onto each other as they shouted, like two sailors in a stormy sea. At some point—this bit was very fuzzy—they decided that holding on with mouths as well as hands might provide greater stability. So they’d kissed and groped, rolling about on the bed in a semiconscious state.

One memory was crystal clear in Duncan’s mind: Brodie on top of him, between his legs, their bare chests pressed together, their hips grinding furiously as they kissed, like they were trying to fuck each other through their clothes.

Then, Brodie had stopped. Looked down. Unzipped Duncan’s jeans. Reached inside.

And found nothing.

Well, notnothing. Duncan still had a cock, but it was in no useful state, thanks to Lorna’s Oblivionator.

“Oh,” was all Brodie said to Duncan, who defended his pride by—and he still couldn’t believe this part—grabbing Brodie’s crotch, only to find him in a similarly flaccid state.

Maybe it was the drink, or the awkwardness, or maybe the situation was genuine comedy gold. For whatever reason, Duncan found it the most hilarious thing ever.

So he laughed. And Brodie disappeared. And Duncan passed out.

When he woke the next morning and dragged his monster of a hangover to the other end of the hall, he found Brodie gone, already on an early train home. For three weeks they didn’t contact each other. Duncan was too embarrassed, not to mention preoccupied with the upcoming quarterfinal match.

But maybe Brodie was more than embarrassed. Maybe that moment had reminded him of being laughed at in school, by boys just like Duncan.

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