Page 201 of Playing By Ear

With a few minutes until kickoff, both sides’ fans were in full voice. His throat already ached from singing and chanting.

Warmups were over, and the starting lineup returned to the tunnel for the official walkout. According to John, Jamie was now seated with the other Warriors substitutes behind Charlotte’s technical area.

Somewhere in the front row of Perry’s section sat the entire MacKray clan—likely missing Stuart, who Jamie said was still at outs with Belinda, last he’d heard. The family had invited Perry to join them, but he’d opted to stay with the Rainbow Regiment. It truly was a heady cult.

“Here they come!” John rapped Perry’s elbow. “The starting eleven.”

Perry pulled out his phone and earphones as the crowd’s low rumble rose to a frenzy. The final was livestreaming on YouTube, so for once he could watch the action and wouldn’t need John’s commentary. He tapped his heels against the concrete as his giddy anticipation broke containment.

Next he unfolded the purple baseball cap Jamie’s cousin Valerie had fashioned into a makeshift self-contained viewing box. With the side flaps down, he probably looked like he was crossing the Sahara, but at least he could remove his sunglasses and see the screen clearly.

He started the stream and turned up the sound. On the pitch, the Warriors in violet and white stripes greeted the Forthside United players in black and yellow. The camera panned somewhat shakily down the line, showing closeups of Fergus, Heather, Evan, and the rest of the starting eleven, faces that had become familiar to Perry as he’d interviewed them for his piece on the Warriors’ journey.

A journey that would end either in another heartbreak—or their greatest triumph.

“Stop staring at it,” Colin said.

“Cannae help it.” Jamie’s gaze was glued to the squat, silver Amateur Cup trophy, which sat on a pedestal about ten yards away, directly in front of the tunnel where the players had walked out. It gleamed in the afternoon sunlight like an Unholy Grail. “Is it just me, or is it kinda shaped like a butt-plug?”

“What? Naw.” Colin shaded his eyes to examine the trophy. “Oh, aye, if you include the base.” He pulled in a hiss through his teeth. “An unforgiving one that’d be.”

Jamie settled back in his seat next to Colin, who also wore a substitute’s orange pinny, his groin injury having healed but not enough to risk playing a full ninety minutes. Besides, Charlotte needed at least one striker with fresh legs for later in the game—not to mention a reliable penalty taker, if it came down to a shootout.

Jamie was less certain about his own substitution. If the Warriors went up by more than a goal, a more defensive-minded fullback might be subbed in to protect that lead. But if they fell behind or the game was even, they’d need Jamie’s offensive spark.

“This pitch is fucking pristine,” Colin said, gazing out over the hybrid grass/synthetic surface. “Nae bare spots in the grass or tears in the turf from a season of abuse.”

“Aye.” Jamie rubbed his palms together. “Perfect for Warriors football.” Their short, clean passes and patient buildup worked best on a consistent surface. “And with all these ball boys, we’ll not need to chase the ball when it goes out of play.” This task usually fell to Jamie or Katie, as they did most of the throw-ins.

“Right?” Colin caressed his seat’s cushy armrest. “Imagine being a pro and having this every week.”

Jamie nodded with a touch of sadness. Of all his teammates, he’d known Colin longest, from their time at Glasgow Greens in the homophobia-free haven of the gay football league. Though the Warriors had earned grudging respect in this otherwise straight amateur league, their difference was a constant reminder that no queer men played professional football in Europe.

With his skills, instincts, and intelligence, Colin might have turned pro at one point. But it would have doomed him to a life in the closet.

The music over the Tannoy faded as the players moved into place for the kickoff.

“It’s actually happening,” Colin whispered.

“Either that, or we’re in an immaculate simulation.” After weeks in his dad’s orbit, this so-called real life still felt a dream sometimes.

The opening whistle blew, the ball darted, and all at once the world came into sharp relief. It seemed Jamie could hear the shouts of every fan, coach, and player, the thud of every boot, and the creak of every stadium seat as the crowd leapt up to greet, at long last, the start of the Scottish Amateur Cup Final.

“The Warriors are facing an absolute onslaught from Forthside’s notoriously direct style of play,” said the commentator in Perry’s ear. “If they can’t keep their composure, it’ll be a long ninety minutes for the Glasgow side and their many extremely, erm, spirited supporters.”

Perry braced himself each time the Warriors gained the ball, as Forthside players seemed to magically multiply, cutting off every option. The Warriors looked nervy in possession, either hesitating too long or rushing into misplaced passes.

“If you’re just joining us,” the commentator continued, “it’s a miracle the match is still goalless. That miracle is called Heather Wek. The veteran Warriors goalkeeper has made three heroic saves already, but how long can she keep bailing them out?”

Forthside lobbed another long diagonal pass up to a winger, who brought it down neatly on his instep with an immaculate first touch. Thankfully, the linesman raised his flag to signal offside, and Perry could breathe again.

“Christ A’michty,” Brodie said behind him. “I heard Forthside loved direct football, but this is ridiculous.”

“Quite,” Andrew said with a grumble. “They’re playing like their arses will catch fire if they slow down for one second.”

“An amusing image.” John tittered loudly. “You know, in spite of it all, I feel pure dead calm. Dramamine, ya dancer.”

Perry was thankful that alcohol was banned at Scottish football matches. A single pint would probably send John sprawling into the aisle and oozing down the stairs.