Page 44 of Playing By Ear

“These still your favorites?” His dad pointed to the Empire biscuits in the center of the glass display case.

Jamie considered denying it, but his mouth was watering. “May I have two, plus an espresso, please?” he asked Rita.

She beamed at him. “You always were such a polite wee dearie.”

“Give me the usual.” Martin patted the edge of the counter. “We’ll be outside.” Of course they didn’t need to pay, as the MacKrays had a controlling interest in the café.

Jamie followed his father out the door, jangling the small bell attached to the handle with a bit of red yarn. Out of ancient habit, he gave the bell an extra swipe like he’d done as a wean.

Martin took off his blazer and hung it on the back of a chair beside the white metal table. “It’s pure warm this morning.” It objectively wasn’t, but exertion had turned his ruddy face even redder than usual. He rolled up the sleeves of his black Oxford shirt as he sat, easing into the white plastic seat like it was a throne.

Layla took her place beside Martin’s chair and scanned their surroundings while Gerry did the same from a respectful distance.

Jamie sat with his back to the shop and took in the wide loch with its stately white mute swans.

“Whooper swans fly back to Iceland already?” he asked his father. Waterfowl migration was a safe topic.

“Looks that way.” Martin squinted at the birds. “Good riddance to the rackety beasts.”

Jamie nodded. He preferred these mute swans—who weren’t truly mute, only less raucous than whoopers—because they were the prettiest, their black masks and long, curvy necks lending an air of romantic mystery.

Could Perry see the swans from this distance, or would they be blurs of white against the loch’s blue-gray water? If he got close enough to view them clearly, he’d soon see a male swan charging at him to protect its mate.

“You ready for next weekend’s quarterfinal?” Martin asked.

Jamie started. He hadn’t mentioned the upcoming match to his father, but the Warriors’ fixtures weren’t exactly a state secret. “Sure.” It wouldn’t do to show doubt to this man. “Cannae wait.”

“I saw you had an assist in the last league match.”

An unwelcome glow of pride sparked in Jamie’s chest. “Aye, Charlotte’s got me going forward a lot more this season. Overlapping runs, creating chances, cutting to the inside in our attacking third. We’re trying to be less predictable, not stuck in that static 4-4-2 formation.”

“Wise. Keep ’em guessing,” Martin said. “You nervous?”

Was it that obvious? Jamie shook his head, loosening his death grip on the edge of the table.

“Just treat it like any other match,” his dad said.

Oh, he was still talking about the quarterfinal. “It’s not like any other match.”

“How no?”

Jamie hesitated. He had hoped they could keep their conversation light today. Even a slight thaw brought on by real talk might loose the torrent of accusations he’d bottled up for a decade.

But football, like the swans, might be safe ground.

“We crashed out of the Cup in the last two quarterfinals,” he told Martin. “The first time, our captain deserted us at the last minute and broke up with his boyfriend—one of our other midfielders—via FedEx directly before the match.”

“Fucking hell. What about last year?”

“So, the deserter guy had come back and was in the team again. His ex was our captain, and he pulled a hamstring in the first half, so our ex-captain became our captain again, but then he tore his hip flexor while scoring an equalizer. Then the two of them went off alone, got into a stooshie, and our captain—the new one—sprained his thumb punching the old captain.”

“Sounds like your team’s got more drama than my business.”

“Which is ironic, as the Warriors’ first rule is ‘No Drama.’”

Martin let out a belly laugh, and Jamie felt the mix of pleasure and relief that court jesters must have felt: He was safe as long as he entertained.

“So,” Martin said, “you’re saying you’re afraid to lose.”