Playing With Fire (Glasgow Lads Book 3) by Avery Cockburn

Author:Avery Cockburn [Cockburn, Avery]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-01-29T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“WELCOME EVERYONE TO Hannigan’s for Wednesday Night Trivia!” The perky blond lass with the foot-long airborne ponytail bounced onto the pub’s wee corner stage. “I’ll review the rules pure quick so we can get started.”

Liam had never seen it busier at Hannigan’s when Celtic weren’t playing a match. Even the pub’s Friday trad music shows brought in only half as many folk as this quiz night. The entire far side of the room was crammed out with a younger-than-usual clientele, formed up into teams of three or four.

“Rule one,” the lass continued, “no shouting out answers. Am I right, mate?” She pointed to Billy O’Brien, who, despite his professed distaste for Quiz Night, had gathered himself a team of crotchety old East End gits “to show the whippersnappers a thing or two.”

Billy half stood and bowed as if to an appreciative audience. “I’ll do my best, doll.”

“Rule two,” she said, “no mobile devices whatsoever. You’re to use your brains, or what’s left of them after this lad’s seen to you.” She waved to Liam, who returned her grin and gesture.

The players fixed their attention on the perky hostess, their pens at the ready, their gazes full of an intensity Liam usually saw only on Olympic athletes.

Though the area near the stage was packed, the bar itself was empty, every customer absorbed in the game. Scarlett had warned Liam about these lulls. While the players were answering questions, they’d not be buying drinks. That left him too much time to run Saturday night’s conversation with Colin through his head again. The injured Warrior had shed light on a few truths Liam hadn’t been willing to face.

Number one: Hooking up with Robert had hurt their performance on the pitch.

Number two: Breaking up with Robert had destroyed their performance on the pitch.

Number three: There was no undoing number one without a time machine, but number two might still be reversed, if Liam could find the courage.

He pulled out his phone, brought up Robert’s number, and started to type.

Can we

Just then, the front door opened with a whoosh of wind. A tall, broad-shouldered thirtyish man entered, yanking the door shut behind him, fighting the gale for every inch. He paused just inside the pub, head swiveling then stopping when he spied the wall display of autographed Celtic jerseys.

Since Hannigan’s mainly catered to locals, it was less over-the-top “Oirish” than many Celtic Football Club-aligned establishments along the Gallowgate road near the stadium. The pub’s decor featured no shamrocks and only one faded Irish flag, beneath the high-def TV mounted in the far corner. So it was low on the list for tourists seeking a stereotypical Celtic FC experience—but high on the list of those seeking an authentic one.

By the look of wonder in this new customer’s eyes, Liam sensed he was the latter. He pocketed his phone without sending Robert’s text. It was far too important to dash off in a hurry.

The man approached the bar, smoothing his windblown hair, which was a slightly softer shade of red than Liam’s.

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