“Sunday Confession”
The pew is hard, colder than usual. Kane shifts, tugs the collar of his jacket like it might hide him from God. Not that he really thinks God’s watching. Not anymore. But habit’s a funny thing. He came to mass this morning because he needed something—quiet, maybe. A sign. Or just routine. The hymns, the incense, the sound of bodies kneeling in sync. It calms the static in his head. Usually.
But today, the static turns electric.
He spots him.
Up near the altar.
Helping.
Reading from scripture, voice calm, face composed, collar stiff.
It’s him. It’s him.
Kane’s mouth dries, stomach drops. For a second, he thinks it’s a mistake. A lookalike. But no. He knows that mouth. That jaw. That little freckle near his temple. His hands.
The ones that had held him, soft and sure, just a few nights ago.
He feels the blood drain from his face. His chest tightens. He can’t breathe.
A few heads turn. Not many. Just enough to make him feel exposed.
He bolts up. Walks fast, nearly trips on the end of the pew. Doesn’t care. Outside, the Glasgow wind slaps him across the cheek. He lights a cigarette with shaking hands, even though he quit last year. The first drag burns. He stares at the church doors like they’ve betrayed him.
How could he not have known?
How could he not have said?
The ache rises in his throat, not from heartbreak. That would mean something had been real. No. This is something else. Shame. Rage. The sick joke of thinking he’d found a place. A man. A path.
He should’ve known.
He always tries to slip into other people’s worlds like he won’t set off alarms.
But no matter how quiet he walks, no matter how polite or eager or devout he becomes, someone always points at the gay boy in the Celtic scarf and says: Not you. Not here.
He finishes the cigarette. Steps on the butt. Then he pulls out his phone and opens his email again.The ad is still there. The one he read and re-read and laughed at for being too dramatic. The one he swore he’d never actually answer.
But now?
Now he clicks “Reply.”
“Green and White”
Kane was seven the first time he walked into Paradise.
That’s what they called it—Celtic Park—but to him, it was more than a name. It was electric. Towering lights. A thousand voices rising like a single roar. Smoke from the pies. Scarves held high. Songs he didn’t know but already felt stitched into his blood.
He clutched the sleeve of his da’s coat as they stepped out into the stands. The man barely looked down, just grunted, “Sit up straight. No fidgeting’.” Kane obeyed. Of course he did. Even at seven, he’d learned not to push it.
His da didn’t smile. Not when the team scored. Not when the crowd chanted. Not when the players raised their hands to the fans.
But Kane? He was smiling so hard it hurt. His cheeks ached. His little hands clapped until they stung. He didn’t know the players’ names, but he cheered like they were family. And for a moment, he thought—if he loved this enough, maybe his da would see him.
Maybe here, in this sea of green and white, he could be something right.
His father was a legend in certain circles. Everyone knew the story. Overlooked again and again for promotions because he was “too brown for the front desk, too Muslim for management.” Until one day he snapped—beat a radio controller within an inch of his life. No charges. No remorse. He started his own firm the next week. Now? Biggest taxi company in Glasgow. Nobody dared cross him. But he barely looked at Kane. Not really. Not unless something was wrong. Not unless he needed correcting.
That night, walking out of the stadium, Kane finally spoke.
“Da, d’you think… if I was Catholic, I’d be a better supporter?”
His father stopped. The silence was thick. Then a single snort.
“Don’t talk shite,” he muttered, lighting a cigarette. “You think them bastards care what you are? As long as your money’s green.”
Kane didn’t reply. Just nodded. Held the silence in his stomach like a rock. But in his heart, something had already started. A quiet decision. He would learn the chants. Memorise the saints. Light candles. Say rosaries. Because if he couldn’t be enough as his father’s son, maybe—just maybe—he could be enough for the club.
And maybe, if he tried hard enough…
Kane is a character from 100 Days. This is a snapshot of what led him into the social experiment in the book
