Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice)

by Avery Cockburn

  He would make sure to bend his knees more during the post-breakfast game. And he’d definitely dress more warmly next time.

  I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. If he recited the mantra enough times, maybe it would come true.

  But then Simon thought back to Thursday evening, when his toes had first tingled. He’d chalked it up to his run in the rain—not to mention the electric charm of Garen’s smile—but maybe it had started earlier that day? He couldn’t remember.

  His pulse quickened. If the worst happened, he’d be helpless amongst all these strangers. He should get on the first train to Liverpool so his parents could be at his side when it all went down.

  But what if there wasn’t time? What if he became totally paralyzed during the three-and-a-half-hour ride south? At least here he had someone he knew and sort of trusted.

  Simon watched Garen in the center of the warm room, demonstrating release technique to a group of primary-school kids. “It’s like a handshake,” he told them. “Not too hard, not too soft. And when you let go, I don’t want to see any palms facing up—mind, it’s a handshake, not a low five.”

  Luca’s niece, Willow, bounced over to Garen, her strawberry-blond ponytail swaying behind her. “Show them the cup trick!”

  “Maybe later, lass. I’ve just eaten.” Garen patted his stomach. “No one wants to see my breakfast spewed all over the carpet.” He got to his feet and scanned the room. When he found Simon, Garen gave a reassuring wave and smile.

  Simon returned the gesture, then sipped his coffee, willing it to warm every cell in his body. Better to stay here, he decided, rather than risk a solo ride back to Liverpool. Maybe he’d be fine.

  And if the worst did happen, he thought as he looked at the warm room full of friendly faces…he wouldn’t really be amongst strangers at all.

  Garen and Luca tidied up from breakfast while Simon and the other new curlers played a four-end game. Garen would’ve preferred to be out on the ice coaching, but it was his and Luca’s turn to clean the kitchen. Besides, they’d not seen each other all week, so there was loads of catching up to do.

  “Tell me everything about last Sunday’s glorious victory in Edinburgh,” Garen said. “I’ve not had time to watch the livestream.”

  “You really want to hear?” Luca zipped a plastic bag of leftover crumpets. “It won’t make you bitter you missed it?”

  “I couldn’t be any more bitter.” Hmm, that didn’t come out right. “I mean, I’m over it.” Garen handed him the white-board marker. “Show me how it went.”

  Though he was curious to know the details of Team Riley’s victories, Garen mostly wanted to keep their conversation confined to curling so he wouldn’t accidentally reveal Oliver’s plan to propose to Luca. It was all he could think about every time he laid eyes on his best mate.

  Luca went to the board on the kitchen wall and erased a crossed-out note about restocking HP Sauce. “So, it’s the seventh end. We’re down two with hammer. Team Boyd are sitting three with only skips’ stones to throw.” He made a rudimentary sketch of the house’s concentric circles. “We’re the squares and Boyd are the triangles.”

  “Got it.” Garen watched as Luca reenacted the pivotal end of last week’s final. He tried not to feel jealous at the description of Ross’s sweep call as “pitch perfect.”

  As Luca wrapped up his story, Garen glanced out the kitchen door through the warm-room window to the rink, where Simon was standing on the ice ready to sweep his skip’s throw. He was tapping the toes of one red trainer against the heel of the other, each in turn.

  “We should tell guests not to wear running shoes,” Garen told Luca.

  “Why? They’re comfortable and secure. They’re the closest thing to a curling shoe.”

  “But they’re designed to keep people’s feet cool. They’ve got hundreds of wee holes. On the ice that means cold toes.” He gestured toward Simon. “My flatmate’s been stamping his feet nonstop, poor lad.”

  “You’ve been observing him closely, eh?” Luca set the marker back on the white board’s shelf. “I don’t blame you. He’s cute.”

  “I know, right?” Garen snatched a slice of fried black pudding from its plate before Luca could put the rest in a storage container. “In fact, we’re dealing with a bit of…” He took a bite of the pudding and spoke through the crunch. “Sexual tension.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “Thursday after work, he went running in the rain. His shirt got dripping wet, clinging to his pecs and his abs and oh my God…” Garen nearly shivered at the image in his memory. “Also, we may have traded a few naked hand jobs the night we met, when we thought he’d be living elsewhere.”

  Luca gaped at him. “The night you met?”

  “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

  “And now?”

  “You know I don’t do regrets,” Garen said.

  “I mean, would it be a good idea now?”

  “Obviously not. Living together, it’d be completely daft.” Garen took another bite of pudding. “Not even sure he’s interested.”

  “He was watching you this morning.”

  Oh really? Garen tried to sound casual. “Watching me what?”

  “Curl. What else?”

  “Am I sexy when I curl?”

  “I don’t know, why don’t we ask your groupies?”

  “I haven’t got groupies,” Garen said, though there were certain guys in each city on the Scottish Challenger Tour… “Anyway, getting together with Simon would be heaven in the short term but absolute hell in the long term if it didn’t work out.”

  Luca reached for the plate of leftover pastries. “I’m impressed you’re considering consequences.”

  “Me too.” Garen picked up a large plastic storage bag and held it open. “I thought I’d take him to some bars and clubs so he can meet guys. I think it would help settle things down.”

  Luca poured half of the pastries into the bag, then stopped. “What’ll you do if he brings someone home?”

  “Ask if I can join them,” Garen said, just to see the look on his friend’s face. “It’s important to be accommodating.”

  Luca rolled his eyes. “If you want to be accommodating, you can clean those pans.”

  Garen turned to the cooker and saw three large frying pans filled with congealed grease. “That’s disgusting.”

  “And the sooner you start, the sooner it’ll be a distant memory.”

  “Or in my case, not a memory at all.”

  Thinking of his flatmate as he approached the sink, Garen felt a tickle at the back of his brain. Something seemed off.

  He reviewed the morning’s curling, how adeptly Simon had taken to the act of throwing a stone, how he’d barely wobbled as he came out of the hack. But as the day went on, he’d actually become less steady.

  Garen set down the pans and went to the kitchen doorway to get a better look at the ice. “Be right back.”

  “You’d best not be leaving me with those pans,” Luca said.

  Garen walked up to the warm-room window and peered into the rink. Simon was sitting on a bench at the far end of Sheet C, bending over and rubbing his left ankle with both hands.

  One of Simon’s teammates turned to speak to him, gesturing to the stone in front of the hack. It was his turn to throw. Simon nodded, then attempted to stand, rising a few inches off the bench before sinking back down.

  Garen’s heart began to slam his chest. What the hell was happening?

  Simon placed his hands on the bench beside him and tried to launch himself up, but got no further than before. Two of his teammates flanked him, each offering an arm to help, but he waved them off.

  Finally Simon planted the end of his broom handle on the floor and pushed. At last he rose to his feet, and Garen started to breathe again. Perhaps Simon had had a leg cramp—it had happened to Garen his first time curling, and from then on he’d been careful to wear an extra layer beneath his trousers.

  But Simon had
done the same this morning, warned by Garen, so why was he—

  Simon’s legs buckled, and he pitched forward. His teammates caught his shoulders just in time to stop his face hitting the stones.

  Garen ran for the door to the ice. “Luca, call 999—Simon’s collapsed!”

  The rink’s cold air bit at him as he dashed down the sheet toward his fallen friend, who was now obscured by a pack of onlookers.

  “Let me through.” Garen wanted to shove everyone aside, but some of them were standing on the ice and could have taken a tumble at the slightest push. “Please!”

  The small crowd parted. Garen found Simon sitting on the floor with his back against the bench, his legs stretched out in front of him.

  “Mate, it’s me.” Garen knelt beside him and touched Simon’s forehead, searching for a wound. “Do you know where you are? What year is it? Who’s the Prime Minister?”

  “Me head’s sound, see?” Simon swept off his red knit cap, ruffling his black hair. “It’s my feet.”

  “Did you injure them?”

  “No. They’ve been pins and needles for hours. I thought it was the cold air, but now…” Simon clutched at his knees, his knuckles turning white. “Garen, they’re not working.” His voice dropped to a shaky whisper. “It’s all happening again.”

  Chapter 7

  Garen piled the array of packaged snacks—crisps, biscuits, trail mix—atop the cardboard coffee-cup tray, then made his way out of the hospital café. Through a combination of good fortune and fierce concentration, he returned to the Accident & Emergency unit without getting lost or dropping any of his purchases.

  Arriving at Room 8, he found Simon’s parents sitting on the edges of the same chairs, in the same tense postures, as when he’d left them fifteen minutes before. Their eyes sparked with hope as he entered, only to cloud over with disappointment when they realized it was only him.

  “I know you said you weren’t hungry now, so I got stuff you could eat later.” Garen set the tray on the small table in the corner, then held out one of the cups. “Coffee with cream and two sugars for you, Mrs. Andreou.”

  “Ta for that.” She flashed a tight, pale-lipped smile as she took the coffee. “And please, call me Eleanor.” With a shaky hand, she tugged on the ends of her long, brassy curls.

  “Will do.” Garen handed the second cup to Simon’s father. “Darjeeling tea, three sugars.”

  “Ta,” Mr. Andreou said in a faint voice, glancing up before returning his gaze to the room’s curtained entrance. He looked ten years older than the day he’d helped Simon bring Poppy to their flat. His olive-complexioned face—a shade darker than Simon’s—now had pale undertones. Even his coarse black hair and mustache seemed to contain more gray hairs than a few weeks before, though Garen knew that was impossible.

  Garen left his own coffee in the tray, his stomach too sour from nerves to drink it. “Any word yet?” he asked, knowing they must be desperate to see their son, as they’d arrived after Simon had already gone upstairs.

  “Nothing,” Eleanor said.

  Garen looked at the clock, where the stark black hands formed a straight vertical line against the white face. “They said he’d be back no sooner than half six. Mind, it’s a really long MRI. They’ve got to do the brain and the entire spinal cord.”

  “There’s no point,” Eleanor said. “We know what this is. Simon told them, eh?”

  “Aye, when we got here, he said it was probably Guillain-Barré syndrome.” It was the first time Garen had said the illness’s name without stumbling over it. “All his symptoms and exams so far point to it. But they still need an MRI to rule out a spinal-cord injury and multiple sclerosis.”

  He knew this because Luca had come to the hospital with Garen and Simon—and not just for moral support. As a former med student and current editor of medical textbooks, Luca could explain the terms the doctors and nurses were using, and he’d known all the right questions to ask.

  Eleanor clutched her coffee cup in both hands. “I just hate the idea of him lying alone in that machine for two hours while his limbs go numb. And soon there’ll be the spinal tap—” Her voice broke off. “He must be so frightened.”

  Garen’s chest grew heavy with sympathy, and he searched for words that would be comforting but also true. “He was scared to death when we got here. But Simon can handle this.” He turned to Mr. Andreou. “I guarantee when he comes back, the first thing he’ll ask is whether Liverpool held on to beat Watford.”

  Simon’s dad gave a wan smile, his first since arriving today. “6–1. We’re top of the league now.”

  “Well done. Who scored?” Garen didn’t give a toss about football, but he knew a match recap would be a much-needed diversion for at least one of the people in the room.

  Simon’s mum gave Garen an approving nod and sank back into her chair with a tight sigh that reminded him of Simon’s. Like her son, she was tall and lean, whereas Simon’s father was broad-shouldered and stocky, no taller than Garen himself.

  After Simon’s dad had finished describing the game, Garen managed to distract the Andreous with more inane small talk until the blue curtain finally swept aside to reveal Simon in his rolling hospital bed. He was now wearing a pale green gown and holding his street clothes in a clear plastic bag on his lap.

  “Hey Ma. Hey Da.” Simon waved to his parents as the brawny patient care technician returned his bed to the center of the small square room. “How’s it going?”

  Garen stepped back to let Simon’s parents flank his bed.

  “Simon, we’re worried sick.” Eleanor took her son’s hand in both of her own. “Are you sure it’s the Guillain-Barré again?”

  “I dunno.” With some effort, Simon pulled up one knee, then stretched his leg out again. “I don’t remember what it was like the first time, but I’ve read about it online.” He looked at his dad. “Remember when Markus Babbel had it?”

  “Of course.” Simon’s father took his other hand. “I also remember he was back playing football the next season. You’ll be on your feet again in no time.”

  “You don’t know that,” Eleanor snapped. Then she winced. “I’m sorry, Stavros. We just can’t assume anything yet.”

  “It’s okay,” her husband said in a soothing tone. “We’ll know more soon.”

  “I’m in safe hands here,” Simon told them. His voice was steady and his expression much more serene than when it had been just he and Garen in the room. Either his parents were a calming influence on him, or he was putting on a brave face for their sake.

  The curtain pulled aside, revealing the A&E doctor who’d been treating Simon all afternoon, a middle-aged woman with French-twisted hair nearly as red as the silk poppy she wore on her lapel. “Hello, I’m Dr. McAlpine,” she said to his parents with a warm smile. “I just spoke with our on-call neurologist, and he’ll be in shortly.”

  “Define ‘shortly,’” Eleanor said, her tone suggesting she wouldn’t believe the answer.

  “Seven, maybe eight o’clock?” the doctor replied.

  So nine at the earliest. Time worked differently inside hospitals, Garen knew. His gran, in fact, had stayed in this facility more than once. Apart from her final hours, Garen’s memories of this place weren’t sad. Mostly he remembered the silly games he and Karen would play to keep up their grandmother’s spirits and pass the endless hours of waiting—sometimes for something, and sometimes for nothing.

  “In the meantime,” Dr. McAlpine said, “the neurologist asked me to test your reflexes again. Can you sit on the edge of the bed for me?”

  Simon swallowed hard. “Okay.” With the doctor’s help, he maneuvered himself to dangle his legs off the side of the hospital bed.

  The room fell silent while Dr. McAlpine rapped her wee shiny hammer against each of his knees.

  Nothing happened, just like earlier.

  The doctor moved to his left side. “Let’s try the arms.”

  Simon tugged his gown sleeve aside to offer her a spot
to knock just above his elbow, his hand struggling to grip the material. Garen expected Simon’s arm to jerk when she rapped his triceps tendon, as it had a few hours ago.

  Nothing happened.

  Eleanor gave a quiet gasp, then pressed her knuckles to her mouth. Stavros took off his glasses and rubbed the back of his head, murmuring softly to himself.

  The doctor tried Simon’s right arm, with the same result.

  Garen swallowed a cry of dismay. He had to stay calm, but this was like watching his friend being eaten by an invisible monster. He wished Luca were still here to guide them all through a soothing meditation.

  When she was finished, Dr. McAlpine said, “Okay!” much more brightly than the situation warranted. She went to the computer and typed in her notes. “Either I or the neurologist will report back with the MRI results shortly.”

  There was that word again, shortly.

  “Until then, any questions?” she asked.

  “Can I eat?” Simon mimed bringing a fork to his mouth. “I’d like to feed myself while I still can.”

  Garen’s heart broke a wee bit, and he felt guilty for bringing all those snacks from the café.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. McAlpine said. “We need to keep your stomach empty in case the MRI shows an injury needing surgery. In the meantime, your IV fluids will keep you hydrated.”

  With a reminder to ring the call button if they needed anything, she left them alone.

  The room suddenly felt too small for the four of them, and not just because there were only two chairs.

  “Can I talk to Garen alone for a second?” Simon asked.

  His parents looked surprised, but agreed. Eleanor glanced back as they moved to the other side of the curtain.

  Garen went to stand beside Simon’s bed, which seemed bigger than before, as though its occupant were shrinking by the minute.

  Simon took a deep breath, then let it out. “Listen, my parents are going to be nervous wrecks the next few days. I need someone to stay cool.”

  “Me, cool?” Garen tapped his own chest. “Have you met me?”

  “I’ve met you. I have faith in you.”