Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice)

by Avery Cockburn

  Simon rolled out of the small lift onto the landing outside his flat, just in time for Garen to dash up the last set of stairs and beat him to the door.

  “I win!” Garen made cheering-crowd noises as he pranced about the landing in slow motion.

  “Congrats,” Simon said, grateful Garen hadn’t purposely lost their race from the ground floor.

  Garen pushed open the door to their flat and stepped back. Inside their hallway a dozen balloons of all colors bobbed near the ceiling.

  “Wow.” Simon gave his wheel rims a solid push to get over the threshold bump. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Nae bother. I love balloons, and I could never have them living with Luca.”

  Simon was about to ask why when he spied the brand-new walking frame he’d ordered online. With a polished-wood-and-chrome finish, the frame looked much less clinical than the ones at the hospital.

  “This is pure class, mate.” Garen unfolded it and parked it in front of Simon.

  “I wanted one that didn’t make me feel like an old man.” Simon locked his wheels, got to his feet, and grasped the frame with both hands.

  Garen carried Simon’s bag ahead of him down the hall. “Surprise for you in your room.”

  Spurred by curiosity, Simon began to move forward, trying not to hurry. He recalled his physiotherapist’s instructions, breaking each step down into sub-steps:

  1. Bend and lift the right knee, enough to keep the toes from dragging.

  2. Bring the right foot forward, but not too far (nose over toes, nose over toes).

  3. Put foot down.

  4. Shift weight onto aforementioned foot.

  5. Repeat on the left side.

  How could something so basic as walking require so much conscious effort? He wondered, with bitter amusement, how long it would take him to walk and chew gum at the same time.

  The silent hallway—now rug-free, he noticed—echoed with the scrape of his feet and the squeak of the walking frame’s wheels. Sweat broke out at the base of Simon’s neck from the physical effort, along with the self-consciousness of being watched while he struggled.

  “Almost forgot.” Garen pulled out his phone and tapped the screen a few times. A jazzy intro to “Winter Wonderland” began to play from what seemed every room in the flat. “I got us a wireless sound system,” Garen said. “There’s a speaker in your room, which you can change to play anything you want by using the app. Each room can play different music, so you won’t have to listen to my incessant Christmas carols.”

  “Boss.” Simon instinctively synched his steps with the song’s rhythm, glad his journey had lost its awkward silence.

  He reached his bedroom and peered inside. “What the…”

  Framing the room were strands of green garland wrapped with white faerie lights, the bulbs casting dozens of steady glows. The strands undulated in long waves along the top of each wall and down to the floor in each corner.

  “You…decorated my room?” Simon knew Garen was expecting a thank-you, but it felt a bit like a violation.

  “There’s a switch for the lights here.” Garen went to the bedside table. “I thought if you needed up in the middle of the night, the faerie lights might hurt your eyes less than the big light or even the lamp. I unscrewed half the bulbs so it wouldn’t be too bright. You mentioned you were still having a bit of hyperesthesia.” He pronounced the final word carefully. “Your OT said it was a good idea.”

  Oh. Garen hadn’t done this out of Christmas obsession—at least not entirely—but rather to accommodate Simon’s ongoing challenges.

  “It’s a brilliant idea, literally.” Simon moved toward Poppy’s vivarium.

  “I’ve not got a tree for the flat yet,” Garen said. “Maybe we’ll go and buy one this week?”

  “Maybe.” Simon peered into the tank and found Poppy curled up in her rock-like “cool hide,” the one away from the heat mat. The python had no doubt been spooked by the vibration of his walking frame against the floor.

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” Garen said, “and give you a moment with your wee lassie.”

  Alone in his room, Simon checked the small jotter beside the vivarium, the one where he kept his Poppy-related notes and schedules. Garen had documented her shedding process, which had just completed yesterday. He’d also noted when he’d fed her a frozen-thawed mouse, writing “YUM!” in the comments column. Simon was relieved Poppy hadn’t gone off food in his absence.

  He longed to hold his beloved python, but not only would his shaky hands alarm her, he’d risk picking up a salmonella infection.

  It didn’t matter, he reminded himself, as he made his way to the bed. Snakes didn’t fancy being touched—handling them was more for the purpose of taming and human enjoyment. So she wouldn’t exactly be pining for Simon’s loving arms.

  Still, it would’ve been nice…

  His walking frame bumped the bed, and Simon realized he’d forgotten to turn round so he could sit. He was still mastering the side step, which he now needed to get outside the frame and onto the bed.

  Okay, focus. He flipped the locks on the frame’s wheels to stabilize it. In the kitchen, the kettle dinged.

  Simon leaned over and put a hand on the bedside table to steady himself, mentally reciting an abbreviated version of his physio’s instructions:

  1. Right knee up, enough to keep the toes from dragging.

  2. Right foot forward—no, back—but not too far.

  3. Foot down.

  4. Shift weight.

  5. Repeat on the—

  Simon wobbled. He’d leaned back too far when he’d shifted his weight. A shot of panic ripped through him. He was spinning, falling…

  “What sort of tea do you—whoa! Got you.” Garen was behind him, supporting Simon with his own body. He fumbled for a moment, his hands first on Simon’s waist, then his hips. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Bed.”

  “Good.”

  They tipped over to land together, much more awkwardly than they’d once done on Garen’s bed…had it been more than six weeks ago already? How diminished Simon’s body felt today compared to that night.

  But Garen had yet to let go of him. In fact, he was gazing at Simon, his eyes twinkling in the faerie lights. “It’s good to have you here at last,” he whispered.

  “It’s good…” Simon felt his voice tremble in his throat. “It’s good to be home.”

  Home. Was this the first time he’d used that word to describe this flat? Though he’d slept beneath a different ceiling for the last month, this one finally felt like his own, all because of the man lying beside him.

  As Garen started to roll toward Simon, the sound of crumpling paper came from his jacket pocket. “Oh!” The noise seemed to jerk him out of an enchanted state. “I almost forgot.” He tried to tug his arm free, but it was stuck under Simon’s shoulders.

  “Sorry.” Simon pushed himself to sit up on the edge of the bed, shifting away from Garen at the same time.

  Garen pulled out a green paper flyer and unfolded it. “Something for you to work towards.”

  Simon took the flyer and read the bewildering contents. “A 5K race?”

  “Not just any 5K—the Santa Dash. It’s a tradition here in Glasgow. People dress like Santa for the race and raise money for a cancer charity. My mates and I did it last year, and it was a belter, so we’re doing it again.” He retrieved his phone from the other jacket pocket. “I’ll show you a video.”

  “Garen, I can’t run five meters, much less five kilometers.”

  “But I bet you could roll five kilometers. Loads of wheelchair users do the Santa Dash.”

  Simon wasn’t sure his arms would last that long. The thought of failing to finish such a short race…

  He looked at the date. “This is in six days. I doubt I’ll be ready.”

  “Tell you what: Ask your physio if it’s okay. If she says yes, then we’ll make a plan. You tell me how far you think you can wheel your
self, then we’ll go over the route—see where there’s hills and all—and work out which parts I’ll be pushing you, so you can finish on your own.” He bumped his shoulder against Simon’s. “The most important thing in a race is to finish, right? Finish strong?”

  Simon nodded. Garen had clearly learned how to manipulate him by sounding sensible, even using the word “plan.”

  “So what do you think?” Garen asked.

  Simon couldn’t resist that hopeful smile. “I think you’re going to be very bad for me.”

  Garen woke to the sound of pain.

  He’d left his bedroom door open so he could hear if Simon called out for him in the middle of the night. While these small, high-pitched moans coming from down the hall weren’t a literal cry for help, Garen couldn’t ignore them.

  He got out of bed, switched on the hall light, and hurried to Simon’s door, which was also ajar. “All right, mate?” he asked as he knocked softly.

  “I’ll be fine. Sorry I woke you.”

  “Can I come in?”

  Simon’s sigh was long and shaky. “Okay.”

  Garen opened the door, expecting to find his friend sprawled across the floor after a bad fall. Instead he was in bed with the covers askew. Even the fitted sheet had come loose from the mattress. “What’s wrong? What hurts?”

  “Me legs and arms…like they’re on fire. Just...neuralgia from the nerves regenerating. It’s happened every night the last two weeks.”

  “Shall I call your doctor?”

  “God, no. It’s normal.” Simon took another quick breath. “Go back to bed. I’ll try and be quieter.”

  Garen lingered on the threshold. He had to do something to help or he wouldn’t be able to sleep. “Shall I at least straighten your covers?”

  After a moment, Simon switched on the faerie lights. “Actually, could you tuck them around me real tight?”

  “Like, swaddle you?”

  “Not that tight. I need to be able to get up. Also, I’m not a baby.”

  “I’m well aware.” Garen went to the foot of the bed. “This pain is a sign you’re getting better, right?”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “So we’ll think of it like growing pains—or like labor pains, as you’re giving birth to your new self.” He stopped, wondering whether Simon was tiring of his relentless optimism. “If that’s okay.”

  “Sound, la’,” Simon whispered, his eyes already closing.

  Garen felt a tug of tenderness at hearing his friend’s speech revert to full-on Scouse, as it often did when he was tired or in pain—or, like their first night together, completely hammered.

  He tugged the bottom sheet back over the mattress and smoothed it out, remembering how Simon could feel the wrinkles beneath him. Then he tucked the top sheet and duvet tightly around Simon’s body. A quick glance at the vivarium showed the tip of Poppy’s tail sticking out from her fake log, which sat at the warmer end of the tank.

  “That’s you snug as a bug in a rug,” he said when he finished.

  The corner of Simon’s mouth twitched. “Ta. Much better.”

  “Anything else?”

  Simon opened his eyes. “Would you add a note to that jotter, please? Just write that I had neuralgia in all four limbs but it got better with the tighter covers.”

  Garen picked up the red-and-white Liverpool FC jotter on Simon’s bedside table. “Ah, it’s the one your dad started at the hospital.” Mr. Andreou had documented every moment of Simon’s stay, every word and action by every hospital worker. It had been a godsend when the busy staff’s own documentation had been less than perfect.

  “Thought about converting it to digital,” Simon said, “putting all my symptoms and exercises in an app. But that jotter is…I dunno, it reminds me of me da and how he was there for me.”

  “He was an absolute star.” Garen found a pen and started a new entry.

  “So were you.”

  Garen looked down to see Simon’s eyes closed again, his dark lashes silhouetted against the pale-yellow pillowcase.

  He wanted to crawl onto the bed and pull Simon close, use his own body to soothe the rampaging nerve pain. But with Simon’s condition, making any sort of move would feel like taking advantage.

  Garen took a step back as the full weight of responsibility hit him. He’d done everything he could do to prepare—removed all the tripping hazards, bought a secondhand table and chairs for the kitchen so Simon could rest while he was in there, even ramped up his own strength training so he could physically support or even lift Simon if needed.

  But none of those preparations could overcome Garen’s chronic absentmindedness. What if he forgot something important, and Simon got hurt? There were so many ways this could go wrong.

  “Go back to sleep,” Simon said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  As if he could sleep whilst imagining disasters. “I can wrap you up tomorrow, too. Or whenever you need it. But you’ll probably need to remind me.”

  “Okay.”

  “I know it’s hard to ask for help, and I’m sorry I won’t remember without being asked.”

  “Garen,” Simon said in a strained voice. “You’ve done so much already.”

  “I’m just compensating for screwing up later.” Garen gave a light laugh, but he meant every word.

  When Simon remained silent, Garen switched off the faerie lights and turned to leave.

  Simon’s voice stopped him at the door. “You know why I chose to stay here instead of going back to Liverpool?”

  “Why?” Garen asked, half-hoping the answer would be, Because I couldn’t live without you.

  “Because I wanted to do this on my own. I will do this on my own. So any help you give is just a bonus. You’re not responsible for me.”

  “I know I’m not,” Garen croaked out.

  “And if I fail at this, it won’t be your fault, okay?”

  Garen let out a long breath, feeling his knotted-up shoulder muscles unwind a wee bit. Simon might not have given him the answer he’d wanted, but it was definitely the answer he’d needed. “Okay.”

  Chapter 12

  19 Days Until Christmas

  In the nearly eight years he’d been curling, Garen had never thought much about what he did on the ice. Once he’d learned the basics, the sport had more or less come naturally to him. Like any curler, he’d had his ups and downs, and he’d seen the downs the same way he’d seen the ups: as passing phases.

  Until now.

  “So back to basics.” Oliver stood with Garen on the carpeted catwalk beside Sheet A at Shawlands Rink. “Curling is all about momentum. You’re a scientist, so tell me the formula for momentum.”

  Garen wasn’t that sort of scientist, so it took him a moment to dredge up the answer. “Erm…p = mv, momentum equals mass times velocity.”

  “Bingo,” Oliver said. “Can you control your mass? Within reason, I mean.”

  “No.”

  “So finding your draw weight is about controlling your velocity. What determines that in curling?”

  Garen knew this one. “How hard we push out of the hack.”

  His coach’s face told him this was the wrong answer. “For a draw? When you want a light touch?”

  “Oh. Maybe not.” Garen scanned the rink while he pondered the question. The other five sheets were occupied by curlers squeezing in an hour of practice before doubles league games started at seven o’clock. They were all busy attending to their own issues, but he still felt like he was on display. Surely by now news of his struggle had entered the Shawlands grapevine.

  “I guess for a draw,” Garen said finally, “it’s not so much pushing off as it is sort of…falling into the slide.”

  “Riiight.” Oliver grinned down at him. “So what determines how hard you fall into the slide?” Before Garen could speak, his coach gestured to the hack. “Don’t tell me. Show me.”

  Garen slid a stone in front of the hack, then placed his right foot onto its slanted rubb
er surface. “This is one factor,” he said. “The higher I put my foot, usually the faster I go.”

  “Okay, what else?”

  Garen went through his pre-shot routine, taking one full deep breath as he pretended to read his skip’s signal from the other end of the sheet, then tugging on his left sleeve, followed by his right sleeve.

  He crouched down and took hold of the stone’s handle with his right hand. Then he raised his hips and drew back, bringing his sliding foot parallel to the hack.

  “Oh!” Garen froze in place. “The farther my sliding foot goes back, the more momentum I get.” He looked back at Oliver for confirmation, but his coach seemed unimpressed.

  “True,” Oliver said, “but do you need such a big adjustment for a draw?”

  “Erm…” Draws were the slowest-moving shots, the sort that didn’t knock out any stones. But they were key to scoring points and thwarting opponents’ opportunities. “I guess not.”

  Oliver came over and put his hand on Garen’s left calf. “Right now you’re in the ‘back’ position. As you start your slide, the time it takes your foot to go from here to here”—he gave Garen’s leg a gentle push until it was parallel to the hack—“is key to throwing a draw with the right weight. It’s all about that ‘back to hack’ interval.”

  “Wow.” Garen shifted his sliding foot back and forth. “How am I just now learning this?”

  “You’ve always known how to throw a draw. My job is to help you understand why it works, so you can get it back.” Oliver went to the nearby bench and picked up his laser timer, which was so thoroughly used, it was held together by electrical tape. “Our little ‘speed trap’ friend here can show us how fast you’re going compared to how fast you think you’re going.”

  Garen proceeded to run through Oliver’s drill, attempting to throw a pair of stones so that their velocities were nearly the same. Over the course of an hour, the feedback from the laser timer helped him calibrate his throws until they were as precise as they’d ever been.

  “Any more questions?” Oliver asked as they arranged the stones in proper order for the upcoming league games.

  “Just one.” Garen used his foot to slide the yellow stone with the 2 on it into place, then checked to see if anyone was within hearing distance. As usual, there was too much noise in the echoing rink for normal conversation to carry far. “Any plans as to when and where you’ll propose to Luca?”