Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice)

by Avery Cockburn

  “I was thinking Christmas morning by our tree?” Oliver gave a small grimace. “Bit clichéd, I know.”

  “Nah, it’s fine.” Garen fought to hold back a smirk. “Of course, anyone can do that. You and Luca, however, have a special history.” He pointed to the ice. “This is where you met, after all.”

  “That’s an idea.” Oliver ran a hand over his head, mussing then smoothing his nut-brown waves of hair. “But I don’t know how to trick him into coming here on Christmas. The rink closes for the midyear melt on the twenty-third.”

  “True.” Garen examined his broom head for debris. “You just have to ask yourself, what’s more important: the when or the where.”

  There came a knock on the window to the warm room. Gillian waved to Garen, then pointed to her watch.

  He gave her a thumbs up as he glanced at the clock above his head, slightly annoyed at being rushed. There were four whole minutes before their Jingle Bell Rocks meeting.

  He turned to Oliver. “Gotta go, but thanks so much for sorting me out.”

  “It’s literally my job.” His coach clapped him on the shoulder. “But even if it weren’t, I’m happy to help anytime.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean it.” Oliver’s eyes met his. “For the two years I’ve been coaching you guys, you’re the one who’s needed the least guidance. I don’t know how you float through life not worrying about anything, but at some point even you need help.”

  Garen thought about this as he entered the warm room and went down the hall to the dressing room to change shoes. But as soon as he pulled his Jingle Bell Rocks materials from his locker, his focus turned to his most immediate problem.

  No other rink members had stepped forward to take the lead on the Christmas curling charity event, so if it was to happen at all, Garen had to chair the committee. He was normally allergic to responsibility—especially leadership—but there was a first time for everything. Maybe his regained confidence on the ice would carry over to this endeavor, too.

  As he was slipping on his street shoes, his phone buzzed on the bench beside him. Simon had finally replied to his earlier text:

  Garen: Going to rink directly after work. You ok on your own tonight?

  Simon: Nothing personal comma but after four weeks in hospital an entire day alone feels like paradise

  Garen laughed, though he wouldn’t blame Simon if the sentiment was slightly personal. Garen knew himself to be…well, a bit much.

  At least his boundless energy would come in handy in planning this event, he thought as he joined the rest of the four-person committee at their warm-room table.

  “Here’s a wee agenda.” Garen passed copies around once they’d all gathered. “And of course the traditional curling refreshments.” He set four glasses and a bottle of whisky in the center of the table.

  “Curling’s got all the best traditions,” said John Burns, the liaison for the charity organization, as he reached for the bottle. “Cannae wait to try it myself with the New Shores team.” His dark eyes sparked with excitement as he poured drams for everyone. Garen rarely met a person who could match his own zest and grandiosity. He sensed he and John were going to make a lot of noise together.

  Gillian took her dram and scanned Garen’s meeting agenda. “Green and red ink,” she murmured, tapping the side of her fair, freckled face. “Interesting choice.”

  “It’s festive. I like it.” John grinned at Garen, who raised his glass in appreciation of his appreciation.

  “Me, too,” said Heather Wek, the videographer who’d made the Team Riley documentary before joining Shawlands as a curler herself. “I needed a good eye-bleed.”

  Gillian cackled, then gave Garen’s shoulder a consolatory shake. “Sorry. We mock because we love.”

  “I know. Simon says my enthusiasm makes me an irresistible target.” Garen rapped his pen against the top of the sheet. “Only eleven days to go, so let’s get started. John, can you give us an update on New Shores’ efforts?”

  “Right.” John slapped a bound stack of A4-size sheets on the center of the table. “Here’s a proof copy of the souvenir program book. They’re at the printer right now, so I trust there’ll be no more changes to team names or members?”

  “They’re all set,” Garen said. “Coaches are holding training sessions Saturday and Sunday.” He’d wanted to coach a team, but as the event coordinator, he needed to stay neutral. Besides, he already felt overwhelmed with other tasks, not to mention whatever might come up with Simon.

  “And most important,” Gillian added, “all teams have paid their entry fees.”

  “Brilliant.” Garen ticked one of Gillian’s items off the agenda. She was in charge of financial matters on Shawlands’ end.

  John tapped the program booklet. “We raised nearly a thousand pounds on ad sales, and most of the sponsors are also offering door prizes. They want to know when to have them delivered here. Is the rink open on weekdays?”

  “Not always,” Garen said. “Tell them I’ll be here Monday on my day off to receive delivery.”

  Heather let out a low whistle. “Who’s this responsible adult taken the place of my friend Garen?”

  He pointed gun-fingers at her with both hands. “Careful, or my fellow aliens will be forced to silence you. What’s the latest with press coverage?”

  “Right. Let me get my list.” As Heather opened her binder, she smoothed back her layered black hair, its chunky brown highlights nearly the same shade as her face. Garen hadn’t realized her hair had grown so long, as she normally wore it pulled back into a ponytail for curling. Maybe he should do the same, though he loved the feeling of cold air in his hair as he glided down the ice. Plus, it kept his neck warm.

  Then again, maybe a ponytail would improve his game. He had to try something different.

  Garen jerked his attention back to Heather’s overview of her recent contacts with radio, print, and online media. She and Garen had already been interviewed by several outlets promoting the event.

  The next item was one of Garen’s responsibilities: creating the head-to-head matchups. “We’ve got twelve teams,” he said, “but only seven instructors, so some of the coaches are working with multiple teams. I’m trying to make sure those teams play on adjacent sheets to minimize the coaches’ running about during the games.”

  “Good idea,” Gillian said. “What if a coach’s two teams play each other?”

  “I’m trying to avoid that, too, at least in the first round.” He grimaced at the thought of his failed attempts. “Which makes the task much trickier.”

  “If it’s just for fun, what does it matter?” Heather asked.

  She had a point. Maybe Garen was making this more complicated than it needed to be, based on his experience in competitive curling, where the rules were strict about conflicts of interest.

  “You’re right, I’m getting too mired in details,” Garen told Heather. He looked at his own to-do list. “I need to focus on convincing more people to volunteer on the day of the bonspiel. We still need a first-shift ice crew, another commentator, and at least two more bartenders. Ooft, such a long day with loads to do.”

  He poured himself another dram to ward off the tension working its way up the back of his neck.

  This is why people find holidays stressful, he could almost hear Simon telling him. Garen had always been wary of overcommitting—a survival skill he’d developed in response to his own disorganization—but there was something about Christmas that pushed his I-can-do-everything buttons.

  “It’s gonnae be amazing,” John said. “And before we move on to the next item, I just want to thank all of youse. This event means the world to us at New Shores. Ever since the Brexit vote, our clients have been more frightened than ever. The fact so many organizations and companies want to help us through Jingle Bell Rocks proves that asylum seekers and refugees have the people of Glasgow on their side. In a way, that show of support means even more than money.” He tilted his head. “T
hough the money helps too.”

  The rest of the table laughed. Gillian toasted him with her dram of whisky and said, “To the curling community and its Christmas spirit.”

  They all drank to that.

  18 Days Until Christmas

  “Can’t we just order a tree online?” Simon asked as he rolled forward onto the bus’s wheelchair lift, trying to ignore the irritated sighs of the other passengers waiting to board.

  “Not a chance.” Garen unwound his pine-green scarf, then untucked his hair from the collar of his brick-red puffy jacket. “Christmas-tree shopping is an organic thing. You’ve got to see them face to face.”

  “Trees haven’t got faces, lad.”

  The lift rose with a hydraulic groan and an agonizing slowness. Simon felt like a piece of unwanted cargo.

  Garen stepped up to the bus floor and pointed to the disabled-designated space. “Whose buggy is this?”

  “Och, seriously?” asked a young blond woman across the aisle, holding an infant wrapped in a Santa-patterned outfit. “Where am I meant to put it?”

  “I don’t care where you put it, hen, but you cannae leave it there.” Garen dragged the enormous yellow baby buggy over to her. “This is a passenger area, not free storage.”

  “Sorry,” Simon told her as he maneuvered his wheelchair into the spot, his face heating.

  “Whatever,” she said with a sigh, struggling to keep the buggy from rolling away.

  Garen helped her secure the baby limousine, then latched onto the pole beside the door just in time for the bus to lurch into the street. “Simon, this Christmas tree—this living thing—is gonnae sit in our living room for nearly a month. Don’t you want to get to know it first?”

  “Get to know it? How long will this take?” So far, this odyssey wasn’t exactly living up to Simon’s fantasy of a night out with Garen. “We’re not going to more than one tree shop, are we?”

  “I promise we’ll find a lovely Fraser Fir at this place. I’ve done my research.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, examining Simon. “But maybe you’re a Norway Spruce fan? You seem a bit of a traditionalist.”

  “If by ‘traditionalist,’ you mean I’ve had the same tree most of my life, then yes.”

  Garen swayed on his feet as the bus turned a corner. “Wait. In twenty-five Christmases, you’ve never had a live tree?”

  “Artificial ones make less of a mess.”

  “It’s true,” said a woman’s voice to his right. Simon turned to see an elderly couple sitting in the nearest row, apparently eavesdropping. “Those living-dead trees drop needles everywhere,” she added.

  “Not all sorts,” said the man beside her. “Firs don’t shed as much.”

  “That’s why I want one.” Garen raised his voice over the bus’s engine. “Also, their needles are soft. They don’t prick your fingers when you’re putting the lights on.”

  “Artificial trees come pre-lit,” Simon pointed out, “straight from the box.”

  “And the branches are bendable,” the lady said, “so you can set ornaments however you like and make it perfect.”

  “There’s no fun in perfection.” Garen gripped the pole tight as the bus veered around another corner. “There is fun in accommodating the unique quirks of each tree.”

  “And nothing can replace that fresh evergreen smell,” the old man added.

  “Actually, they’ve got sprays for that.” Simon mimed using a pump, making little hissing noises.

  “Abomination!” Garen clutched at his heart. “I’ll not have our living room smell like a car air freshener, like those taxicabs driven by heavy smokers.”

  Simon tried to smile at him, but it came out strained as a new wave of shooting pains zigzagged down his lower legs. He turned his face away from the couple to hide his wince, then tried to shift his weight in the chair.

  Garen had noticed. “All right, mate?”

  Simon nodded without looking up. He’d worried this would happen in public, but he’d been determined not to hide himself away at home.

  “Did you see that?” the young mother across the aisle said to her friend. “He just moved his legs. He doesn’t need that chair.”

  Garen whipped round to face her. “Not everyone in a wheelchair is completely paralyzed. Moving one’s legs doesn’t mean one can walk a great distance.”

  Oh God. Simon’s scalp suddenly felt too tight, too hot. He tugged his friend’s sleeve. “Garen, please don’t—”

  “You need to show some kindness,” Garen said to the young woman. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

  Their section of the bus fell into an awkward silence. Simon’s face continued to burn until they arrived at their stop a few minutes later.

  “You stand firm on the tree issue,” the old lady said to him as he disengaged the brakes on his chair. “I mean, erm, not ‘stand,’ but…”

  “I know what you mean.” He managed a smile. “You too.”

  Though the tree market was but a short distance from the bus stop, Simon had Garen push his wheelchair so they could maneuver more easily through the crowd.

  “I don’t need you to defend me,” Simon said once they were underway.

  “I know you don’t need me to, but—”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Garen angled the chair to avoid a café sign in the middle of the pavement reading Gingerbread Lattes £1. “I should’ve let you speak for yourself.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because strangers’ ignorant opinions don’t matter to me.” Or at least they shouldn’t matter. To be honest, Simon was rattled by his first public foray in the wheelchair.

  They turned beneath a banner reading Enchanted Forest and headed down a smooth path between rows of evergreens. “I can push now,” Simon said.

  Instead of arguing or asking if he was sure, Garen simply let go and moved to walk beside him.

  Overall, Garen had shown just the right amount of concern and care this week, neither hovering over Simon nor ignoring him entirely. He’d offered help upon request but otherwise had let Simon overcome challenges on his own—until tonight’s bus ride, at least.

  Garen stopped. “We’re in the wrong section.” He pulled his hair back from his face with both hands and interlaced his fingers behind his head—a gesture which, Simon had noticed, seemed to help him think. “These trees look very piney.”

  “Let’s ask this guy.” Simon wheeled his chair toward a burly man in a green jacket with the Enchanted Forest logo on the back. “Pardon me, but would you direct us to the Fraser Firs?”

  The man turned and looked over Simon’s head, then down at his face. “Oh. Yeah.” He saw Garen approaching and spoke to him. “What size do you want?”

  “What do you think?” Garen asked Simon, perhaps realizing the tree man had spoken to him instead of to the person who’d asked the question.

  “Our ceiling’s pretty high,” Simon said, “but mind, you’ll be the one putting the lights and ornaments on the top part.”

  “Hmm, I am rather short and clumsy. So two meters tall, max?”

  “This way,” the tree seller said, once again only to Garen.

  Simon demurred Garen’s offer of assistance. “I’ll follow you.”

  Easier said than done, he discovered. Despite his grippy gloves, his tired hands kept slipping off one or the other wheel rim, making his progress halting and crooked. Garen looked back with concern, then turned away at Simon’s warning scowl.

  I can do this. Simon took a deep breath, planted his palms on the wheel rims, and pushed.

  A young woman suddenly crossed his path. “Oh!” She jumped out of the way, her swinging handbag nearly bashing him in the face. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

  “No worries,” Simon said, though his tone probably implied the opposite.

  “Well, good luck,” she said awkwardly, looking straight through him.

  “Ta,” he mu
ttered. This truly is an enchanted forest, because it’s turned me invisible.

  He wasn’t sure which was worse: being looked at too much or not enough. Apart from the elderly couple on the bus—and Garen, of course—no one tonight had treated him like a real person.

  He caught up to Garen beside a sign marked Serbian Spruces.

  “I’ve just stumbled on these. What do you think?” he asked Simon. “Lush but with a nice slim profile.”

  “Might be good for our limited space.” Remembering Garen’s love of serendipity, he added, “What if you spin round with your eyes closed and I tell you when to stop? Whichever tree you’re looking at when you open your eyes, that’s the one.”

  Garen nodded pensively. “I like it. But we each get one free veto.”

  “Deal,” Simon said, though he had no intention of using that veto. He just wanted Garen to settle on a fucking tree so they could go home.

  Garen covered his eyes with his left hand, extended his right arm, then began to spin. Feeling a tiny bit fiendish, Simon let him rotate six times before saying, “Stop.”

  “Hiya, tree.” Garen staggered toward a taller-than-average spruce. “You’re coming home with us, once I inspect you.” He stroked one of the branches as though the tree was a skittish horse. “Not technically coming home with us. We’re having you delivered.” He gave the trunk a good shake, then examined the ground—for fallen needles, Simon supposed—and walked a complete clockwise circle around the candidate, his steps still wobbly from the spinning.

  Finally Garen raised his arms to the sky. “Huzzah!”

  Thank God.

  As they went to the till to pay for the tree, Garen came to a sudden stop beside a display of assorted greenery.

  Simon looked up to see what he was staring at. In the corner of the display, beside a column of holly wreaths, hung several sprigs of mistletoe.

  “Shall we get some of that?” Garen asked.