Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice)

by Avery Cockburn

  “I think so,” she said.

  “Aye, you can,” Garen told them. “And when you finish, you get a medal.”

  The lad’s eyes widened, and he started to bounce even faster.

  His mother laughed. “Save some of that energy for the race, wee man.”

  At last the people in front of them started to move off with a crescendo of ho-ho-ho’s.

  “Jingle your bells, mate!” Garen shouted as he pushed off at a slow jog.

  Simon reluctantly reached down and shook the sleigh bells attached beneath his arm rest. When the spectators applauded him, he did it again, louder. He had to admit, the sound made him feel just a bit jolly.

  As they turned off George Square, Simon looked up to see the long first hill, where thousands of runners had transformed St. Vincent Street into a roiling mass of red and white. “That looks amazing.”

  “Aren’t you glad we came?” Garen asked.

  “I am now.” Simon had been dubious—even anxious—about this endeavor, worried it would make him bitter about his loss of mobility. But it was hard to feel bad amidst a sea of Santas. “What about you? Regretting the idea now we’re on the hill?”

  “Not. A. Bit.” Garen sped up, veering left to dodge a photographer perched on a ladder in the middle of the street. “I’ve been working on my stamina for just this occasion.”

  He started singing Chuck Berry’s “Run Rudolph Run” at the top of his voice, attracting attention with his volume and his over-the-top outfit. Soon spectators and other racers started taking their picture. Simon waved at them, feeling ridiculous but mostly in a good way.

  As the street grew steeper, Garen stopped singing. His pace slowed to a light jog, then a brisk walk.

  “Gonnae hold my beard?” He handed the jingling mass of white hair to Simon. “Ah, much better. Say, does this chair have a lower gear, like on a bicycle?”

  “Sorry, no. Shall I help by pushing?”

  “Not yet. Stick to the plan.”

  But Garen’s gasps came harder and harder, and soon he and Simon were being passed by small dogs and babies in buggies.

  “I swear to Christ,” Garen said, panting, “when we go downhill, I’m riding in your lap.”

  The idea appealed to Simon. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  Garen just laughed with what sounded like his last breath.

  Ahead of them to the right, a small girl with a long blond braid was riding on the shoulders of a tall, thin man who’d already removed his Santa hat. She looked at Simon and Garen, then patted the man’s bald head and said, “Daddy, can we help them?”

  The man turned and did a double-take. “Yes, of course.” He smiled down at Simon. “If it’s all right with you.”

  “Please,” Simon said. “I think my friend is dying.”

  “I’m not dying.” Garen let go of the handles and stepped aside. “But thanks, mate.” He raised his head to speak to the little girl. “You’ll definitely be on Santa’s nice list this year.”

  “That’s what I was thinking!” she said with a giggle.

  Garen walked on Simon’s left, his face damp with sweat. He gave a wordless nod of thanks when Simon offered him the water bottle.

  At the next junction, Simon heard a familiar voice calling from the side of the road. “There you are!”

  He looked over to see Oliver, Luca, and Gillian weaving through the crowd of runners.

  “Sorry we left you behind,” Oliver said.

  “We felt pure sick about it once we realized how steep this first hill is.” Gillian smiled up at the man pushing Simon. “But I see you’ve found a good Samaritan.”

  The man and his daughter left them with a friendly wave and trudged on ahead, while Luca began to push Simon’s chair.

  As much as Simon appreciated his new friends’ consideration, his entire body was longing to take control. Despite the Santa suits and Christmas carols, this was still a race, with every sight and sound sparking his marathon instincts. It felt so wrong to just sit here.

  The moment the road began to level off, he held up a hand. “My turn to push.”

  There was a pause, probably Luca looking to Garen for confirmation. Then Luca said, “Well, as my favorite Canadian would say, giverrrrr!” He offered one last shove for momentum.

  “Wait for us!” Garen called out as Simon moved ahead of them. But the competitive spirit was taking hold. He recalled his old racing tactic of setting his sights on the next person ahead of him, then the next, envisioning a fishing line drawing them back and him forward.

  Finally the course turned left, down toward the shining silver river. From here, Simon could see the mighty Finnieston Crane, and far below, the Squinty Bridge over the Clyde. As he zoomed along, pedestrians cheered and waved, shouting “Gie laldy!” and “Ya dancer!” and other phrases Simon couldn’t fully decipher.

  For the first time since he’d moved here, this city felt like home.

  The road descended more steeply. Simon slid his hands over the rims of his wheels to slow down, grateful for his padded cycling gloves, an early Christmas gift from his father.

  “Oi, Born-to-Be-Wild Man,” Garen said as he caught up to him. “Did you miss the speed-limit sign, the one that says, ‘Twenty’s Plenty’?”

  Simon grinned. “Still fancy that ride?”

  “Mmm. Maybe later.”

  Is he saying what I think he’s saying? Simon decided to probe. “‘Later’ as in, ‘later in the race,’ or…”

  “Later as in ‘later.’” Garen looked down at him, his face glowing with exertion. “Wouldn’t want the other racers to get jealous.”

  Yes, he’s definitely saying that. Simon imagined Garen riding him later—today, tonight, tomorrow, or all three. “Okay, but only if you wear that Santa hat.”

  Garen threw back his head and laughed. “Whatever turns you on.”

  Buoyed by their flirtation, Simon let go of his wheel rims and let the chair accelerate again, so that he could soar on the outside as well as the inside. He let out a long, loud whoop as the buildings flashed by.

  At the bottom of the hill, Garen caught up to him again. “We’ve gone 3K, so time for me to push, according to our plan. Is that okay?”

  Simon agreed reluctantly, then took the opportunity to drink from the water bottle and munch on an energy bar. The last kilometer had taken more out of him than he’d realized. He looked back to see Gillian, Oliver, and Luca about twenty meters behind. Luca had hooked all three beards onto his belt, making a hairy white apron.

  They passed at a brisk walk beneath the M8, where a mural was painted on the concrete span under the motorway. Three swimmers were featured upon a backdrop of a sunny sky with fluffy clouds. Two were painted mid-stroke, and the third was poised on the starting block: leaning forward, left heel up, hands gripping the edge of the board for balance.

  Simon studied the mural until they were past it. “Promise me something, Garen?”

  “Anything, mate.”

  “Promise you’ll let me finish by my own power. Even if I’m struggling. Even if I’m so slow you can’t stand to look at me.”

  “Of course,” Garen said, his voice and breath now steady. “You’re a runner. I would never take the finish line away from you.”

  “I’m not a runner anymore.”

  “Pish. That word ‘anymore’ is so permanent. It only fits pure factual statements like, ‘I’m not twenty-five anymore.’ If running for you is like curling is for me—if it’s part of who you are—then you’ll always be a runner, even if you’re not running on your feet on this particular day.”

  Simon considered this for a long moment. Despite Garen’s occasional verbal blunders, when things got serious he always seemed to say the words Simon needed to hear. “Thank you.”

  Soon they were going uphill again, back toward George Square. Simon sensed the “smelling the finish line” excitement in the racers around them, as everyone’s steps got a little bouncier. On one street corner, a bagpiper was ma
ngling what Simon assumed was a Christmas carol.

  As the piper’s notes faded behind them, recorded music came over a PA system up ahead.

  “Almost there!” shouted Gillian, who was now jogging several paces in front of them. “Jack and Willow will be filming us from near the finish line, so we need to make a good show.” She started pumping both fists in the air in time with her steps and singing the theme to Rocky.

  “I want to push now,” Simon told Garen.

  “The plan was to wait until we entered George Square. Also, we’re going uphill.”

  “Please. Just trust me. I can do this.”

  Garen squeezed his shoulder. “Aye, you can. And I can’t wait to watch you.” He let go and moved beside him.

  Simon put his hands on the wheel rims and gave a great push. “Let’s do this!”

  Before long, he understood why the other racers had removed their Santa beards. Sweat began to coat his face, and he found himself puffing to keep the beard’s curly white hairs out of his mouth and nose.

  The crowd from the square grew louder, and now both sides of Buchanan Street were lined with spectators, as well as racers who’d already finished.

  Their shouts and cheers and whistles faded into background noise. For a few glorious moments, Simon had Marathon Mind. His entire awareness shrank to the road before him, to the pumping rhythm not of his hips, legs, and feet, but of his shoulders, arms, and hands. His breath was everything.

  They crested the hill, where it was time to turn into the square. He slowed one wheel while pushing the other.

  Suddenly his right shoulder seized up. “Aaaugh.”

  Garen stopped short with him. “All right, mate?”

  “Yeah.” Simon pressed his elbow against his side. “Just a cramp.”

  Garen steered him out of the center of the road so others could pass. “Let’s catch our breaths, and then you’re gonnae finish this race.” He pulled the bottle of water from the wheelchair’s holder, took a sip, then handed it to Simon. “My calves are screaming, so I’m glad of this wee pause.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  Simon pushed the lip of the bottle through the opening in his beard, which had shifted to one side. “You were right,” he said after the first sip. “We should’ve kept to the plan.”

  “Whoa, wait.” Garen took a step back. “I was not only right, but now I’m the planner instead of the improviser?” He looked around. “This’ll ruin my reputation.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” The yanking pain in Simon’s arm began to ease. He slowly straightened it.

  “Better?” Garen asked.

  “Yep.” Simon rang his wheelchair’s jingle bells. “Let’s rock.”

  He pushed more slowly this time, pacing himself and keeping his shoulders loose. The finish line appeared ahead, a gray arch adorned with the Santa Dash logo. The racers around him were pumping their fists and prancing their way home, high-fiving the spectators, but he kept his eyes forward, trying to block it all out.

  Alas, his usual method of retreating into a hyperfocused shell wasn’t working. His strength waned, and each inhalation was more of a struggle than the last.

  So he turned his attention to the crowd, and to Garen trotting beside him, waving his hat and shouting encouragement with his own heaving breath. Simon kept going, fueled by the energy from voices of strangers and friends alike.

  He yanked down his beard and smiled at them all, breaking his rhythm long enough for a wave. The cheers grew louder. He saw Gillian’s daughter, Willow, jumping up and down, her red-blond ponytail cascading over her shoulders. “Go, Simon, go!” she squealed. “You can doooooo iiiiiiiiit!”

  She was right. He could do it. He could finish this race, recover from this illness, become stronger than ever before—at least in all the important ways.

  He just couldn’t do it alone.

  Chapter 15

  “How can my legs be so tired?” Simon asked as Garen helped him out of his wheelchair—which Garen had renamed the “WHEEEE!-chair” after watching Simon sail down Finnieston Street. “I’ve been sitting all day.”

  “Every part of me is tired, down to my wee toes.” Garen realized that sounded like a complaint. “Totally worth it, though.” He steadied his friend until he was stably perched on the edge of his bed. “Right?”

  “Totally.” Simon undid the laces of his trainers, then toed them off, slightly fumbling with the task but not asking for help. “Can you put these by the front door?”

  “Of course.” Garen took the shoes down the hall to their designated spot beneath the coat pegs, then slipped off his own trainers beside them. When he returned to Simon’s room, his friend had kicked off the baggy red trousers he’d worn over his running tights and was now hanging his race medal on the bedpost. The faerie lights gleamed upon its shiny metallic face.

  “Ah, this.” Simon slid the wide black belt from his Santa suit, dropped it on the floor, then kicked it under the bed in an uncharacteristically haphazard move. Then he tipped over to crash onto his pillow, pulling the covers up over his waist.

  “You’re sleeping in the Santa coat?” Garen asked.

  “Just a nap.”

  “Think I’ll have a nap as well.” Garen rolled the wheelchair into the corner and folded it up, then set Simon’s walking frame near the bed so he could use it when he woke. “Need anything else?”

  Simon’s eyelids fluttered. “I need you to…” His voice trailed off, slurring the final word.

  Garen took a step toward him. “To what?”

  “To stay.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “No.” Simon tugged the duvet up over his shoulder. “I just like being with you, and I don’t want it to stop.”

  Garen stared at him for the briefest of moments. “Okay!” He yanked off Santa suit—everything but the hat—his mind surfing waves of anticipation and confusion. He’d wanted to lie beside Simon again for so long, he almost couldn’t believe the invitation was real. In some ways, though, this seemed like the obvious next step in their journey.

  He crawled up over the bed on the wall side, where he slipped under the covers and settled in. “Oh, this is an excellent pillow.” He snuggled his face into it. “It’s fluffy and…firm in all…the right…”

  When he woke later, the sunlight through the window had dimmed. Garen stretched cautiously, though he knew any muscle pain from the race wouldn’t set in until at least tomorrow morning.

  He turned over to face Simon, who was already lying awake on his back, arms over the top of the duvet. He was now clad in just his long-sleeved white T-shirt, the Santa coat lying crumpled beneath him.

  He smiled when he saw Garen. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Garen wanted to ask how he was feeling, but he knew his friend was sick of that question. “What time is it?”

  “Dunno.” Simon smirked. “You’ve got somewhere to be?”

  “Nowhere but here.” Garen noticed a shred of white Santa beard still stuck to Simon’s jaw. He reached out to brush it loose. “You’ve got some—”

  Simon jerked away. Garen yanked back his hand and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Simon rubbed his face. “You can touch me, just not lightly like that, not right now. My nerves are a bit—”

  Garen poked Simon’s cheekbone, firmly, like he was pressing the button to summon a lift.

  Simon looked at him, agog, then started to laugh.

  “Was that all right, then?” Garen asked.

  Simon nodded. “Bit weird.”

  “Shall I do it again?” Garen did it again without waiting for a response.

  Simon laughed louder, then grabbed his wrist and held on tight. “You know you’re still wearing the Santa hat?”

  Heart pounding, Garen replied, “Well, you did say it was a requirement if I wanted to”—his tongue betrayed him, making him stammer—“to ride you.”

  Simon’s lips parted in surprise, and for a moment Garen thoug
ht he’d completely misread their earlier flirtation.

  But then Simon lowered his gaze to Garen’s mouth with an unmistakable heat. “So do you? Want to?”

  Garen gave a shaky nod. “Kind of…more than anything.”

  With a sharp exhale, Simon pulled Garen’s wrist to bring him forward into a crashing kiss.

  Garen’s moan was a mix of relief and exaltation. Finally! He let his hands travel down Simon’s back, dying to feel every inch while reminding himself to keep his touch firm and steady.

  When he felt Simon’s fingers gripping his arse and pulling him closer, Garen gasped out, “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure I want you.” Simon pulled off Garen’s Santa hat and tossed it aside. “Even without this.” He buried his hand in Garen’s hair, pulled his head back, and began to feast on his neck.

  But are you sure it’s okay? Garen didn’t know whether sex was a recommended part of the rehabilitation plan. He had to trust Simon knew what was good for him.

  Still, Garen drew back to clarify things. “So we’re not stopping at hand jobs, like we did that first night?”

  Simon’s face softened. “It’s sweet you remembered. But that was because we barely knew each other. Now we’re…” He cleared his throat. “I feel like you know me better than anyone.”

  Garen’s chest felt like it would burst open from the sheer honor. “Really?” he whispered.

  Simon plucked at the front of his own T-shirt. “You’ve seen this body at its worst. I want to…I want to give you its best. As much as I can do, anyway.”

  “Simon.” Garen gripped his elbow. “Your body never stopped being amazing, not for a second. No matter what it can or can’t do, it’s yours, and that makes it something I…” He ground his teeth against the swell of emotion. “Something I really, really want.”

  “Oh.” Simon blinked in what looked like shock, his dark lashes flickering. “Good,” he said, and the single syllable was swallowed up by the next long, deep kiss that sent waves of lust and joy straight down to Garen’s toes.

  For a fleeting moment, Garen recalled the whole reason he’d stayed out of Simon’s bed to begin with: They lived together, and if this…thing between them went wrong, it could make life in this flat at best awkward and at worst heartbreaking.