Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice)

by Avery Cockburn

“The Penne Arrabbiata, actually.” He mimed using a fork. “Short pasta’s easier to eat. I can just stab it instead of twirling it.”

  “Oh, of course. Sorry.” She shook her head. “So many challenges to consider. I dunno how you do it.”

  I haven’t got much choice, he thought, but felt no resentment toward her lack of knowledge. Before his illness, he’d never thought about such things either—like making a mental note not to drink too much water, so he wouldn’t need to haul himself to the restaurant toilet and back.

  After they’d ordered their meals, his mother held up the bag of gifts she’d brought. “Time for prezzies! Simon, we got you separate gifts, because—well, you’ll understand once you see your da’s.”

  “Wait, what?” His father’s thick black eyebrows rose above his glasses. “I thought it was because—”

  “You’ll see. Mine first.” She handed Simon a flat rectangular box.

  Even before unwrapping it, Simon knew it contained dress shirts. He preferred to buy his own clothes, but he knew it pleased his mother to do it for him, and she made good choices at least seventy-five percent of the time.

  “Aww, these are dead lovely, Ma.” He admired the fine linen cloth on the pair of Oxford shirts.

  “You sure you like them?” She reached across the table and collected the discarded gift wrap. “If not, I’ve still got the receipt. I can exchange them.”

  He wouldn’t dream of asking her to do that, even if he’d hated the shirts. “I love them. Great incentive to get back to the office.” And to train my fingers to do buttons again. “Here’s your gift from me,” he said, reaching into the bag he’d set on the empty chair beside him.

  She took the small box and cooed, “Ah, such pretty wrap.”

  “Garen helped me wrap the gifts.” It couldn’t hurt to big up his boyfriend before announcing they were together.

  “What a sweet lad.” Ma’s broad smile held no hint of suspicion.

  “Anyway, I hope the gift’s okay,” Simon said in the family tradition of minimizing each present as it was being opened. “I had to buy it online cos I couldn’t get to a shop.”

  His mother opened the long jewelry box and gasped. “Oh, Simon.” She drew the necklace from its velvet cushion and held it to the candlelight. “Garnets are my favorite.”

  “I know. Da, will you put it on her?”

  She swept her long curls aside so his father could fasten the chain round her neck. The teardrop-cut Malawi garnet stood out against her cream-colored high-necked dress, and the accompanying white zircons and fourteen-caret gold chain gleamed in the Christmas faerie lights strung along the ceiling above their table.

  “It’s gorgeous, Simon.” She touched the pendant with trembling fingertips. “But it’s too much. I can’t imagine what it must’ve cost.”

  “What’s the point of a man having money if he can’t spend it on his ma?” He thought of the necklace he’d really wanted to buy for her, the one with three huge garnets and fifty-seven tiny diamonds, on sale for fourteen hundred pounds. Maybe next year.

  As Simon picked up his gift for his father, his mum passed a similarly shaped one across the table, a large, flat, wrapped box. “Now, you two open your gifts to each other at the same time,” she said.

  It was an odd request, but Simon knew better than to question his mother on such matters. He waited for his father to have his gift in hand, then began to open his. Once both boxes were unwrapped, they lifted the lids simultaneously.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  He looked at his father, whose shock must have mirrored his own. A flash went off, from his mother’s phone camera.

  “Your faces!” she said, breaking into a cackle. “Priceless!”

  Simon pulled out the long-sleeved official Liverpool FC jersey with the giant white 15 on the back. His father did the same with his own. They were identical down to the white letters spelling Sturridge across the top.

  “I can’t believe we gave each other the exact same gift,” his father said.

  “I can believe it,” Ma said. “Two peas in a pod, you are. Now move your chair next to Simon’s so I can take a proper picture.”

  As Simon smiled at the camera, he noticed the guys at the next table looking over at them.

  “Oi, ’mon the Reds!” one of them shouted. “Daniel Sturridge is a pure giant!”

  Simon’s father turned to them. “You Liverpool supporters?”

  “Naw, mate.” The ginger lad who’d congratulated Simon on getting into his chair tugged the front of his green-and-white-striped shirt. “Glasgow Celtic.”

  “Ah right. Practically a sister club.” Da raised his glass to them.

  “We sing the same song, aye?” Without warning, the ginger started belting out the chorus to “You’ll Never Walk Alone” in a near-operatic voice. Soon the rest of his table joined in, as well as Simon’s father.

  “Oh God,” his mother muttered as she neatly folded the discarded gift wrap, no doubt to reuse later. “Can’t get away from it, can I?”

  “Sorry,” Simon said, but then couldn’t help singing along for the last line.

  When the song was over, a few of the other diners in the room applauded, while others—probably Glasgow Rangers fans—merely glared.

  Their starters arrived then. Simon had ordered the bruschetta because he could eat it without cutlery if he focused hard. Nearly all the sensation had returned to his fingertips this last week, and he relished the feel of the crisp bread crust.

  “So you like it here, now you’re out of hospital?” his mother asked, carefully pulling a steamed mussel from its shell with a tiny fork.

  “I do. Glaswegians are pure friendly.”

  “Aggressively so,” Da said, nodding toward the next table.

  “They don’t put on airs,” Simon said. “They remind me a lot of us Scousers.”

  She nodded. “It’s funny, though. I always pictured you living in London one day.”

  “I’d need three flatmates to afford it. Also, London is full of Chelsea fans,” he said with a wry smile at his father.

  “As long as you’re happy,” his mother said.

  “I am happy.” Simon looked down at his lap, straightening the maroon napkin lying upon it. “In spite of everything.” He gave his father a quick glance, which was met with a supportive nod. Da had been there every day while Simon was in hospital, so he could probably guess what had made him so happy.

  “Garen and I are together,” Simon told his mother. “He’s my partner.”

  She stopped chewing for a moment, then hurried to swallow. Wiping her mouth with her napkin, she turned to his father. “Did you know about this?”

  “Not officially till just now,” Da said with a calm smile. “But it’s not exactly a shocker.”

  “Obviously not for you,” she said.

  Simon’s scalp prickled with unease. His hopes of them both welcoming the news were fading fast.

  His mother tapped her long, red-lacquered fingernails on the table. “You live together,” she said to Simon. “What happens if it doesn’t work out?”

  “Dunno, Ma,” he said, feeling his blood pressure rise with each syllable. “I’ve yet to make my post-breakup plans. I’ll put it on my New Year’s to-do list.”

  “Don’t joke about this,” she said.

  “It’s no joke how kind Garen’s been to me.”

  “I know, Simon.” She spread her hands. “But is that enough?”

  “No, of course kindness isn’t enough.” He fought to keep his voice down. “But without it, nothing else matters.”

  His parents exchanged a look, then his mother started sifting through her mussels, setting aside the empty shells. “It puts you in an awkward position, that’s all,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” Simon asked.

  “Being dependent on Garen. Your pride’ll always be looking for a way to pay him back so you can be equal.”

  His stomach churning, Simon set down his last piece of b
ruschetta. “We’re already equal.”

  “Good,” his mother said, sounding unconvinced. “Then I’m happy for you.”

  “Good,” he replied, equally unconvinced by her statement. “Me too.”

  To his relief, their main course arrived then, severing the conversation.

  As he ate his penne without tasting it, Simon fumed over what his mother had just said. He didn’t feel dependent on Garen, despite his partner’s near-smothering watchfulness. If Simon accepted help when it was needed, surely that was a sign of strength. He’d been told over and over that he had to adjust to his limitations, embrace the fact he couldn’t get through this alone.

  But how were his needs affecting their relationship? Were they creating a gap in power that would never close, even after Simon returned to full strength?

  The road ahead wouldn’t be easy for them, Simon knew. But as long as he and Garen stayed honest—and yes, kind—they could certainly navigate that road together.

  Right?

  Chapter 21

  8 Days Until Christmas

  “Does this place bring back terrible memories?” Garen asked as he and Gillian set Simon up behind the Jingle Bell Rocks registration table at Shawlands Rink. Then he immediately second-guessed himself for bringing up one of the worst days of Simon’s life.

  Just once, try not voicing every thought aloud, he told himself, though he knew such reminders were futile.

  “A bit,” Simon said with an uncanny serenity. “My plan is to replace them with better memories today.”

  “Okay,” Garen said, “but promise you’ll let me know if you get tired or start having pain.”

  “Promise.” Simon flipped through the registration sheets. “I’m loving these team names, by the way.”

  It was probably just as well they were changing the subject, Garen thought.

  “Puns are a curling tradition,” Gillian said as she pinned her Shawlands Rink name badge to her reindeer jumper. “Christmas adds an extra silly dimension.”

  “My favorite today is ‘Hard! the Herald Angels Sing.’ That’s the team from New Shores itself.” Garen pulled a Santa hat from his rucksack and handed it to Simon. “Optional festive headgear.”

  Simon put the hat on at a jaunty angle, then squinted up at the full-size Christmas tree next to the registration table. “Those ornaments look familiar.”

  “Good eye! They’re the ones we had no room for on our tree at home. While I was here on Monday, I had a new tree delivered, as well as the boxes of ornaments from my storage unit.” When Simon and Gillian exchanged a he’s-too-much look, Garen raised his palms. “I had to do something to pass the time.”

  “It’s lovely.” Simon shifted his chair to avoid getting poked by one of the branches. “And totally not in my way.”

  “Good.” Garen set a pair of reindeer antlers upon his own head and checked his reflection in the glass of the nearest cupboard. “Now excuse me whilst I do one last sanity check on the raffle prizes.”

  Garen took his Jingle Bell Rocks binder to the prize table and pulled out the list. He and Willow had set up the table last night, with the lass’s hand-decorated shoeboxes beside each prize. Garen had thought it easier to just have one set of raffle tickets which people could pop into the individual prize-drawing boxes, rather than use separate tickets for each prize. The simpler the system, the less likely he was to muck it up.

  As he confirmed each prize was in its place, Garen resisted the urge to look back at Simon to make sure he was okay. Why wouldn’t he be? He’d made steady improvement all week.

  Other volunteers began to arrive, and Garen directed each of them to their stations: ice maintenance, bar prep, raffle-ticket sales, and “general anti-mayhem,” i.e., helping Gillian help the new curlers get themselves sorted. He made a mental note to send each volunteer a thank-you gift for saving his overly ambitious arse.

  The coaches arrived next, including Heather, who’d also be documenting the event in pictures. In just a season and a half, she had become an accomplished curler and an insightful instructor.

  Garen found her at the registration table chatting to Simon. “Thanks for giving up your Saturday,” Garen told her as they hugged.

  “I’ll have your head if Warriors lose because I’m not in goal,” she said.

  “When are you gonnae retire from football and surrender to your true passion for throwing stones?”

  “Honestly? Another season or two. I just turned thirty-three and my spine feels twice that old.” Heather turned to Simon. “At least I’m a goalkeeper, so I get a few more fit years than the outfield players.”

  “Who do you play for?” he asked.

  “Woodstoun Warriors, an all-LGBTQ team here in Glasgow. You a football fan? You should come watch us play.”

  “I’d love to.” He pointed his thumb at Garen. “I’ll bring him, so I can be the one explaining a sport for a change.”

  After Heather went to unpack her video equipment, Simon told Garen, “I noticed you’ve got two wheelchair teams in this event. I didn’t even know that was a thing.”

  “We’ve got a whole wheelchair league Monday nights here at the rink. I’m sure they’d love for you to join them the rest of the season.” Garen had thought several times to mention it to Simon, but had also forgotten several times.

  “Could I even do that, if I’m not permanently disabled?”

  “I’m not sure you could enter competitions, but you can have a go at league night. Every curling team needs substitutes. Then when you’re more mobile, you could try stick curling—same rules as regular curling, but you throw the stone standing up using a delivery stick rather than getting into the slide position.” He mimed the action, in case his description hadn’t made it obvious. “It’s harder than it sounds.”

  Simon held up the sheets. “I noticed there were two of those teams, too: ‘We Wish you a Merry Stick-mas’ and ‘Jolly Old Saint Stick-olas.’”

  “Curling’s for everyone, mate, in case you’ve not noticed.”

  The sleigh bell on the front door rang just then, and in swept John Burns.

  “Garen!” The New Shores’ liaison unwound his bright-blue scarf as he hurried over. They shared a pally handshake/shoulder slap, then John turned to Simon and introduced himself. “Pleased to meet you. I’ll be the only person here louder than Garen.”

  “I’d like to see that,” Simon said. “I mean, I’d like to hear that.”

  John shook a finger at him. “You may regret that wish.” He turned to Garen. “Caterers’ll be here at ten to set up for the break at noon. If you could show me round the kitchen now, then I can keep them out of your road when they arrive.”

  “Great idea, because at ten my head will be exploding with a million tasks. You can also help me put out the coffee, tea, and pastries.” Garen glanced at the clock and felt a surge of panic. “Oh God, people’ll start arriving any minute.”

  “You’ve got this,” Simon said. “Just enjoy it.” He waggled the puffy ball at the end of his Santa hat. “It’s Christmas, right?”

  “Right. Thanks.” Garen took a deep breath. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

  Simon sent him his most heart-melting smile. “Me too.”

  John clapped his hands. “Okay, lads, moment of serenity over. There’s bags of work to do.”

  Garen hurried after him into the kitchen, feeling slightly soothed by Simon’s reassurance. He showed John the boxes of pastries, as well as all the serving items, then poured water into the oversized electric kettle and coffee maker. Garen switched them both on and stared at them, as though his eyes could make the water boil faster.

  “So how’s Simon’s recovery?” John asked.

  “It’s been bumpy, but it’s progressing.” Garen gave John a brief update without going into more detail than he thought Simon would prefer.

  “How are you coping?” John asked. “I know it’s not easy caring for someone you’re close to—I’ve done it with my dad. And if I’m reading thing
s right, you seem to have got pretty close to Simon.”

  Garen wanted to answer honestly. The strain of looking out for Simon without looking after him—ensuring his safety but not suffocating him—was taking its toll. He could barely sleep at night, and not just because they were using their beds for more fun activities. Since Simon’s setback Monday morning, every twitch of his sleeping body set Garen on high alert, wondering whether Simon would be able to move the following day.

  “It’s been hard at times, for both of us,” Garen told John in the ultimate understatement, which he followed with the ultimate truth: “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

  At about ten minutes to ten, the tournament’s participants began to flood in, demanding all of Simon’s attention. He was glad of the distraction, because otherwise he’d be worrying that Garen wasn’t truly happy he was here. All morning Simon had felt like he was just one more source of stress for his overstretched boyfriend.

  When the queue lengthened, Gillian and Willow came over to help, the wee lass showing the teams to their designated tables and offering name-badge stickers from her own Christmas collection.

  Finally everyone had arrived, filling the warm room with excited chatter that drowned out the carols blasting from the speakers.

  Garen found him again. “They’re going to start curling soon, so let’s get the commentary set up.” He made a little happy-fist shuffle. “Time for your big debut!”

  “I am so ready for this,” Simon told him as he wheeled himself through the warm room toward the wide window looking out onto the ice. A long table flanked the window, and in the center, a computer sat beside two headsets. “I watched four bonspiel commentaries yesterday, which means I now know five percent more about curling than I did the day before.”

  Garen handed him a headset. “Why am I not surprised you’re over-prepared—I mean, heroically prepared?”

  Simon didn’t feel prepared. The commentaries he’d watched seemed to assume viewers already knew the basics of curling. He supposed that made his contribution today all the more important.

  Together they ran through the software that controlled which images showed up on the livestream. Simon was impressed with the setup: Not only were there cameras facing both ends of each of the six sheets, but there were also overhead shots of each house, displayed on the warm room’s six wall-mounted televisions.