“Here are the two most important buttons,” Garen said, pointing to the Z and the M on the computer keyboard. “They mute my microphone and yours, respectively.” He gave a sheepish grimace. “I’ve learned the hard way how important it is to switch that off at sensitive moments.”
“No sex talk with the mics on. Got it. And remember, I’m not out to everyone in my life, so on the off chance my distant cousins are listening…” Simon had told his parents about the livestream, and by now they’d probably emailed every last relative.
“We are just friends and flatmates as far as the wider world is concerned,” Garen said with a hand over his heart. His phone bleeped then. He pulled it out and checked the screen. “Hm. Talking of family, my sister wants an urgent video chat tonight. Ooft, I really hope I didn’t break up her and her new boyfriend.”
“Wait, what?” Simon’s imagination went in a dozen different directions. “How would you have done that?”
“By inviting him for Christmas without asking Karen first.” He put his hands to his cheeks. “And I should’ve asked you, as well. It’s your flat too. Sorry.”
“The more, the merrier,” Simon said, though he didn’t subscribe to that platitude.
Garen looked up at the wall clock, then jumped to his feet. “Speech time!” Simon watched him head toward the warm room’s Christmas tree, where he rang a bell on the wall with a loud clang that made a few people jump. “Hiya everyone! Just a few words before we get the fun started.”
“When have you ever said just a few words?” Luca called out.
Garen laughed with the crowd. “Fair enough. I first wanted to give a shoutout to the founder of our feast, the wee lassie whose brilliant idea this was. Willow Boyd, gonnae say hi to your adoring fans!”
The young lass waved and blew kisses from her perch atop one of the barstools as the room broke into awwws and applause.
Garen then thanked each of the members of his committee and all of the volunteers by name—which, Simon noticed, he didn’t need to read from a list. Then he invited the handful of spectators to watch from the seats overlooking the ice upstairs, where they’d have a better view than they would from the warm room.
“Lastly,” Garen said, “I want to introduce our charity, New Shores, which is the reason we’re all here today. But first, a personal take.” He took a breath. “Some of you know my sister and I were adopted from Russia when we were three years old. My mum raised us to feel Scottish and British, though she was an immigrant herself from what was East Germany at the time. She taught me never to take for granted the freedoms and opportunities I’d been given.
“Here in Scotland—and in all of the UK, I still believe—being one of us means opening yourself to all of us. Being one of us isn’t about your place of birth, your skin color, your religion, or your language. It’s about believing in the equality and dignity of all humankind.” Garen held his arm out to John. “New Shores offers that equality and dignity to those who need it most.”
The crowd whooped and hollered.
Simon knew Garen’s words weren’t empty. Though he and Garen were different in many ways, they both just wanted to belong. And they both knew that belonging wasn’t about finding the right place. It was about finding someone—or many someones—who made you feel at home.
“Welcome to all those watching, whether round the city or round the globe. I’m Garen McLaren, and my co-host today is my flatmate, friend, and brand-new curling fanatic Simon Andreou.”
Simon adjusted his headset and said, “Hello,” then nothing more.
Garen realized he needed a bit of coaxing to come out of his shell. “Simon will be monitoring the live chat while I keep an eye on the ice, so any questions or comments, fire in. But keep it clean, lads and lasses—this is a family-friendly show.” He gave Simon a nudge and pointed to the team lists. “Time to introduce our curlers.”
“Right.” Simon picked up the lists. “On Sheet A, we’ve got ‘Guard Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ versus ‘Baby It’s Cold Inside.’” Simon recited the team members’ names, then switched the broadcast camera to the next sheet. “And here on B there’s a showdown between ‘The Little Hammer Boys’ and ‘Hack Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’” He chuckled. “As a computer guy, I’m a big fan of that name.”
“‘Hack Yourself’ is a team from cybersecurity firm SentiVisiTech,” Garen said, “who have generously donated a top-to-bottom ‘white-hat’ corporate audit as a raffle prize. For those new to curling, the ‘hack’ is also the starting-block thingamie that curlers slide out of. So it’s a doubly clever name.”
“Possibly trebly clever,” Simon said. “We should all hack ourselves a merry little Christmas.”
Garen had no idea what he meant by that, but he looked forward to finding out. “Sorry?”
“Well, sometimes fitting Christmas into our already busy schedules can be stressful. We need good life-hacks to accomplish it.” Simon muted his mic. “Am I digressing?” he whispered.
Garen muted as well. “Yes, but the more Christmas, the better. There’s only so many ways to say, ‘Ooh, that shot creates an interesting dilemma for the skip.’” He unmuted his mic. “I agree, Simon. Everyone, please share your favorite Christmas hacks in the comments or live chat. How do you make merry more efficiently? I like to wrap gifts whilst streaming holiday films on the telly.”
They introduced the rest of the curlers, featuring each matchup onscreen for several moments before moving on to the next. There wasn’t much to discuss in the early stages of a game, so they focused on answering questions and taking comments from the dozens of viewers.
“Here’s a good one,” Simon said. “FoxyMagooTwo says, ‘Please settle an argument between me and my sister, who’s playing for Team ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Zamboni.’”
“Fun fact,” Garen interjected. “Curling ice doesn’t use a Zamboni. Still, an excellent name. What’s FoxyMagooTwo’s question?”
“Which is better—gift bags or gift wrap?”
“I like both, though I’m notoriously sloppy with either method.” Garen could see by the combative light in Simon’s eye that he was dying to offer his input. “What do you think, Simon?”
“Presents should be wrapped in boxes so they stack neatly under the tree. Gift bags take up too much room, and they look so haphazard, especially since most people haven’t got a clue how to arrange the tissue paper. Half the time the bag tips over and the present just spills out, ruining the surprise.”
Garen laughed, loving the fact Simon had such a strong opinion on a Christmas matter.
Simon looked at the screen. “2PintsRick says, ‘Gift bags are environmentally friendly because they’re reusable.’”
“Excellent argument, 2Pints,” Garen said.
“Okay, let’s bust this myth.” Simon counted off on his fingers. “Firstly, gift bags tend to break or get so crumpled they can’t be used again by any decent person. Secondly, the bags often have that plastic hook thing that hangs them on the shop display. That makes them non-recyclable, as is the tissue paper that goes inside them. Whereas gift wrap is completely recyclable.”
“Not the metallic sort,” Garen said, “which is, of course, the prettiest.”
“Fair point. I’ll allow it.” Simon scrolled through the comments. “Here, AilsaMeg says, ‘Defending gift bags as eco-friendly is just an excuse for laziness.’”
Garen covered his mouth to contain his laughter. They were barely ten minutes into their commentary, and already his boyfriend had started a Christmas YouTube flame war. “And do you agree with AilsaMeg?”
Simon hesitated. “I think it’s best not to make this personal.”
Wise man. “We should probably discuss the curling now. But if anyone can link to a video with helpful gift-wrapping tips, I’d be deeply grateful. Clearly I need to raise my game this year.”
“Only if you want to keep me as a, erm, flatmate,” Simon said with a smirk.
“I really do.” Garen stood up s
o he could scan all six sheets at once for an interesting situation. “Let’s have a look at Sheet F.” He switched the feed camera to an overhead shot. “Team ‘We Four Kings’ have a pair of perfectly positioned center guards. Their two red stones near the top of your screen will make scoring difficult for their opponents, ‘All Through the House’—a team from Harris’s Fine Interiors, another lovely sponsor of today’s event.”
“Basic question,” Simon said. “Those stones in front of the house don’t count for scoring, do they?”
“No.” Garen often had to remind himself, when commentating, to review the basics of curling. “For a stone to count, it must be A, inside the house or at least touching it, and B, closer to the center than any of the opposing stones. ‘We Four Kings’ aren’t necessarily trying to score a lot of points—their main goal is to keep ‘All Through the House’ from scoring, because ‘All Through the House’ have the hammer.”
“Ah.” Simon peered through the glass at the rink. “Somebody in the comments wants to know where the hammer is. Does one of the curlers hold onto it while they play?”
Garen squinted at him. “By ‘somebody in the comments,’ you mean yourself?”
“Erm...no?”
Garen tried not to laugh. “The hammer’s not a real thing, mate. It’s just a way of saying which team throws last.”
“Then why not just say they’ve got last throw? Why add a whole layer of confusion by naming it after a real object?”
“Well, that’s curling for you.”
“See, this is why I prefer running,” Simon said. “It’s literally ‘Put one foot in front of the other as fast as possible,’ and that is it.”
The rest of the draw flew by as Garen’s attention flashed between the action on the ice and the banter among him, Simon, and the live chat. He’d never had so much fun at a bonspiel—not sober, anyway.
Two by two, the twelve teams finished their games and filed back into the warm room, greeted by the traditional round of applause. Garen saw to it that Simon and the other volunteers got fed, regrettably having no time himself to eat: There was ice maintenance to oversee, second-round draws to confirm—and, as always, troubleshooting beer taps. Again he questioned the wisdom in holding an event on such short notice. Next year we’ll start planning earlier, so it’ll be twice as big and half as stressful.
At least Simon seemed to be managing well. If anything happened to him today, Garen would lose his mind.
As he zoomed around the warm room, putting out metaphorical fires and attending to his myriad tasks, he noticed Simon having lunch with John Burns. Simon had brought up the New Shores home page on the computer, and the two men seemed to be in serious discussion.
The afternoon draw got underway more or less on time. Spectators filed upstairs to the small stand, leaving the warm room empty apart from Garen, Simon, Gillian, and Willow.
“AilsaMeg is back with a question,” Simon said into the mic as their commentary began again. “They ask, ‘If you touch your tongue to the curling ice, would it stick?’”
“I wish I could say I’ve never tested that theory,” Garen said. “But I can confirm that it’s a situation in which alcohol is both the cause and the cure.”
He looked over at Simon, expecting a laugh, and instead saw his partner wincing as he shifted in his wheelchair.
Garen muted both their mics. “You all right? You tired?”
“I’m the opposite of tired. I’m restless.” Simon bent his knees, one at a time. “The stronger my legs get, the more they hate sitting for hours. They’re starting to ache.”
“Then stand up and move about. Do whatever you need to feel better.”
“What if one of the wheelchair curlers sees me through the window? They’ll think me a fraud.”
“No one will think you a fraud.” Still, Garen understood Simon’s self-consciousness. “If you want somewhere private, you can go to the workout area behind the dressing rooms. There’s a mat and a bar—like a bar to hold onto, not a bar for drinking.”
“That’d be perfect.” Simon took off his headset. “I could do some of my rehab exercises in there. I’ll be too tired when we get home tonight, and I hate to miss a day.”
“Aye, you’re the paragon of diligence.” He gave Simon a quick kiss. “The dressing rooms are down that hall on the right. Promise you won’t overdo it?”
“Promise,” Simon said in that singsong, I’m-barely-tolerating-your-nonsense tone as he moved away.
Garen returned to his commentary, focusing on a heated battle between the two wheelchair-curling teams, ‘Jingle Bell Roll’ and ‘Deck the Wheels.’
Twenty minutes later, Simon hadn’t returned. Garen reminded himself that these workouts usually lasted half an hour, often longer, depending which exercises were on that day’s agenda. There was no need to be nervous—and definitely no need to check up on him.
But after another ten minutes, Garen had to do something, if only to ease his own mind and allow him to focus on his event responsibilities.
He went into the rink and found his coach. “Oliver, would you do me a favor?”
“For sure,” Oliver said without taking his eyes off his skip as she got into the hack. “What’s up?”
“This might sound silly, but would you find an excuse to go into the workout room and see if Simon’s okay?”
Oliver jerked his head around. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, as far as I know. If he thinks I’m checking up on him, he’ll be insulted. But I’m going a bit daft just now wondering if he’s all right.”
“Why wouldn’t he be? There’s nothing in the workout room that can injure him.”
“I know, but…he could fall?”
“Onto the nice soft mat,” Oliver said.
“But what if he couldn’t get back up on his own?”
“Then he’d call out for you. You’d hear him from the warm room if he—”
“Could you please just humor me and have a wee peek?”
“Okay, okay.” He headed toward the warm room door with Garen on his heels. “I don’t mind doing this. I just think you’re being overprotective.”
“But it’s cute, right? Not creepy?”
Oliver opened the door and held it for him. “Honestly, it’s a little of both.”
“Hey, sorry to interrupt.”
In the workout room mirror, Simon saw Oliver enter behind him and head for a white cupboard to his right.
“No worries.” Simon continued his supported squats, holding onto the bar in front of him with both hands.
“Just trying to find a…” Oliver rummaged through the cupboard, shelf by shelf. “Luca said they’d be in here,” he murmured.
“What are you looking for?”
“Just a…whatchamacallit for the…um, curling. Shit, where are they?” He peeked at Simon. “How are you doing, by the way? Need anything?”
Simon sighed. “Did Garen send you in here to check up on me?”
“What? No. I’m looking for the…um…” He shut the cupboard door. “Am I that bad an actor?”
“You were overselling it a bit.”
Oliver put his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “It’s kinda sweet he’s so concerned.”
“It’s also annoying and demoralizing.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.” He sidestepped toward the dressing room door. “I’ll let him know you’re doing great—assuming you are.”
“I am.” Simon rose from his last squat and wiped his sleeve over his sweaty forehead. “I feel better after moving about a bit.”
“Awesome.” Oliver gave him a thumbs-up. “Now I need to go beat Luca—I mean, watch my team beat Luca’s team.”
“Good luck.” Simon turned back to the bar, irritated but not surprised by Garen’s paranoia. He had planned to go home after this short workout, but now that Garen had conspired to check up on him, Simon was determined to see out the day, if only to avoid hearing I told you so.
He knew that mere
words would never ease his boyfriend’s worries. The only way Simon could reassure Garen was by getting better—starting right now.
Maybe he could try some standing lunges? They weren’t yet part of Simon’s regimen because his feet wouldn’t reliably bend in a stable way, and lunges were based on a properly balanced, completely arched foot.
But here in the workout room, he could steady himself with the bar as he descended into the lunge, and if his foot twisted out from under him, he could pull himself back up. It would be safe, even if not entirely successful.
He grasped the bar to his right, then placed his left foot out in front. Keeping his weight directly over the halfway point between his feet, he started to sink, bending both knees, keeping the left one over his toes and the right one pointing down.
His right heel came off the mat as a matter of course. Simon grimaced at the stiffness in the arch of his foot, one of the last places in his body still in thrall to the GBS.
He checked his position in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty, but it was nearly a proper lunge. Boss!
Of course, now he had to get himself out of it, which was the other half of the exercise. He secured his grip on the bar and flexed his hamstring to raise his body.
“What are you doing?!”
At the sound of Garen’s voice, Simon lurched up and let go of the bar. His right ankle twisted under him, and he sprawled onto the mat, landing on his arse.
“Oh my God!” Garen ran over. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Why were you doing lunges?” Garen asked, his voice edgy as he grabbed Simon’s arm. “You know they’re not on your regimen yet.”
“I just wanted to try.” He turned his shoulder away so Garen couldn’t get a good grip on him. “I can get up by myself. I do it all the time at home.”
Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice) Page 25
