Page 101 of Must Love Christmas

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 so 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 beA, inside the house or at least touching it, andB, 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.

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