Page 23 of Must Love Christmas

“It’s okay.” Garen put a palm over his own stuttering heart. “We got lucky. No harm—”

“Can we just not talk until we get on the highway? I need to focus.”

“Sure.” Garen raised his seat-back, the better to see the road and potentially stop Oliver from repeating his mistake.

In a few minutes, they were on the M8. Oliver let out a hard breath and ran a hand through his thick brown waves of hair. “Sorry again.”

“Nae bother.” Garen’s pulse had finally slowed, now pounding the inside of his skull at a normal speed. “You said something about a sponsorship for your visa?”

“Right. I’m applying for a coaching position at Scottish Curling.”

Garen considered this. As a curler, Oliver had won the Junior World Championship twice, the Canadian men’s championship twice, and scored a bronze medal at Men’s Worlds. As a coach he’d taken Team Riley and Team Hamilton—Shawlands Rink’s top women’s team—to national championships. He’d be a shoo-in for this job at the national curling association.

“Aren’t their headquarters in Stirling?” Garen asked.

“It’s only forty minutes’ drive from Glasgow, an hour with traffic. Where I’m from, that’s nothing.”

“Good.” Garen couldn’t handle another important person exiting his life. “Luca would say yes in a heartbeat, by the way.”

Oliver grinned. “You think so?”

“Fuck yeah,” Garen murmured as his head lolled back, too heavy for his neck to hold up any longer.

Next thing Garen knew, Oliver was gently shaking his shoulder. “Dude, wake up. You’re home.”

As they came out of the lift on the top floor, Oliver asked. “You need anything from the shops? Paracetamol, Lucozade, throat drops, tissues?”

“I just want my bed.” He unlocked his front door and stumbled through. “Anyway, Simon’s here, and he can—”

He stopped at the entrance to the darkened living room. The TV was on, and his flatmate was huddled on one of the couches under a pile of blankets. Scattered on the coffee table was a half-full jug of Lucozade, a bottle of paracetamol, two bags of throat drops, and a large box of tissues.

Simon lifted his head. “Home early?” he croaked.

“Yeah, I’ve taken ill.”And now I know why.Garen jutted his thumb over his shoulder. “This is my curling coach, Oliver. Oliver, this is Simon.”

Oliver gave a friendly wave. “Don’t get up.”

“Ta.” Simon nestled his face against his pillow. “Garen, there’s more Lucozade in the fridge if you need it.”

Garen said goodbye to Oliver, then dragged his bags to his room. The effort to wrestle off his skin-tight thermal shirt sapped the rest of his strength, so he tumbled into bed still wearing his curling trousers.

After an hour of sleepless, sweaty rolling about in bed, Garen took his pillow and duvet to the living room. He settled onto the couch across the room from Simon, who was staring blankly at the telly, tuned to BBC Alba. On the screen, a man and a woman were having an intense conversation amongst what looked like the dunes of the Outer Hebrides.

“What are we watching?” Garen asked.

“Soap opera, I think. Do you understand Gaelic? My head hurts too much to read the captions.”

“Sorry, no.”

“It’s kinda soothing, not knowing what they’re saying.” Simon stretched his legs, wincing audibly. “Are you drinking anything?”

“Nah.”

“You need fluids, lad.”

“Yeah.” At this point, walking to the kitchen seemed about as likely as summiting Mount Everest.

Simon slowly peeled himself off his couch and lurched out of the room. Garen closed his eyes, listening to the Gaelic-speaking couple on TV. His flatmate was right: Hearing pleasant voices saying incomprehensible words was rather soothing, like human-sourced white noise.

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