Page 43 of Must Love Christmas

“I could use it.” In fact, he’d probably need one tonight before bed, else he’d be mentally replaying every missed shot.

“If you need a distraction…” Luca hesitated before finishing his sentence. “…I’m near to bursting with a secret. Shall I tell you?”

“Always and ever,” Garen said.

Luca glanced past Garen at their teammates, David and Ross, who had just started a drinking game with their counterparts on Team Laing. Then he looked across the room at Oliver, who was sitting at the bar with the other coaches. Because he coached two men’s teams from Shawlands Rink, Oliver kept his distance at tournaments in which both were playing. He and Luca even stayed in separate hotel rooms.

“It’s too loud for anyone to hear us,” Garen prompted, his curiosity ratcheting up to an unbearable level. “Now spill!”

“Okay.” Luca rubbed his reddening cheek. “I’m thinking of proposing to Oliver.”

Garen gaped at him, hoping his expression read as surprise, not amusement. “Wow, that’s great.” He grabbed his bottle and took another sip to keep from laughing. “When and how?”

“I’m thinking Christmas morning. But maybe that’s too predictable? I want him to be surprised.” Luca seized Garen’s knee in a viselike grip. “So you can’t tell anyone, not even Ross and David.”

“I’d never!”

“Not even Simon.”

Garen pressed his lips together and let out a whine.

“I mean it,” Luca said. “We’ll all be at your Christmas Eve–Eve party, and I might not have asked by then.”

“Can I tell my sister?”

Luca slapped the table. “What did I just say? She’ll be at the party too.”

“But this is too fu—erm, too fucking good not to share with anyone.” He’d almost saidtoo funny. “I think you should propose at Shawlands.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” Luca tapped his fingernails against his empty beer bottle, making a low plinking noise. “The rink’s not the most romantic place in the world, though, is it?”

“It’s where you first met.”

“True.” Luca pointed up at the wall clock. “You’d better head.”

“You’re right.” He gulped the rest of his Irn Bru and stood up. “Sorry,” he called out to his teammates and the Laing lads, “but I’ve got a date with a demanding blonde.”

Garen left the broomstacking table to the sound of vocal protests and calls of “Happy Birthday.”

It was freezing outside, but thankfully, the hotel was but a short walk from the rink. Garen stopped in the lobby to help the hotel staff put up a large Christmas tree—a three-person job they were trying to do with two people. He held the bushy fir in place while one of the clerks screwed the trunk into the base and another judged whether it was standing straight.

Then he hurried up to his room and changed out of his curling kit into his favorite green-and-red-plaid pajamas. The transition to coziness made his skin sing with relief.

Finally he sat on the bed and laid out his supplies just as his computer blooped with an incoming video call.

He answered it promptly. “Happy Birthday, big sis!”

“Happy Birthday, wee bro!” Karen was also in her jim-jams, a purple pair with blue flowers and smiling yellow suns that matched her hair, which she’d pulled back into a messy ponytail. “I should note that it’s past midnight here and technically no longer our birthday for me.”

“Sorry, you know how curling is. I’m required to socialize for at least an hour after the game.”

“Nae bother,” she said. “I just got back from drinks with my mates too. And since I’m two hours older, it kinda fits I’d be that far ahead of you in time zones.” She put her palms to her cheeks. “Och, the state of your scruffy face. Is that your tournament good-luck beard?”

He ran a hand over his week’s worth of stubble. “It didn’t work this time. I’ve lost my draw weight.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Basically, I cannae throw the stone at the right speed to make it stop where my skip wants it.”

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