Page 98 of Must Love Christmas

“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 ahe’s-too-muchlook, 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.”

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