Page 49 of A Loser by Christmas
He soaks up every landmark as if today is the first time he’s seen each one. He’s so captivated that I’m not sure he can be aware his lips move.
I edge closer, hoping my mic picks up him checking sights off a list he once showed me. It sounds almost reverent. Calum looks west and spots some green amongst city buildings. “Kensington Gardens.” We’ve often walked past them on the way to a restaurant where I hope to fuck that Robin will make Penny’s Christmas extra merry.
Because of Calum.
He stares ahead next, murmuring, “Nelson’s Column,” while I mentally replay a moment I caught before he last left the city. Seb choked on the kind of laughter that memories are made of all because a pigeon shat on Calum’s shoulder. “Big Ben looks so dinky from up here,” he murmurs. “I remember the first time I saw it at Christmas. Thought it was massive.” Calum’s gaze drifts back the way we came. “Hey, you can even see the boat show through Tower Bridge. You can really tell the show is almost over from up here. There are lots of gaps in the marina.”
I’m sure I would see the same if I could make myself look in that direction. That would mean dragging my gaze from someone the sun chooses now to fully spotlight. I’m consumed by his reflection in this curved glass, and that’s the contrast I’d add to a supercut made of Calum-focussed moments if I ever used this footage. I’d make a montage that would start with plexiglass buckling, and with Calum ice white instead of his current golden. That’s what I’d replay—him sinking in slow-motion. Then I’d add all the places in the city where I’ve seen him do the opposite for other people.
It wouldn’t be hard. All I’d need to do is splice in shots of all the hockey gear he’s paid for. Or I could add in a production line of Christmas dinners in a kitchen where Calum asked a favour to stop Penny’s business from sinking. I’d insert all those clips along with one of Dad’s relief at getting to give his shipwrights a merry Christmas, and I know exactly how I’d end it.
With something egg-shaped.
Yes, we stand in a glass capsule, but the egg I picture is one he can’t wait to watch his mother unwrap in Cornwall. That’s the contrast I’d want the whole world to notice—how Calum’s soft centre is the opposite of his on-ice persona.
I’ll have to be careful with my edits, or I’ll also show the whole world a truth of my own.
I want so much more than one last week with him.
15
Three little wordstravel with me all the way to another ice rink.
One week left.
They play on repeat even after arriving, and I guess Calum can tell that I’m distracted. At the end of a kids’ coaching session, he glides up to the edge of the rink. “Quit it.”
“Quit what?”
Calum leans closer so I hear him over the rumble of a machine resurfacing the ice. “Quit whatever it is you’re chewing on. If it’s another loser suggestion for me, forget it. I’m only interested in winning suggestions. For you.”
He pushes away from the barrier between us, gliding backwards.
I go ahead and break a no-contact rule by making a grab for a handful of a bright yellow jersey before he can get far. “Come here.” I haul him back to the barrier. “Listen. I did just have a really good loser idea for you.”
“Nope.”
“Why the fu—?” Children skate past, and I lower my voice. “Why not? I’m trying to help you.”
“Help me?” He shakes his head, his eyes laughing. “Valentin, all of your ideas so far would get me arrested, and I amnotmissing Christmas at home.”
Excited shouts echo around the rink. The loudest echo I hear is different, a reminder of a toy shop visit.
I will see it this year. All of it.
Calum straightens up now the same way he did next to a Santa’s grotto. His skates let him tower over me even more than usual. “Stop thinking of ways to get me off the hook. It was never gonna happen.” He lowers his voice again, and I should struggle to hear him, but like in the kitchen of a five-star restaurant, I’m tuned to his wavelength. “Almost wish I hadn’t been upfront with my club.”
“About?”
“Being bi. If management didn’t already know, me springing a surprise sex tape on them really could have been my way out.” He pushes away again, gliding backwards, then returns to breathe a tingling qualifier into my ear. “But I’d only make one if you were my co-star.” No one but me gets to hear him whisper, “Really want to kiss you.”
Same.
I settle for blurting, “Go shove that kid over.”
“What? No!” He skates away, but he grins over his shoulder at me. “There’s something very wrong with you, Juno.”
There is. It’s called desperation, and I don’t know when I stopped feeling it for me and started to feel it for him, but the last time I felt it around a Trelawney, I held fast. That’s my excuse for throwing myself over the barrier like his entire team once did for him.
