Page 51 of A Loser by Christmas
Relief comes next. I hear it when this mother tells me, “He asked what Violet wanted for Christmas. She said this—to skateat least once—but I didn’t think he’d keep his promise. Almost didn’t bring her today in case he wouldn’t be here. She’s already had so many letdowns.” Her hand rises to the same eye a patch covers on her daughter. “So for her to get one wish granted like this?” Her smile turns watery. “Maybe things are finally looking up. First this, then getting a call back for the trial.”
“Trial?”
“For a last-chance intervention.” She swallows, her gaze fixed on her daughter. “It’s experimental. The surgery, I mean. Her particular issue is congenital. Usually slow to progress. Hers hasn’t been. I’m trying not to get my hopes up that she’ll be selected before it’s too late.”
Calum glides back, and I’ll need to replay this footage later to see it clearly. My own vision blurs out of nowhere at the pep talk he gives to a tiny hockey hopeful.
“Sight is only one of our senses, right? We’ve got more, like this.” He closes his eyes and sniffs so deeply the hand splayed across his chest rises. “I can smell the ice even if I can’t see it. Can you?” He looks our way and sniffs again, asking us to join in, and he’s right. This rink smells...
Cold.
It also smells of something else, which I’m not sure how to label apart from as pure Trelawney. So is him shaking off his gloves for a less violent reason than usual. He does it to help a little girl lose her gloves too. “Even if I couldn’t see the ice, I’d still be able to feel it. Like this, yeah?”
Calum crouches to find ice-skate furrows with her, then asks a little girl to tune into another of her senses.
“Hear that echo? Sound travels a long way over ice. That means if you ever need anything, you tell your mum to shout out for a hockey player. Because the game isn’t only about winning cup rings.”
He slips his own from his finger. Helps little Violet to feel the prickle of those showy diamonds while he directs this at her mother.
“It’s about teams looking after each other. You’re on mine now. If you need me, make sure to shout. I’ll be listening for you.”
My camera blinks. So does the mother beside me. She does it again fast a few times, then nods.
Calum isn’t done ruining his chance to look anything but caring. “And do you know what else would still be good, Violet, even if I couldn’t see it clearly?” He fakes a whisper. “The taste of hot chocolate. You ready to go get some with me?”
Who cares if there’s no use in me videoing this good-guy footage.
Calum grants at least one wish for a mother, and it’s the best content I ever captured.
It’s barelyfour o’clock when we part ways. London is dark already, or at least it’s as dark as it ever gets in this city. We stand in a car park where lights twinkle in the bare branches of trees. A cab driver flashes his lights as well, urging Calum to hurry.
He doesn’t.
Calum keeps his cab waiting, but I’m in no rush to say goodbye either.
We linger as kids stream out of the rink, and one stops for a final cuddle with her favourite player. “I’ll see you again very soon,” he promises Violet. That clues me in to how he’ll spend the rest of his evening.
“You delivering Christmas dinners to a children’s ward tonight?”
“Yeah. If you had the right clearance, I’d take you along with me.”
He doesn’t need to explain. If there are more kids like Violet waiting for him to visit, there’s no way I’d shove my camera in their faces, even if I had the right permissions. They can have all his attention. I do make a different suggestion. “Come back to mine straight after?”
“Wish I could.” His cab driver beeps his horn, and Calum raises a hand to signal he heard him. It holds his phone, which he lowers to open that colour-coded calendar chock full of ties on his time. He taps a red block. “Got a video call scheduled with the GM about a big brand deal.”
I almost say he could still come to mine after, no matter how late.
He stops me with a pretty good reason for me to hold off.
“Besides, I don’t want to distract you from finishing your contest entry.”
He taps another of those colour-coded blocks on his phone. This one is gold. It disappears to reveal my name. My deadline. My one chance of freedom.
Calum’s brow furrows. “You needed unique content.” I’ve seen enough worry today at this rink to recognise his. “Hope I gave you what you needed. Tell me about it later tomorrow, after...”
He touches another section of his calendar blocked out in the same grey I associate with the hospital buildings across the river. “I got a message just now. A call back for an extra-long session tomorrow morning.”
His cab driver beeps his horn again, and Calum casts an ice-chip gaze his way. It melts fast when his gaze locks with mine. “I know you won’t need any more content, but once the boat show is over and you submit your entry, we could?—”
