Page 57 of A Loser by Christmas
“You’re not giving up on what? Fixing Penny up with Robin?”
He snorts. “No.” I don’t need to see his smile to hear it. “But man, I’d actually kill to see that happen.”
I put off us needing to part ways by asking another question based on footage I ruled out as too private to include. “You were telling me about a team of hockey rejects. What would you call it if you put one together?” Something else that was rejected inspires my suggestion. “The Ducks?”
He snorts again. “Nope. That’s already taken.”
I crack open an eye to see him looking at the incubator. Its glow limns his profile with the same gold creeping around the edge of my porthole curtains. That’s a clear-as-day signal that it’s time to get going. Calum doesn’t seem in a hurry.
“But the Ducklings would be a cute name for a mites programme. Something water-related for sure.”
“Sea Monsters?” I suggest, picturing marine killers with a taste for rudders.
Calum must have a different mental image. “Nope. One Kraken in the league is enough.” His lips brush my temple, and this is quieter. It rumbles through where we’re connected. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. About who I’d recruit. Players who...”
That feels like him wanting to unzip his lips. He huffs out a long breath, and I fill the silence that follows. “What about your hockey school for kids with no cash for their own skates and helmets. What would you call that?”
He turns on his side to face me, face brightening. “I already have a name picked out.” He grabs his phone to show me his own inspiration. Calum swipes past a screen full of messages from Jack. Past a family group chat. Past teammate after teammate sending him season’s greetings.
They all miss him.
I will too.
For now, I focus on the photo he shows me of cliffs and churning water that he says is a Cornish tourist location. “Close to where I grew up.”
“Land’s End?”
He lies flat on his back and doesn’t answer. I do see the bob of his Adam’s apple. He swallows like that place is important to him. His voice thickening confirms it. “When I was a little kid, I didn’t think that Land’s End was only where Cornwall ended. I thought it was the end of the whole world.” He has to clear his throat to continue. “I bet that’s how it feels to stop playing. The end of the whole world. So that’s what I’d call my school run by rejects, by disposable players not ready to quit the best game in the world. The ones who love hockey even when it doesn’t love them back.”
Like he did.
Like he still does.
“Land’s End Hockey.” He swallows even harder. “Hockey at the end of the world, a school and team run by has-beens who would have played for longer, if...”
He stops then, and sure, I inherited curiosity from one parent. I can’t help thinking the other one gifted me with determination. Dad’s shown me that for a lifetime, from leaving me with the world’s best grand-mère to subscribing to my YouTube channel, he’s tried to stop me from sinking. Now I understand that urge, that drive to keep someone close insteadof having an ocean between us, and apparently, I’m not alone at hating the thought of distance.
Calum says, “I found a piece of land. For a rink. It’s right next to a school for kids who had tough starts. Thinking about putting in a bid for it. I could show it to you, but...” He wets his lips, then makes an offer.“But it would mean coming to Cornwall with me when I go home. You could stay until the New Year.”
Across the marina, someone fires up the sound system for a final time, and I’d sing along with Mariah if I wasn’t busy kissing someone who just gifted me everything I wanted.
“It would mean us having two whole weeks together instead of only the one I have left here. Think about it.”
I don’t need to think about the prospect of spending more time with someone who is a million miles from disposable, yet all that hockey-school talk sounds like he thinks he might be.
I want to know who the fuck could ever make him think that.Whyandwhencrowd close behind that question, but I rein them in—tell my curiosity to have some patience.
Calum can’t or won’t unzip his lips yet.
But if he wants to do that before hockey steals him back, I’ll be right there in Cornwall to listen.
17
I won’t getto do that listening for a few more hours.
I have a boat show to help bring to a close first, and Calum has whatever he got called back across the river for. He doesn’t need me to ferry him there in a speedboat. Once we’re showered and dressed, he orders, “Stay. Submit your entry.” He’s firm. His hold on my shoulder is way gentler. So is him poking fun at my urge to follow him with my camera even though I don’t need more footage of him. “I promise you won’t miss any contract-breaking content.”
“But—”
