Page 30 of A Loser by Christmas
“Tomorrow? I’ll be out of town.” A finger zips his lips.
“Club business?”
“No. I mean, not exactly. Still off-limits, sorry.”
“Next week, then. Be less wholesome on Monday.”
“Wholesome?” He doesn’t look my way. Calum uses this traffic holdup to stare up at streetlight angels. Those soft lips of his are parted, impossible for me not to stare at. I let myself have a good long look while he’s distracted until he finally glances my way. “What do you mean?”
He smiles the same way I witnessed on a mattress that I still haven’t folded back into place. I can only blame frustration for me sounding this snippy. “I mean that all you’ve shown me so far are kids hero-worshipping you. And their parents thanking you for covering their kit costs. Even thecoaches say you’ve done more to get kids into the game than any other player in the UK. That you put your money where your mouth is to make ice time accessible instead of elite.”
I’m aware my voice rises, spiralling at how hopeless my task is. And I know it really is hopeless given the hours of content I’ve scoured each evening to find even a single way to dent his golden halo.
“Andyou text me every morning to remind me to turn the egg over.”
He glances my way, arctic eyes bright with silent laughter, and boom, I go off like one of those party fireworks.
“Calum Trelawney, this isn’t funny.”
“Sorry.”
He isn’t. His next glance my way is still amused. And fleeting. That does something to me I don’t have a name for. Apart from stupid. And it is stupid to want his attention so much that I consider climbing into his lap to get it.
I can’t help verbally poking and prodding to make him look my way instead of at those streetlight angels. Not even a long round of French cursing helps. Nor does this view of him soaking up London sights with the same wonder I’ve witnessed on the faces of kids all week long. I’m still gritty with frustration when I revert to English. “Listen, you have to give me something.”
I know he’s a man of action. I don’t expect his to be instant.
Calum lurches forward, only not to shut me up with his mouth on mine, dammit.
He moves to speak to the cab driver. “Stop here, mate. Yeah, right outside Hamleys.”
I’m bundled out of the cab into an already dark and sleety evening. He herds me under the red awnings of London’s most famous toy shop, and yes, I did ask him to give me something. I had hoped that would be a way to cancel his contract. Or maybe to score more than a single order for a speedboat. Don’t ask me why when I’m still almost certain Dad fudged the timing of Calum’s order. Maybe forgiving and forgetting is easy because he flinched when we both saw plexiglass buckle and Calum crumple. Or perhaps it was Dad mentioning what it felt like to lose with so much feeling.
All I know is that someone too wholesome for his own good isn’t done with ruining his own chances. Calum leads me inside to a Christmas tree smothered in decorations and compounds his image problem. He does that by showing my camera that he’s even more sappy than this fir tree.
“I’m gonna pick one for Mum. Can’t wait to see her open it. That’s when Christmas really starts.” He’s suddenly determined. “I will see it this year. See all of it.”
His gaze fixes on baubles decorated with mistletoe and snowmen, and absolutely nothing about his determination switching for wistfulness will make his club shred his contract.
“What do you think of this one?” A bauble spins from a ribbon looped around his finger.
“I think you should steal it.”
“What? This?” He laughs, the bauble spinning even faster. “Nope.”
“Go on.” I snag that ornament from him and take a quick look at the price tag. “Who pays that much for a tree decoration?” I shove it at him. “Go on. Take it and walk out. It’s expensive enough that I bet alarms will go off. If a security guard stops you, lose your shit.” I gesture at the families waiting at anearby Santa’s grotto. “They all have their phones out. Lose your shit big time, and I bet it will end up online multiple times. Fuck it, go nuts and take two ornaments. Three. Stuff your pockets. I’ll shout thief!”
Calum does reach into his pocket, but only to fish out his own phone, which is disappointing.
He raises it to his ear. “Pat?” he asks just as the Christmas carols piped through the store fade. I don’t need to crowd any nearer to eavesdrop on this conversation. Calum snags my jacket to pull me closer regardless, no way to miss a word of him asking for a favour.
“Listen,” he asks his younger brother. “It’s your turn to buy Mum’s present, yeah? Her annual bauble? Let me do it this year. Why?” His eyes meet with mine. “Because I already found something perfect to take home.”
He doesn’t look at any of the ornaments on this tree. I’m his focus—me—and I’m pretty sure that Santa doesn’t have a single gift in his sack to top this feeling right until Calum’s gaze drifts over my shoulder.
I get my shit together in a hurry then.
Of course he was looking at ornaments. He’s already shown me a calendar with the whole of Christmas week blocked out.
