Page 31 of Must Love Christmas

“Excellent start!” Garen said to the next curler, who had toppled over at the end of her slide. Then he addressed the whole group. “The thing about balance is—and I never knew this until I started curling—it’s not just in your head. It’s in your core and in your thighs.” He patted the body parts in question. “As you’re sliding out of the hack, focus on keeping them involved, about halfway between super tense and totally relaxed. And now, a bonus secret.” Garen leaned forward and waved everyone to come closer. “Do this in your everyday life, even walking across a room. Use more muscles to do everything and see how much more stable you feel.” He spread his arms. “It’s a travesty we were never taught this in PE class, aye?”

While he waited his turn to throw again, Simon watched his flatmate with a touch of awe. Compared to the instructors on the adjacent sheets—all lifelong curlers, Simon assumed—Garen put people at ease by relating their struggles to his own.

And his physical grace was a joy to behold. As Garen glided over the ice, his hair streamed behind him like a horse’s mane. He pivoted on his sliding foot with ease, his balance never faltering. It amazed Simon that the man who could trip over a ball of dust at home was pure stability out on the ice.

Eventually the twelve groups combined into six and started throwing stones the full length of the sheet. Simon was the first to land one inside the house, prompting back slaps from his fellow newbies. When he knocked another rock out of the house, the crack of granite and whoops of onlookers gave Simon a zing of adrenaline he wanted to feel again and again.

They took a half-hour break for breakfast. Simon collected his food from the volunteer-staffed buffet, then sat at a circular wooden table of eight with Garen and a few of his friends, including his best mate, Luca. The club members’ beaming smiles and welcoming waves made it clear the term “warm room” wasn’t just about ambient temperature.

“Has Garen started decorating the flat for Christmas?” Luca asked Simon once the man in question had left the table to give tips to a group of kids.

“You mean apart from the snow globes and holiday toiletries?” Simon asked.

Luca grinned as he swallowed his final bite of buttered crumpet. “Wee warning: He installs a semi-major decoration—like a wreath or garland—every weekend beginning the first Saturday after Halloween.” He tapped the table. “Which is today, by the way.”

“Has he always been this way about Christmas?” Simon asked him.

“Only since Granny McLaren died five years ago,” Luca said. “They were really close.”

“He said most of his decorations were hers.”

Luca nodded. “And after she died, his dad moved to Spain with Garen’s stepmum. Garen’s mother had already moved to Germany withhernew family, and his sister’s been teaching in Eastern Europe for ages.” He sighed. “That lad’s got a million friends, but sometimes there’s no substitute for family.” He looked at his own sister across the table and raised his voice. “Though some of us would love to swap out the family we’ve got.”

Gillian flashed her brother a middle finger behind her arm where her seven-year-old daughter couldn’t see.

As he got up to fetch another cup of coffee, Simon noticed his ankles felt strangely stiff. Then he realized something even more alarming.

He tapped his shoe against the leg of his chair. “That’s odd.”

“What’s odd?” asked Gillian, squinting as she tried to adjust her ear-warmer headband over her mop of short, dark hair.

“My feet are still freezing from the ice.” The pins and needles now felt alight with cold fire.

“Are you wearing warm socks? Even with my curling shoes I still wear two pairs at once.”

“I’m only wearing one pair,” he told her. “They’re pretty thick wool, though.”

“Just try and keep moving,” she said. “And stand on the catwalk between shots.”

“Ta for the tip.” Simon rubbed his aching lower back as he headed for the coffee station. Maybe an invigorating tempo-run tomorrow would work out all this stiffness.

He poured himself a refill, then examined the nearby wall of trophy plaques and club photos, the oldest of which dated back to the late 1800s. Simon had vaguely known that curling had been invented in Scotland but hadn’t realized its popularity had remained steady for centuries.

As he went to take another sip, he noticed that like his feet, his fingers were cold and tingly despite being wrapped around his hot coffee cup.

At the back of his mind, a terrible possibility reared its head. He’d just recovered from the flu, and now his extremities felt…wrong.

Surely this was all due to the chill of the ice rink. Even his backache could be explained by the sweeping he’d done during practice—leaning over to brush the ice was a strain for someone of his height.

He would make sure to bend his knees more during the post-breakfast game. And he’d definitely dress more warmly next time.

I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.If he recited the mantra enough times, maybe it would come true.

But then Simon thought back to Thursday evening, when his toes had first tingled. He’d chalked it up to his run in the rain—not to mention the electric charm of Garen’s smile—but maybe it had started earlier that day? He couldn’t remember.

His pulse quickened. If the worst happened, he’d be helpless amongst all these strangers. He should get on the first train to Liverpool so his parents could be at his side when it all went down.

But what if there wasn’t time? What if he became totally paralyzed during the three-and-a-half-hour ride south? At least here he had someone he knew and sort of trusted.

---