Page 33 of Must Love Christmas

“Am I sexy when I curl?”

“I don’t know, why don’t we ask your groupies?”

“I haven’t got groupies,” Garen said, though there were certain guys in each city on the Scottish Challenger Tour… “Anyway, getting together with Simon would be heaven in the short term but absolute hell in the long term if it didn’t work out.”

Luca reached for the plate of leftover pastries. “I’m impressed you’re considering consequences.”

“Me too.” Garen picked up a large plastic storage bag and held it open. “I thought I’d take him to some bars and clubs so he can meet guys. I think it would help settle things down.”

Luca poured half of the pastries into the bag, then stopped. “What’ll you do if he brings someone home?”

“Ask if I can join them,” Garen said, just to see the look on his friend’s face. “It’s important to be accommodating.”

Luca rolled his eyes. “If you want to be accommodating, you can clean those pans.”

Garen turned to the cooker and saw three large frying pans filled with congealed grease. “That’s disgusting.”

“And the sooner you start, the sooner it’ll be a distant memory.”

“Or in my case, not a memory at all.”

Thinking of his flatmate as he approached the sink, Garen felt a tickle at the back of his brain. Something seemed off.

He reviewed the morning’s curling, how adeptly Simon had taken to the act of throwing a stone, how he’d barely wobbled as he came out of the hack. But as the day went on, he’d actually becomelesssteady.

Garen set down the pans and went to the kitchen doorway to get a better look at the ice. “Be right back.”

“You’d best not be leaving me with those pans,” Luca said.

Garen walked up to the warm-room window and peered into the rink. Simon was sitting on a bench at the far end of Sheet C, bending over and rubbing his left ankle with both hands.

One of Simon’s teammates turned to speak to him, gesturing to the stone in front of the hack. It was his turn to throw. Simon nodded, then attempted to stand, rising a few inches off the bench before sinking back down.

Garen’s heart began to slam his chest. What the hell was happening?

Simon placed his hands on the bench beside him and tried to launch himself up, but got no further than before. Two of his teammates flanked him, each offering an arm to help, but he waved them off.

Finally Simon planted the end of his broom handle on the floor and pushed. At last he rose to his feet, and Garen started to breathe again. Perhaps Simon had had a leg cramp—it had happened to Garen his first time curling, and from then on he’d been careful to wear an extra layer beneath his trousers.

But Simon had done the same this morning, warned by Garen, so why was he—

Simon’s legs buckled, and he pitched forward. His teammates caught his shoulders just in time to stop his face hitting the stones.

Garen ran for the door to the ice. “Luca, call 999—Simon’s collapsed!”

The rink’s cold air bit at him as he dashed down the sheet toward his fallen friend, who was now obscured by a pack of onlookers.

“Let me through.” Garen wanted to shove everyone aside, but some of them were standing on the ice and could have taken a tumble at the slightest push. “Please!”

The small crowd parted. Garen found Simon sitting on the floor with his back against the bench, his legs stretched out in front of him.

“Mate, it’s me.” Garen knelt beside him and touched Simon’s forehead, searching for a wound. “Do you know where you are? What year is it? Who’s the Prime Minister?”

“Me head’s sound, see?” Simon swept off his red knit cap, ruffling his black hair. “It’s my feet.”

“Did you injure them?”

“No. They’ve been pins and needles for hours. I thought it was the cold air, but now…” Simon clutched at his knees, his knuckles turning white. “Garen, they’re not working.” His voice dropped to a shaky whisper. “It’s all happening again.”

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