Page 5 of A Loser by Christmas
It’s fully dark outside whenla Sylvielurches in the water to warn me that someone heavy has stepped aboard her. His knocks on her hatchway are louder than the music at the VIP party getting started across the marina. I open that hatch, and there’s no doubt about the identity of who looms above me.
He’s determined. And fierce.
“Valentin Juno?”
I nod.
“You know who I am?”
I don’t have to guess now that I’ve had hours to google. “You’re Calum Trelawney.” He’s definitely the protective best friend of someone I once accidentally exploited. He’s also a pro sportsman, even if ice hockey is no big deal in Britain. He’s massive in the US and exactly as violent as Lito suggested, which sets off a sudden flare of worry.
Not for me.
I worry for what he holds again between his thumb and finger. The egg looks even more fragile than the first day I found it. “You want this back?”
I nod. Don’t ask me why, but I do. I want it back so much that I nod again even harder.
He muscles his way down into my galley. Not that he makes deliberate contact with me—he doesn’t push or shove. I still scoot backwards until he rumbles, “You once made my best friend look stupid to your subscribers.”
I did. To all three hundred thousand of them.
Calum Trelawney muscles even closer to tell me what he wants the most this Christmas.
“Now make me look like an even bigger loser.”
He also confirms that he overheard plenty.
“Promise to do that, and I’ll order a speedboat by midnight.”
2
He really could.
Calum Trelawney could order more than one six-figure speedboat if he wanted. The internet told me that he’s richer than sin, and that sinning made him wealthy if you believe violence is always evil.
Gotta say, after seeing his older brother get all kinds of violent on French beaches, I’m not convinced it’s always that simple. Reece only ever used his size and strength to wrestle traffickers away from families so he could tell them the real truth—there’s no room at the inn in Britain for weary travellers. No welcome waiting on this overcrowded island for their kids even if they do make it across the Channel. Better they explore some safer options, which the foundation Reece works for could help with.
This Trelawney brother doesn’t save lives. Calum Trelawney uses all his muscle to score record-breaking contracts. And win unfeasibly large trophies. Before an injury that the internet still debates over, uncertain if it affects his upper or lower body, Calum Trelawney rampaged through something called the playoffs like a modern-day gladiator. Now he’s here in anambassadorial role to promote the sport and visit UK clubs while rehabilitating. That’s wild when I didn’t even know pro hockey was played in Britain.
I have so many questions. I start with the most intriguing.
“Why do you want me to make you look like a loser?”
He doesn’t answer, too busy looking around the inside of a cabin that suddenly seems a whole lot smaller with someone his size inside it. This space is plenty for me, even if there isn’t room to swing a mouse, let alone a cat, like Dad always grumbles.
For once, I see my living quarters through Dad’s eyes, even if I have no interest in his offer of a warm and cosy cabin aboard his own houseboat. I also see my home through Calum Trelawney’s eyes, and it’s stupid to suddenly be self-conscious just because he studies the unwashed dishes in my galley. “I’m not lazy. I take them over to the marina reception building to wash them.”
His gaze flicks to me, one eyebrow twitching upwards, and I don’t owe him a single explanation. Two tumble out regardless. “My water pump quit, and the outlet drain is blocked.” A third confession slips out. “The stove isn’t working either.”
His breath plumes. “You can’t make yourself any hot food?”
“I use that on deck.” I point at a camping gas stove, but I’m speaking to his back because he’s already moved on. He steps down into my saloon where he turns in a slow circle, pausing at the rumpled tangle of my bedding. I can’t help snapping again. “It’s bigger than it looks.”
He looks back, that eyebrow twitching again. “What is?”
“My bunk. It pulls out. Or it used to before the mechanism seized.” That repair is way down my list. It’s unimportant. I still blurt, “It turns into a double,” as if telling him so is vital.
His slow circling continues. “Good to know.”
