Page 21 of A Loser by Christmas
Now Dad’s gaze lands on the same boat I took Calum for a ride in, painted with thatTrust Juno to Speed to the Rescuemotto. “Because Trelawney hasn’t decided which model to purchase.” He swallows. “Or how many.” For once, he sounds fragile instead of his usual domineering, and I’m reminded of what else Calum mentioned. “It . . . It would help the business a great deal if he was in the market for more than one. He wants to try them all before deciding.” Dad reverts to his usual loudly vocal. “You’re still looking for work, Lancaster?”
Harry straightens. “Yes, skipper. You want me to give those test drives?”
“No. It has to be Valentin.” Dad faces me, something flickering below his surface that I don’t have a name for apart from awkward. Him unzipping my jacket explains why—Dad has to acknowledge my real vocation. “Trelawney specifically asked for you because of your other skill set.” He taps my GoPro. “And he said to tell you, yes.”
“Yes?”
Dad nods firmly. “Yes, he does want you to be his personal videographer. As soon as he’s back in London, he needs you to capture some of his time in the city between his other engagements. For his fans, he said. He wants you available at a moment’s notice to fit around his schedule, which means I’ll need to take you off test-drive duties. Now I’ve seen Lancaster in action, there’s no reason you can’t be spared to be on call for Trelawney.”
It’s a dark and dreary December morning.
Rare sunshine breaks through the clouds as soon as Dad delivers what feels like an early Christmas present. “He said you already have some footage to edit.”
I do, but not of Calum.
“He wants you to get on with that until he gets back.”
So what if Calum’s speedboat order came too late to bump my own boat up Dad’s repair list. He’s bought me the time I need to save her myself, and if he was here right now?
I’d give Calum so much more than a Christmas kiss to thank him.
7
Thanking him has to wait.Calum is gone for days, and it’s ironic that British ice hockey hadn’t crossed my radar even once before he wrapped those big warm hands around mine. Now I track his movements around northern clubs I didn’t know existed. My contest entry might come together faster if I could peel myself away from stalking his socials and hockey fan subreddits. They turn out to be a gold mine of intel about my big dick of a saviour.
Ice hockey fills Dad’s time too, which is unexpected.
A few days after he acted as if Calum might skate to the rescue of his business, I find him watching a match on his phone.
“Huh.” I join him in his sales booth. “I thought you said YouTube was for losers.”
He ignores me until my shadow falls across his phone screen. “Valentin! Have you seen this?” His arm lands across my shoulder, no escaping its weight. For once, I don’t want to. I’m pinned in place by a video of Calum on an open-top bus. He kisses a silver trophy, and he does that in front of thousands. Confetti rains down on a winner while pundits discuss what that cup scored for him in cash terms.
Dad is strangely breathy. “Did you hear what they said? His last contract ends after this season, and it’s predicted his next will be setting new records.” He swallows. “He really could order a whole fleet from us if he wanted.”
The video playing on his phone confirms it. Someone has superimposed dollar bills falling from the sky to replace a ticker-tape celebration all while commentators continue to speculate about the impact of an injury on his future earning potential. And about whether he’ll stay benched due to it or play again right after Christmas. It’s all so weirdly fascinating to hear Calum discussed in the abstract that I don’t tune into Dad’s next question until he barks it again. “I asked if his injury really is career-ending. Is it, Valentin? One commentator called it upper-body. Another said it could be a groin strain. Or some kind of knee-related issue. Will whatever it is stop him playing forever?”
“I doubt it.” Even without the lower-body action that happened in my bunk, I’ve seen him walking briskly. He can’t be badly injured. Plus, if he was, he wouldn’t need me to make a get-out video for him, would he? I’ve already looked up what long-term injured reserve means. He could keep raking in the cash while benched, then retire to enjoy his fortune. Who wouldn’t?
Me.
I dread never getting back to the only work I ever wanted. Today, Dad isn’t done chasing the truth either. “But if he can’t play again, would he have to give back some of the money they just mentioned?” I guess Dad’s worried his new cash cow’s milk supply might run dry. He surprises me again by grumbling, “Having to quit what you might be the very best in the world at? Give up winning?” He shakes his head, blissfully unaware of the irony of me almost missing my own shot at succeeding.
And I still might miss it, if I misunderstood that message. I can’t be sure if Calum’syesmeans I can include footage of himin my entry, and the last few days of edits have confirmed I will need extra content.
“Tough break for the boy,” Dad mutters. “Missing a chunk of what could be one of his last top-level seasons.”
I’m about to agree until a comment catches my eye, upvoted by thousands of viewers.
Ha ha, loser.
It’s been a long time since I saw the same comment under the video of Jack I delisted. Dad doesn’t notice me squirm at being its instigator. He only sighs, “Incredible skill,” as Calum defends a goal at one end of a rink before rocketing its whole distance to score the goal that ended in a ticker-tape celebration. “Phenomenal speed.”
Speed is still on my mind by the time lunchtime arrives—for once, the morning has flown, and Dad’s still as engrossed as I am. “Ouch!” He flinches, indignant on Calum’s behalf about what plays out on his phone screen. “Did you see that? Trelawney didn’t start that fight. Why are the referees watching instead of stopping it?”
I have no clue. I’m as new to this sport as he is. And as clueless about how gloves can get thrown and punches can fly this often, but like usual, mon père doesn’t need my contribution. He answers his own question.
“It must be allowable.” He flinches again, then growls, “Look at him committing. Go on, son. That’s it, you keep chasing your goal.”
