Chapter 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’s yes means I can include footage of him in 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.”
He isn’t speaking to me. Dad praises Calum.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, sharing this joint YouTube session, and who knows if any bankers arrive to lose control of their annual bonus.
I can’t look away from a compilation of collisions that explains Calum’s bruises.
The next clip shows his most recent game, a camera zooming in on what a commentator calls a smart move by his opposition, and it is smart to target the biggest danger to their playoff chances.
Calum might as well wear a target—even the goaltender abandons his net to help commit what Dad tells me are some of hockey’s worst crimes. “Trelawney doesn’t even have the puck.” He flinches. “Look at them aiming for his head. From behind too. Where are the refs?”
We both watch Calum get slammed against plexiglass so hard I’m amazed it doesn’t buckle.
Dad yelps, and I suck in a sharp breath when Calum’s helmet flies off and he sinks in slo-mo under an outnumbered landslide. It takes an age until the camera pans away to follow the skitter of his helmet. It pans back to show the biggest man on the ice suddenly looking a whole lot smaller.
Calum’s as crumpled as my blankets.
White like the ice he lies on, out for the count with one leg at an unnatural angle.
I guess his missing helmet and that leg looking all wrong explains why the internet is divided about what actually benched him. And I’d appreciate the high definition of this videography if it didn’t zoom in on that awkward angle. I can’t look again until Dad grinds out a much lower pitched, “Yes!”
I can watch again then as the rest of Calum’s teammates swarm like wasps over a barrier, and there’s a whole lot of them. Every single pair of gloves drops to defend him, and when he’s stretchered off the ice, I don’t breathe. Neither does a stadium full of fans.
Their silence is uncanny. So is Dad’s until a text pings, and he exhales, breathless again for the second time this morning. “He’s on his way.”
It’s weird how my chest stays locked until we both leave the sales tent and I actually see Calum approaching. That on-ice disaster clearly didn’t do him long-term damage. The proof is right there in him loping easily towards us. I head towards him too, lurching forward without thinking.
Dad stops me from stepping straight into the water. “Careful.” He’s found his usual volume—ducks scatter at his warning, and if I wasn’t engrossed in watching Calum, I’d scan those birds for a missing mother. I scan his face instead, stupidly relieved for no good reason.
All I see are ice chips.
I can’t lie, that’s disappointing. Now that I know how he looks when happy—and he was happy after we got off—this coolness is a reminder of the mask I’ve spent hours watching slip over his face on Dad’s phone screen.
He’s blank again, the same way now as when he fights for puck possession, and it doesn’t matter that I’d let him push me around, no question, let him bully me with that big, hard body exactly where he wants me.
I need to know what slid that mask back on for him.
Finding out waits until I have Calum all to myself aboard a shiny speedboat, and we wait for the marina lock gates to open. “What’s with the game face?”
“Game face?” He stands beside me again, well balanced for someone I just watched get stretchered off ice. “What do you mean, game face?”
I pull a blank one of my own to show him, icy like the Thames breeze. “Because if you’re having second thoughts about placing that order—”
“I’m not. I won’t.” His frozen expression melts. “Sorry.” He scrubs at his face and once we’re out on the river, Calum slumps on the seat beside me. He rubs at the back of his neck. “This morning was a lot, that’s all.”
He is a little grey around his edges.
“Bad journey back?”
“From my club visits? No. I got back late last night. I mean . . .” His gaze drifts across the river to a cluster of stark buildings in the medical district.
“You’ve been at a hospital?” I guess again when he doesn’t answer. “You had a rough physio session?” I waggle my eyebrows. “Someone else has been stretching out your groin for you?”
He snorts, and that’s a slight improvement, although Calum still doesn’t provide more detail.
I guess why. “I get it.” At least I think I do.
“Fitness is one of those weak links you guys can’t mention in public.
In case another team hears and uses it to their advantage.
Don’t worry. I won’t break any of your big-money NDAs by sharing your secrets with my subscribers.
All I’m interested in is finding ways to make you look a liability, yeah? You still want me to do that?”
He hesitates before nodding.