Chapter 9 #2
I can’t help picturing Dad making a promise, then telling me I’d missed my sales deadline. “Ah. I understand. He said yes just because he wanted you to make a shit ton of money for him?”
“No. He said it so I could keep following my own interests. He said yes to taking me to rugby practice, at first. Then to county tryouts. I made the first squads for rugby and swimming long before I ever tried out for field hockey. Looking back, his own business had some struggles, but he never said no to a single sport, even if that meant begging favours from friends in our village who had kids older than me so I’d have kit after each growth spurt.
Secondhand rugby boots, hockey sticks, and swimming goggles.
He said yes to everything I needed, but more than that, he told me to have fun, which is what we do here. ”
He means in this final rink of the week where kids zoom across ice to hug their hero, and where Calum proves that all his grey-making PT sessions must be working: He takes a knee with no sign of lower-body issues to reunite with children he must have met during other visits.
My camera has caught him remembering names at each rink we’ve visited so far.
He does the same here, asking girls and boys about their progress in a skating programme which has taken me days to realise he’s interested in for more than promo reasons.
“Wait. You fund these hockey camps? All of them? And you buy all the gear for the kids?” I’ve blurred out so many little faces in my footage. Hundreds of them.
“People helped me out when I was their age.”
His involvement adds another layer of contradiction.
So does the audio I’ve captured of the same kind of coaching that I’ve replayed all alone aboard my boat each evening, if an egg doesn’t count as company.
That hasn’t stopped me from bitching to a potential duckling that everything Calum does is too wholesome.
Almost a week after setting out to ruin him, I still have no idea how to do it.
I want to, though. I really do, even if I already know that viral-video lightning striking twice is unlikely.
What matters is that Calum tried to help me.
And he’s still trying to help by giving me this free rein with his content.
Even if I only get a few hours with him daily, this additional footage still might score my freedom for me.
It’s increasingly hard to see how it could score his.
There’s fuck all about how he gets kids to work together, to play hard and enjoy it like he tells them was all he ever wanted, to make his club ditch him. It’s still all he wants. I hear it loud and clear during this final visit.
“Hold on to the fun of playing even if your team loses.”
None of this is useful. Not a single one of the pep talks I’ve recorded.
He’s a one-man hype squad, and I have to admit it’s better than seeing him do a Sleeping Beauty impression while gloves rained down around him.
The one reminder of that white-faced, unconscious moment is the no-contact jersey he puts on at the start of each hockey camp coaching session.
It’s bright, and so are city lights when we finally make our way through central London once this visit is over.
Traffic slows our progress back to the river in the black cab we share. I use this holdup to tell him that he isn’t making my life easy. “Could you try being a bit more brutal tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? I’ll be out of town.” A finger zips his lips.
“Club business?”
“No. I mean, not exactly. Still off-limits, sorry.”
“Next week, then. Be less wholesome on Monday.”
“Wholesome?” He doesn’t look my way. Calum uses this traffic holdup to stare up at streetlight angels. Those soft lips of his are parted, impossible for me not to stare at. I let myself have a good long look while he’s distracted until he finally glances my way. “What do you mean?”
He smiles the same way I witnessed on a mattress that I still haven’t folded back into place.
I can only blame frustration for me sounding this snippy.
“I mean that all you’ve shown me so far are kids hero-worshipping you.
And their parents thanking you for covering their kit costs.
Even the coaches say you’ve done more to get kids into the game than any other player in the UK.
That you put your money where your mouth is to make ice time accessible instead of elite. ”
I’m aware my voice rises, spiralling at how hopeless my task is. And I know it really is hopeless given the hours of content I’ve scoured each evening to find even a single way to dent his golden halo.
“And you text me every morning to remind me to turn the egg over.”
He glances my way, arctic eyes bright with silent laughter, and boom, I go off like one of those party fireworks.
“Calum Trelawney, this isn’t funny.”
“Sorry.”
He isn’t. His next glance my way is still amused. And fleeting. That does something to me I don’t have a name for. Apart from stupid. And it is stupid to want his attention so much that I consider climbing into his lap to get it.
I can’t help verbally poking and prodding to make him look my way instead of at those streetlight angels.
Not even a long round of French cursing helps.
Nor does this view of him soaking up London sights with the same wonder I’ve witnessed on the faces of kids all week long.
I’m still gritty with frustration when I revert to English.
“Listen, you have to give me something.”
I know he’s a man of action. I don’t expect his to be instant.
Calum lurches forward, only not to shut me up with his mouth on mine, dammit.
He moves to speak to the cab driver. “Stop here, mate. Yeah, right outside Hamleys.”
I’m bundled out of the cab into an already dark and sleety evening.
He herds me under the red awnings of London’s most famous toy shop, and yes, I did ask him to give me something.
I had hoped that would be a way to cancel his contract.
Or maybe to score more than a single order for a speedboat.
Don’t ask me why when I’m still almost certain Dad fudged the timing of Calum’s order.
Maybe forgiving and forgetting is easy because he flinched when we both saw plexiglass buckle and Calum crumple.
Or perhaps it was Dad mentioning what it felt like to lose with so much feeling.
All I know is that someone too wholesome for his own good isn’t done with ruining his own chances. Calum leads me inside to a Christmas tree smothered in decorations and compounds his image problem. He does that by showing my camera that he’s even more sappy than this fir tree.
“I’m gonna pick one for Mum. Can’t wait to see her open it. That’s when Christmas really starts.” He’s suddenly determined. “I will see it this year. See all of it.”
His gaze fixes on baubles decorated with mistletoe and snowmen, and absolutely nothing about his determination switching for wistfulness will make his club shred his contract.
“What do you think of this one?” A bauble spins from a ribbon looped around his finger.
“I think you should steal it.”
“What? This?” He laughs, the bauble spinning even faster. “Nope.”
“Go on.” I snag that ornament from him and take a quick look at the price tag.
“Who pays that much for a tree decoration?” I shove it at him.
“Go on. Take it and walk out. It’s expensive enough that I bet alarms will go off.
If a security guard stops you, lose your shit.
” I gesture at the families waiting at a nearby Santa’s grotto.
“They all have their phones out. Lose your shit big time, and I bet it will end up online multiple times. Fuck it, go nuts and take two ornaments. Three. Stuff your pockets. I’ll shout thief! ”
Calum does reach into his pocket, but only to fish out his own phone, which is disappointing.
He raises it to his ear. “Pat?” he asks just as the Christmas carols piped through the store fade. I don’t need to crowd any nearer to eavesdrop on this conversation. Calum snags my jacket to pull me closer regardless, no way to miss a word of him asking for a favour.
“Listen,” he asks his younger brother. “It’s your turn to buy Mum’s present, yeah? Her annual bauble? Let me do it this year. Why?” His eyes meet with mine. “Because I already found something perfect to take home.”
He doesn’t look at any of the ornaments on this tree. I’m his focus—me—and I’m pretty sure that Santa doesn’t have a single gift in his sack to top this feeling right until Calum’s gaze drifts over my shoulder.
I get my shit together in a hurry then.
Of course he was looking at ornaments. He’s already shown me a calendar with the whole of Christmas week blocked out.
I’m definitely not invited.
I busy myself by checking that my camera is still running even though this phone conversation is more useless B-roll filler.
Yet more evidence of him being careful about other people’s feelings.
There’s no way I could use it to convince his club he isn’t a decent human being.
I only look up when he asks, “What do you think, Valentin?”
A different bauble dangles from his finger, and I’m surprised into blurting, “C’est un oeuf.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “An egg with a Santa hat. Mum would get a kick out of it after the number of times I’ve called her about ours.
Yours,” he corrects himself swiftly. “She’s the reason I hunted down that incubator.
When your egg finally hatches, it will be because of her advice and the care you’ve taken.
” His head lowers. “Hope I get to see when it hatches.”
“If it does.” I can’t help touching that egg-shaped bauble to set it spinning. “Still don’t know if it will.”
“All the more reason to remember the good parts, yeah? Mum liked me calling her for help, and I’m pretty sure she’ll smile when she opens her gift to find this bauble. Really want to see that.” He clears his throat. “What do you think? Shall I get it?”
“For your mother?” I nod slowly at first, then faster.
“Cool. Do you . . .” His voice gentles. “You never mention yours. Your mum. Do you . . .”
Want him to get one for her?
I shake my head, and I know we’re surrounded by crowds full of mothers and fathers.
By aunties, uncles, and grandparents aplenty.
By beaucoup des enfants, all here to share their wish lists with whatever version of Père Noel fits their family.
All I see is someone who has noticed an absence in mine, and not only at Christmas.
“Sorry,” Calum murmurs. “I didn’t mean to bring up something .
. .” His forehead furrows, Calum fighting, I guess, to find the right words in the same way I’ve been fighting all week long to find a single flaw about him to show the world.
He doesn’t seem convinced by the descriptor he finally comes up with. “Painful?”
That isn’t quite right for a feeling I’m not sure how to translate in either language I speak, but I nod while an egg spins on a scarlet ribbon.
We’re tucked against a bushy tree covered in sparkling baubles.
No one can see his free hand find mine. Calum gives it a secret squeeze.
“It’s okay,” he promises. “You don’t have to tell me why. You don’t owe me a single explanation.”
But he wants one.
I see that as clearly now as when streetlight angels spotlighted how much he loves to see Christmas in this city.
Now I get to see a broad Trelawney forehead creasing all over again, but Reece doesn’t cross my mind for a single second.
Calum is my sole focus. And he’s the focus of my camera.
I’ll have to delete this footage ASAP rather than play back his pity.
No.
Not pity.
For a second time while holding an egg, all he shows me is care. “Pretend I didn’t ask. Yes, I’ve been wondering. Trying to figure out what makes you tick when you’re—”
“When I’m what?”
“When you’re nothing like I expected.” He repeats his promise. “You don’t have to tell me a single thing about your family.”
He’s right. I don’t. And I definitely should slip my hand from his to get back to recording every moment of his story, not mine.
Tell that to my clasping fingers.
They tighten, and so does my throat. “I-I could tell you . . .”
Calum smiles, and it doesn’t matter that his mouth barely moves. It reaches his eyes, telling me without words what tops his own Christmas wish list.
More of me.
Giving him that is scarily easy.
“I could tell you, but it might be simpler to show you.”