33
Campbell
The third period was a war. The score was tied; the clock was bleeding seconds, and the pressure sat heavy on my chest, suffocating. Every shift mattered. Every play counted. My team was relying on me to make something happen. But then— I saw her . And none of it mattered. I almost missed the puck sailing past me. Almost missed the frantic shouts of my teammates. Because all I could see was Hazel.
She stood near the exit, arms wrapped around herself, looking small, guarded. Like she didn’t belong here. Like she was already halfway gone. My stomach dropped . She was leaving. Walking away like I never meant a damn thing to her. Like she never meant everything to me.
A sharp pass glanced off my stick, snapping me back. My focus should have been on the game and the skills I’d spent a lifetime developing. But Hazel took another step toward the exit, and something inside me snapped . Fuck this.
I ripped my helmet off, my skates cutting into the ice as I pivoted toward the bench. The arena noise warped into something distant and meaningless. The game—the win—none of it mattered if she walked out that door. Someone shouted my name. Coach was yelling something, but I didn’t hear a word of it. Because I was already moving. I skated straight for the boards and vaulted over them; my landing shaky on the rubber flooring. My legs buckled for half a second. I couldn’t run in skates . Cursing, I dropped to my knees, yanking at the laces. My hands were shaking, fumbling, desperate. It took too long to rip them free, but the second I did, I kicked off the skates and bolted. Sock-cladded, I tore through the tunnel, shoving past security, ignoring the gasps and shouts. But I didn’t care. She was almost at the exit. One second from being gone.
“Hazel!”
She froze. Her eyes widened as she took me in—skateless, flushed, my jersey hanging loose around my shoulders, sweat dampening my hair. Like she never expected me to chase after her.
“Campbell, what the hell are you doing?” she asked, her voice unsteady. “Your game isn’t over.”
“Neither are we.” My chest heaved. “Not even close.”
She looked down, biting her lip. She was fighting something. I could see it in the tension in her shoulders, the way she wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“This is insane.” She whispered.
“Yeah? Well, I don’t care.” I stepped closer, refusing to let her slip away. “I saw you leaving, Hazel. You think I would you walk away?”
Her throat bobbed. Her eyes flickered with something raw—something real.
“You already did.”
It felt like she’d slammed a fist into my ribs . A clean hit, straight through the heart. I swallowed, my jaw clenching.
“I know,” I rasped. “And I hate myself for it.”
“Then why?” she asked, so soft it nearly shattered me. Because I was afraid. Afraid she’d see who I was. She’d realize she deserved better. Afraid she’d love me, and I’d destroy her, anyway. But I was done running. Hazel crossed her arms, but her voice was steady when she spoke. “Campbell, I can’t do this right now. You’re supposed to be on the ice.”
“I don’t give a shit about the game.”
“Well, I do.” She said. “You love hockey, Campbell. You’re not throwing your future away to chase me down in an arena.”
I stared at her, breath uneven.
“I already did.”
Her lips parted, like she wanted to say something else. But then she shook her head, exhaling.
“Go finish the game,” she said, quieter now. “Take your stupid post-win shower. Then we’ll talk.”
My throat tightened. I wanted to stay. To fix this now. But she was giving me a chance. One last chance.
“You promise?”
Hazel nodded.
“I promise.”
I let myself memorize her. The way her hair caught the dim arena light. The crease between her brows. The way her lips parted, like she was seconds from changing her mind. I brushed my fingers over the back of her hand, a ghost of a touch, before forcing myself to turn away. And then I was running.
The second I stepped back onto the ice, the crowd buzzed, my coach seethed, and my teammates froze in shock. But none of it mattered. Because for the first time in a long time, I knew what I was fighting for.
**
The snow fell, blanketing the campus in a quiet, fragile beauty. A sense of anticipation hung heavy; time itself seemed to slow. Hazel walked beside me, boots crunching against the frozen ground, her hands stuffed deep into the sleeves of her coat, her posture stiff and closed off. She wasn’t looking at me. She didn’t have to. I could feel the space between us growing with every step, and I knew, deep down, that I had no right to ask her to look at me. Not after everything I’d done.
We found a bench by the pond, the water still and dark beneath a layer of ice, the lamplight shimmering on its surface like memories I couldn’t reach. She sat first, curling into herself, making herself as small as possible, like she was bracing for something. I sat beside her, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the weight of her absence, the distance between us pressing on my chest. The silence stretched until her voice snapped it.
“You made me feel so terrible, Campbell,” she whispered, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear it over the soft breeze. “Like I was that teenager with an eating disorder all over again.”
My stomach dropped, a stone sinking into the pit of me. The words hit me harder than any slap ever could. She wasn’t looking at me. Instead, she stared at the ice, watching the snow settle onto it, as if her heart wasn’t cracking.
“Hazel-” I croaked, my throat thick, but I couldn’t get more than her name past my lips.
She shook her head, her voice barely a breath.
“No, let me say this.” I pressed my lips together, biting back the apology, the regret, the guilt that burned in my chest. I owed her more than words, but all I could do was sit there and listen as the sound of her pain sliced through me. “I’m used to rejection, you know?” she said, the words thick with sorrow, yet somehow devoid of surprise. “Friends. Guys. Even my family, sometimes. It’s always been so easy for people to walk away from me. Like I don’t matter. Like I never did.”
Each word felt like a slap, and my heart splintered more with everyone. I flinched, recoiling from the truth she was laying bare. My fingers tightened into fists at my sides, desperate to stop the ache that was ripping through me, but nothing could stop her pain, nothing could undo what I had done. She sighed, a soft exhale that didn’t seem to carry any relief. Her breath formed little clouds in the cold air, and for a second, I wondered if she was trying to make it colder, if that would somehow freeze all the hurt she was carrying.
“And my writing?” she said with a bitter laugh, a sound that sent shards of ice into my veins. “That’s going nowhere, either. Another dream I can’t reach. Another thing I failed at. And the worst part? It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”
Her words were like a punch to my gut. I wanted to scream at the universe for making her feel like this. For making her believe she didn’t matter, that she wasn’t good enough. But all I could do was sit there, drowning in the wreckage of my own mistakes.
She turned to face me then, her eyes haunted, like she had been carrying this weight for far too long.
“It’s sad, isn’t it?” Her voice was a whisper, and it cut through the night air, through everything in me. “I’ve been rejected so many times in my life that it doesn’t even sting anymore.”
The wind picked up, swirling around us, but it did nothing to fill the silence. I wanted to say something. I wanted to take her pain and shove it somewhere far away, where it couldn’t reach her. But the words caught in my throat, heavy and useless. So I just sat there, listening to the woman I loved fall apart beside me, powerless to stop it.
“I thought if I got skinnier, then all my problems would go away,” she said, her voice cracking, and my heart twisted at the vulnerability she let slip through. She tugged her sleeves over her hands, like she was trying to hide herself from me, like she couldn’t even stand the sight of her skin anymore. “That’s what I told myself when I was fifteen. That if I just lost a little more weight, maybe people would like me more. Maybe I’d like myself more.” I swallowed the lump in my throat, my stomach churning with guilt. “But I realized it was never about the weight.” She exhaled a shaky breath, her trembling. “I still hated myself. More than ever.”
The words were a punch. No, they were more than that. The anger I felt wasn’t for her. It wasn’t for the hurt she carried. She felt the world’s judgment, making her crave acceptance and love. She laughed then, a hollow, bitter sound that made me feel smaller than ever.
“And then I met you.” Every muscle in my body went rigid. “And I thought this time would be different.” She looked at me then, her eyes filled with something raw, something vulnerable. “That someone would finally choose me. That maybe I could be enough for someone.”
She turned toward me, and I felt the weight of her gaze like a physical thing, pressing down on me, suffocating me. Her lower lip trembled, and I hated myself more than ever, because I had been the one to make her feel this way.
“I gave you everything, Campbell,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “And you left.”
My chest caved in, a jagged pain tearing through me. The words hit me like a fist to the ribs, and I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t do anything except watch her crumble in front of me. Her shoulders shook, and then—she cried. Not softly. Not quietly. But violently. The cry that felt like it might destroy her. The kind that destroyed me.
I reached for her, pulling her into me, wrapping my arms around her like I could somehow shield her from the storm inside, like I could take all her pain away. She didn’t pull away. Her shaking body and desperate clutch spoke volumes of her fear of abandonment. And I held her. I held her like I would never let her go. Because, for the first time, I realized how deeply I had screwed up. I pressed my lips to the top of her head, squeezing my eyes shut, feeling the lump in my throat grow until it threatened to choke me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice raw. “I’m so fucking sorry, Hazel.”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Her tears were all the answers I needed. And I let her cry. I let her shatter against me, because I deserved it. And because for the first time in my life, I knew what real regret felt like. And I would do anything to make it right.
**
The air was frosty, but not the biting kind. No, this was the quiet kind that seemed to settle between us and linger in the space that felt suddenly too vast. Snowflakes dusted the surrounding ground, floating gently in the air, and they landed in Hazel’s hair, clung to her lashes. She didn’t notice. She couldn’t. Her eyes were too red, her cheeks flushed from the tears that hadn’t stopped falling. I wanted to take her pain away. I wanted to make it disappear, but I didn’t know how. Hell, I didn’t even know how to fix myself. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I showed her the truth.
Without a word, I grabbed the hem of my hoodie and lifted it, exposing the scar that ran across my abdomen. The jagged line, thin but deep—permanent—was a reminder of the night my world had shattered into pieces. Hazel inhaled, the breath catching in her throat. Her fingers twitched, like she wanted to reach out, to touch it, but she hesitated. Instead, her eyes locked onto mine, brows furrowing as she waited for me to explain.
“I was eleven,” I began, the words felt like lead, heavy in my chest. “My parents were fighting. Screaming, like always. My mom was drunk. I was in my room, trying to block it out, but I couldn’t. I never could.” Swallowing, my gaze dropped to the scar. “I ran out and begged them to stop. But I never saw the glass coming.” Hazel’s breath hitched, and my heart cracked a little more. “She threw it at my dad. Or maybe it was the wall —I don’t even know. But it shattered. A piece of glass hit me.” I let out a humorless laugh, the sound hollow in the cold air. “I remember standing there, watching the blood drip down my stomach. And neither of them even noticed at first. They were too busy tearing each other apart.”
Her hand reached out then. Her touch, though gentle as a feather, betrayed a tremor of fear, as if a mere brush might shatter me. And maybe I would. I never showed anyone this before. Never let anyone touch it. But Hazel? She didn’t flinch. Her touch was a prayer, a sacred attempt to soothe my wounded soul.
“Campbell-” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
But I hadn’t finished. I needed to say it. To let her in.
“It was the last time I ever saw my mother. She never even came with me to the hospital.” I said. “That night, I learned something. I realized that love wasn’t real. That it was just a word people used to hurt each other. That’s why I keep people at a distance, Hazel. That’s why I kept you at a distance.” Her lips parted, but no words came. “I read your book.”
Her eyes widened, shock flickering in them.
“You read my book in a night?” She asked, a little breathless, like she couldn’t believe it.
I nodded, gripping the edge of my hoodie.
“You’re an incredible author, Hazel.” My voice cracked, raw. “But as I read it, I realized I wasn’t upset with you for writing it.” I looked down at my hands, fighting the lump in my throat. “I was upset because I’m not the guy you wrote about.”
Her brows furrowed, confusion swirling in her gaze.
“I’m not that guy, Hazel,” I said, lifting her off the bench and moving closer to her, the space between us no longer enough. “I’m sorry that I never read your favorite books or sent you on cute little scavenger hunts. I’m sorry I’m not as open with my feelings as he is. I’m not him. I didn’t fall in love with you the second I saw you, like he did. But I love you now. I’m in love with you.” Hazel's lips parted in a soft gasp, her breath hitching as her wide eyes searched mine, as if she couldn't quite believe what I was saying.
“That guy isn’t real,” I continued, stepping into her space, my chest against hers. “I am. And I’m standing in front of you, telling you I love you, Hazel Ellis. Maybe not in the way you wanted me to, but I love you.”
She swallowed hard, like she was processing my confession, but I could see it in her eyes. She wasn’t sure.
“I know that,” she whispered. “But do you?”
My brows furrowed in confusion.
“What are you talking about?”
Her eyes locked onto mine, unflinching.
“You keep telling me you’re not good enough. That you’re not the guy from my book. But Campbell, you’re the one I fell for. Not some fictional version of you. You.”
I exhaled, running a hand through my hair, the frustration and confusion rising in my chest.
“Then why does it feel like I keep failing you?”
Her voice softened, almost breaking.
“Because you don’t believe you deserve to be loved. I don’t know how to make you see you do.”
Her words cut deep. I didn’t know how to fix that. I didn’t know how to believe it, even if she did. But I had to try. I reached for her. Hesitant, but hopeful.
“Let me try,” I whispered. “Let me show you I can be someone worth loving.”
She stared at me, her eyes searched mine, like she was weighing my words. And then, she stepped forward, into my arms, and for the first time in so long, I felt like I was where I was supposed to be. I pulled her close, feeling the weight of everything between us, everything I had ever held back. And in that moment, I knew I wasn’t alone. But I needed her to understand me. So, I did the only thing I could do—I lifted my hoodie again, higher this time.
Her gaze dropped to my skin, and the moment she spotted the fresh ink etched into my flesh—a lighthouse—her breath hitched. Her fingers brushed her lips, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Silence stretched between us, heavy and endless, until she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper—fragile and broken.
“Why?”
I swallowed, the words thick in my throat.
“It’s been a long time since I let myself love someone, Hazel. But I didn’t just do this for me.” I looked down at the ink, the symbol that would never fade. “I did it to show you that you’re it for me.” Her eyes widened, and I could see the realization creeping in. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I just want to love you.” Her eyes were glassy, and I wondered if I had broken her. If my words were too much, but something was gnawing on the back of my mind. “Why did you write the book, Hazel?”
She hesitated, her lips trembling, but then she lifted her chin, her gaze unwavering.
“Because it’s the closest I’d ever get to someone loving me.”
That? That shattered me. Without thinking, I cupped her face, lifting it so she had no choice but to look at me.
“You don’t need a book for that,” I murmured, my forehead resting against hers. “I’m right here.”
I pulled back to look at her, my heart feeling like it was going to implode from the love I was feeling.
“What?” She asked, noticing I’d been staring too long.
“It’s just so weird to think that someone loves me.” I said, twirling a strand of her hair around my finger. “My father told me for years that I was difficult to love, and eventually I started to believe it.”
She scoffed and placed her hand on my chest, raising her toes to get closer to my face.
“That’s ridiculous.” She said. “Considering loving you was the easiest thing I’d ever done.”
My eyes pricked with tears, and I didn’t bother holding them back. My next words escaped my lips before I could comprehend what I was saying.
“I’m going to marry you one day, Hazel Ellis.”
She let out a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling. And then, she whispered, “Kiss me.”
I never thought two simple words would mean everything to me. I kissed her like she was the only thing that had ever mattered. Because she was.