Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
ROSE
Iwatch him settle in the chair beside my hospital bed, the smell of antiseptic and something faintly metallic clinging to the air.
My fingers linger on my camera, almost reflexively.
I’ve spent the last year framing life through a lens, capturing moments I can control.
But right now, I feel exposed, and completely out of my depth.
“You’re really Cal Fraser?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, professional even, though there’s a nervous tremor I can’t hide.
He nods, hands clasped in his lap, trying not to fidget. There’s a carefulness in the way he moves, the way he sits. It looks deliberate. Almost as if he’s calculating every gesture. And for some reason, I find that interesting but annoying and intrusive. All at once.
“Yes. I…” He hesitates. I catch it, the tiny crack in his armour. “I wanted to make sure you were okay after the accident. I drove past.”
I swallow, glancing at the bruise blooming along my arm.
It’s nothing too dramatic, just enough to sting if I press it.
The thing that burns more, though, is the embarrassment.
I’ve always been independent. Always gotten myself out of trouble.
But yesterday, I was helpless in my car, and now this stranger, this hockey player I’ve only ever seen from the stands, shows up at my hospital room.
“You… drove past?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
“I did. I…” His gaze drops for a fraction of a second, then meets mine again. “I saw what happened. I wanted to check on you.”
There’s a pause, heavy and awkward. I don’t know if it’s the scent of his cologne, or the fact that he’s sitting there, bright-eyed, broad-shouldered, and entirely too close for comfort, but I feel the heat creep up my neck.
“Well, thanks,” I finally say, turning back to my camera as if I’ve just remembered it exists. “Most people… don’t.”
“I’m not most people,” he mutters. I glance at him. He’s sheepish, but there’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes that makes my chest tighten.
I can’t help it. My overactive brain, always analysing, always dissecting, kicks in. He’s full of contradictions. Confident, yet cautious. Charismatic, but restrained. And somehow considerate.
“Fair enough,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “So, you’re a hockey player. That explains the interest in me, I guess.”
He laughs softly, a little self-conscious. “I…uh, yeah. Partly.” He glances at my camera. “I saw you reviewing photos from the game. You’re… into photography?”
“Yeah,” I reply, warming slightly to the topic. “I’m a student. Work part-time at a shop to pay the bills.” I shrug. “Nothing glamorous.”
“Photography isn’t nothing,” he says quickly. “It’s art.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Art, huh? That’s generous of you to call my photo experiments art.”
“Experiments?” His grin is sheepish, he’s almost embarrassed to admit he’s been paying attention.
I tilt my head, studying him. “Yeah. I’m always testing stuff. Composition, lighting and angles, that kind of stuff. I like capturing moments most people miss.”
“You mean a hockey player’s madness in the last minute of a game?” he asks. “Or the look on someone’s face when they realise their car’s about to be totalled?”
I laugh, the tension in my shoulders loosening. “I’d like to think I capture the emotion behind the turmoil. You’re obviously a man who knows chaos well.”
He swallows, shifting slightly. I notice a flinch, it’s almost imperceptible, when he moves his leg, probably from the adrenaline still lingering in his muscles after the game last night. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I know chaos.”
I sense he’s holding something back. That tiny hesitation, the way he avoids my eyes for a fraction too long, it’s interesting. I like the idea that maybe there’s more to this man than the confident player everyone else knows.
“So,” I say carefully, trying to steer the conversation, “you check on strangers after accidents often?”
“No.” His smile is a little crooked, but there’s honesty in it. “Not usually. Just… felt wrong not to. What with you being at the game and everything.”
I nod slowly. “That’s commendable. And slightly terrifying, to have a stranger show up in your hospital room.”
He laughs, genuine this time, and I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “I get that. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to scare you or anything.”
“I’m not scared,” I lie, sort of. “Maybe slightly startled. And a little curious.”
He tilts his head, eyebrows raising. “Curious?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Curious how a professional hockey player, someone probably used to the madness of the rink, ends up worried about the mess in a stranger’s life.”
He laughs; it’s a low, rich sound that makes my stomach flutter. “Guess I’m more complicated than I look.”
“More complicated than you look,” I echo, noting the subtle shift in his tone. He’s trying to charm me, I think. And somehow, it’s working.
For the next hour, we talk. Small talk, mostly, about how my course is going, how he trains, the upcoming season. But beneath it, a subtle current of something else is forming. Respect, maybe even a little attraction. And for the first time since the crash, I feel a little bit of lightness.
By the time the nurse comes in to check my vitals, he’s standing, hands shoved into his pockets, awkward but attentive.
“I should go,” he says. “You need rest. Photos and all.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Thanks for stopping by. For… you know, checking I’m okay.”
“Of course,” he mutters, voice low. “I’ll see you around. Hopefully not after another accident, though.”
I grin, a little mischievously. “Hopefully.”
He hesitates, then leans closer. “Do you want me to show you some of the shots I took at the game?”
I blink. “You took photos?”
He smirks. “I do more than skate fast. Want to see?”
Something warm flickers through me. “Sure. Why not?”
He pulls his phone from his pocket, flipping through shots. Action-packed images of players mid-flight, sweat flying, sticks colliding. And then he pauses, holding the phone out to me.
“This one,” he says. “I got this shot of the goalie… the exact moment he realised the puck was slipping past him.”
I lean in, impressed despite myself. “Wow. That’s intense. You really do capture the emotion.”
“Like your photos,” he says softly. “Different kind of madness, same idea.”
My cheeks warm, and I glance away. “Thanks.”
There’s a beat of silence. Comfortable yet charged. I feel the flutter again, low in my stomach, and I realise I’m not used to feeling this visible. Vulnerable, maybe, but in a way I don’t hate.
“You really shouldn’t have come here,” I say finally, trying to regain some control. “Most people wouldn’t even get past the receptionist.”
“I know, she was a tough cookie to crack,” he admits. “But I couldn’t not.”
I study him, and now, I see beyond the blond hair, broad shoulders, and fame. I see guilt, responsibility, and a surprising amount of sincerity.
“You’re trouble,” I mutter, half-laughing, half-serious.
He grins, just enough to be infuriating. “Depends on who you ask.”
We exchange a look, lingering longer than necessary. I feel the unsteady pull between curiosity and caution, between the remnants of last night’s terror and this moment.
When he finally leaves, promising to catch me at the next game or drop me a message to see how I’m doing, I watch him walk away.
His presence lingers in the air, like the faint echo of music or the scent of something comforting and foreign.
I turn back to my camera, to my photos, and the reality of my life, the lectures, the deadlines, but a small, insistent thought keeps intruding.
Maybe chaos isn’t always bad. Maybe sometimes, it’s exactly what you need.
And maybe a professional hockey player can be the kind of chaos worth paying attention to.