Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
CALLUM
The rink smells of sweat and cold steel. Comforting, usually but today it feels more of a punishment.
My lungs are already burning, legs heavy, the kind of ache that makes your vision tighten at the edges. The puck ricochets off the boards, and I chase it down the line, stick tapping out a furious rhythm. Coach’s whistle pierces through the echo, and I know I’m a second too slow.
“Fraser!” Coach’s voice cracks across the ice. “You planning to join us today, or just taking a scenic tour of the neutral zone?”
I grit my teeth, cutting hard and stopping so ice sprays up around my skates. The rest of the lads are already lined up at centre ice, smirking. Ryan flashes me a look that’s half sympathy, half amusement. “Someone’s still daydreaming about his celebrity missus.”
“Shut it,” I mutter, skating back into line. But the damage is done. The chirping begins.
“Oi, Cal!” Mike calls. “You forget how to skate after all that red-carpet posing?”
The lads laugh. It should roll off me, and it usually does, but today it sticks. Every comment digs a little deeper under my skin.
Coach blows the whistle again. “Two-line drill. Let’s see if you remember what hard work looks like.”
We go again with sprint passes, tight corners, and quick stops. Over and over until my thighs are on fire and my shoulders ache from holding form. Every turn is a reminder that I was late this morning, and my head’s still back in that hospital room instead of on the ice where it belongs.
I can still see Rose’s face when she looked at me like she couldn’t decide whether to thank me or tell me to leave. That gentle confidence, the calm way she asked, You’re really Cal Fraser? Not like a fan. It was as though she was collecting data.
“Fraser!” Coach shouts again. “Eyes up!”
Too late. The puck skims off my stick and slams into the boards. The whistle screams.
“Bench!” Coach barks. “Five minutes. Think about what sport you play.”
The lads skate past, trying not to laugh. Mike winks. “He’s still picturing her, boys. Leave him be.”
“Shut it,” I growl, ripping off my helmet and sitting down hard on the bench. My pulse hammers in my throat. I rub a glove over my face, trying to push everything out. Rose’s eyes and the gnawing guilt that’s been chewing at me since.
The clang of pucks and the squeal of skates is normally my rhythm, my reset. But right now, all I can think about is the crash. Her car spinning. The sound of metal and glass, and my hands gripping the steering wheel as if I could will it all to stop.
“Fraser!” Coach’s voice cuts in again, closer now. He’s standing over me, scowl deep enough to crack his jaw. “You want to tell me what the hell that was out there?”
“Just a rough morning, Coach.”
“Rough morning? You’ve had a rough bloody week. You missed Tuesday’s gym session, you’ve been late twice, and your passes resembles something out of a Sunday beer league. You want to sit out Saturday? Because if your head’s not back in it, I’ll find someone who gives a damn.”
I clench my jaw. “I give a damn.”
“Then prove it. Because right now, you look like you’re skating through mud.”
He stalks off, leaving a trail of frost in his wake. The lads keep their heads down, sensing the tension. I slam my stick against the boards, hard enough to make my hands sting. Ryan glances over as he glides past.
“Coach’s on one today,” he mutters. “You good, mate?”
“Fine,” I bite out. “Just tired.”
He doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t push. That’s Ryan; steady, calm and annoyingly perceptive.
We finish drills, defensive transitions, and end on power play rotations. Every second feels as though it’s a test I’m failing. By the end, sweat is dripping down my back, leaving my jersey clinging to my skin. I hit the showers without saying a word.
The locker room is bedlam. Someone’s got music blaring from a speaker, and the smell of deodorant and damp gear hangs thick in the air.
“Oi, Fraser,” Mike says from across the room, towel slung over his shoulder. “You see Talia’s story?”
I freeze. “What?”
He grins, waving his phone as bait. “Your girl’s doing the rounds again. Cute video about some breakfast-in-bed nonsense. The caption says ‘My favourite mornings with my favourite man’. That you, superstar?”
The lads roar with laughter. I force a smirk, trying not to let my irritation show. “Yeah, mate. Must be. Shame I was here busting my arse while she filmed it.”
“Queen Influencer,” Ryan mutters. “She never misses a chance to post.”
I grab my bag and start pulling on my jeans.
The laughter fades behind me as I leave the room, phone buzzing in my hand.
Sure enough, her face fills the screen when I open Instagram.
Perfect smile with the sunlight hitting the edge of the duvet like a film set.
My tagged name sitting neatly beneath her caption.
My favourite man.
A lie wrapped in filters.
I swipe through the comments and the fans are eating it up, with my sponsors reposting it.
The whole polished illusion of a happy couple.
The same illusion I’ve been propping up for months.
It’s supposed to make us both look good.
She gets attention; I get stability and an easy headline.
But every time she posts stuff that, it feels less like stability and more like a cage.
I drop my phone back into my pocket, and rub my palm over my face in exasperation.
My head’s still buzzing from the drills, but it’s the photo that twists my stomach.
The truth is we haven’t had breakfast together in weeks.
We barely speak unless it’s for a camera.
And even then, its lines rehearsed to sound sincere.
I don’t know when the shift happened or even if it did.
Maybe it’s always been this way and I let it slide for ease.
I scroll again before I can stop myself.
The comments all blur into a mass of words, but one catches my eye.
“They’re couple goals #perfectpair.”
Perfect. Right.
I head out of the stadium before someone else can say something clever.
Outside, the cold, sharp air hits me, it feels clean. The night is creeping in, with lights flickering across the car park. My car sits under a streetlamp, streaked with grime and salt. I climb in and start the engine, then I just sit there, listening to it rumble.
The accident flashes back again. Rose’s car, twisted metal and screeching of brakes, the red light and the sound of horns beeping.
The way she looked at me when she glanced up from the hospital bed, as though she was trying to piece together who I was and why I was there.
I shouldn’t have gone to the hospital; I tell myself for the hundredth time.
It wasn’t my place. But then I remember how small she looked in that bed, how her voice wavered when she said I’m fine even though she clearly wasn’t.
And now I can’t stop thinking about her.
About the bruise on her arm and her forehead, the way she tried to hide them.
About the fact that, for once, someone looked at me and didn’t see a headline.
The guilt sits heavy on my chest.
I pull out my phone again. Her name isn’t in it, of course. But the hospital name flashes in my mind. I still remember it from the band on her wrist. It’s stupid. But I call anyway.
The line rings twice before a receptionist answers. “Northern General Hospital, how can I help?”
“Hi, yeah. I was calling about a patient who was admitted yesterday. Her name’s Rose Bennett. She was brought in after a car accident and I came to visit her the day after. I just wanted to know how she’s doing.”
There’s a pause while the keyboard clatters on the other end. “I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t give out patient information without consent.”
“Right. Yeah. I just wanted to know if she was… okay. If she was still there.”
Another pause. Then, softer she says, “She’s been discharged.”
Discharged. The word lifts and crushes something within me all at once. “Okay. Thanks.”
I hang up before I can make it any weirder. She’s out. That’s good, it must mean she’s fine. Probably home, surrounded by friends. Already forgetting about the guy who showed up uninvited to her hospital room like some misplaced Good Samaritan.
I rest my head against the steering wheel. It feels cool against my skin, and I stay there for a long minute, breathing in, out, in again. Trying to let the guilt bleed away.
It doesn’t.
Instead, my brain replays the way she’d laughed, small, and unfiltered. The way she’d said chaos as if it was something she understood. And suddenly, the rink doesn’t feel like the only place I’m losing control.
When I get home, the flat is silent. It feels sterile and clinical.
The kind of place designed for photo ops, not people.
Talia’s things are still scattered on the counter.
There are flowers, empty coffee cups, a brand-new makeup palette lays open like a crime scene.
I can smell her perfume, hanging heavy in the air.
There’s a note on the counter. A neat pink Post-it with the perfect handwriting.
Dinner with PR team at 7. Don’t forget to repost the story. T.
Of course.
I grab a beer from the fridge and drop onto the sofa. The TV flickers, muted, hockey highlights rolling. My phone buzzes with a notification from Instagram. Talia’s story again, this time reposted by a lifestyle brand.
Perfect couple goals.
I down half the beer in one go. The taste of bitterness and metal sits on my tongue.
The thing is, I used to love the game for its simplicity.
You skate hard, hit harder, and earn every bruise is a badge of honour.
It was real, at least. Now it’s all noise and press events, sponsorships and fake smiles.
Even Talia, who once felt like an escape, is just another mirror reflecting back the version of me everyone else wants to see.
And then there’s Rose. A stranger who shouldn’t matter, but does. Because for a few minutes in that hospital room, I wasn’t Cal Fraser, forward for the Panthers. I was just a bloke who stopped at the wrong moment and tried to do something right. Something worthwhile for a change.
I flick off the TV and stare out the window. The city glows faintly in the distance, all orange streetlights, rain-slicked tarmac, and the hum of traffic as people go about the business. It’s grounding and suffocating all at once. And it makes me question so much of my life.
My phone buzzes again. Talia, this time.
You good for the shoot tomorrow? They want you in the navy suit. Xx
I stare at it for a second, then type back.
Yeah. Fine.
I don’t send it right away, my thumb hovering over the screen. Then, without thinking, I backspace the message to delete it, toss the phone onto the sofa, and grab my jacket. The need to get out of here burning deep within me.
The rink is closed by the time I get back, but the parking lot’s quiet, the ice still humming faintly behind the glass. I slip inside through the side door, using my keycard, perks of being captain once upon a time.
The rink is dark except for the low glow of emergency lights. The ice glints under them, pale blue, smooth as glass and so enticing. I step out onto it, no skates, just boots, the echo of my steps sharp and hollow. “Get your head back in the game,” Coach’s voice echoes in my mind.
Easier said than done.
I pull my phone out again, staring at the black screen until it lights up. No new messages. No notifications that matter. Just silence. And for once, I let myself breathe properly. The kind of breath that comes when there’s no one to perform for.
I whisper it to the empty rink, just to hear the truth out loud. “I’m not fine.”
The sound bounces off the boards, soft and cold.
It feels almost confessional. I think of Rose again.
Her hand brushing her camera, the way her eyes had softened when she laughed.
And for the first time since the crash, focus stirs in me.
Not the kind I can skate through. Something sharper. More human.
Maybe I’ll never see her again. Maybe I shouldn’t want to. But I can’t shake the thought that she saw something the rest of the world stopped seeing a long time ago.
And now the ice doesn’t feel like home. It feels like a mirror.