Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
ROSE
The bell above the shop door jingles again as I step in, grimacing slightly as my ankle protests.
The dull ache has turned into a constant throb, a reminder of the crash, my clumsiness, and the fact that work hours have been cut so low I’m forced to push through long shifts even while limping.
I adjust my flats, hoping the thick rubber soles will give me a little relief.
The shop is quiet, the kind of lull that usually makes the time crawl.
Wooden shelves lined with stationery, mugs, and little trinkets gleam under the fluorescent lights.
The smell of polish and perfume mix oddly with the faint dustiness of the old floorboards.
I set my bag down behind the counter and begin tidying, stacking notebooks and smoothing flyers.
My fingers ache from gripping the broom, and I have to remind myself to be careful, or my ankle will pay for it.
I’m mid-sweep when the door jingles again, and I look up, expecting another regular customer or a teenager idly browsing. My breath catches and it takes me a second to school my features.
“Oh.”
He’s there. Cal Fraser. I recognise him instantly, of course.
The blond hair, broad shoulders, that confident-but-somehow-vulnerable aura.
He looks exactly like the photos on the Manchester Panthers’ website and every sports headline.
And yet, he looks completely out of place standing by the door, scanning the shelves as though he’s afraid of touching something.
“Hi,” I say, forcing my voice to sound casual. My heartbeat a little faster than it should be. “Can I help you with something?”
He blinks at me, startled, then gives me a sheepish smile. “Uh… hey. Yeah. I didn’t expect to erm run into you here.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to keep my amusement out of my tone. “I didn’t expect to see you either. Shopping around here often?”
“Not… usually,” he admits quickly, hands raised in surrender. “I was… passing by. Thought I’d check out the shops. Support local businesses, you know.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, smirking. “That’s what people always say when they’re clearly… doing something else.”
He flushes, running a hand through his hair. “Okay… fine. Something else. Guilty.”
The bell jingles again, and a teenager pauses in the doorway, her mouth slightly open, eyes wide. She’s wearing a Panthers jersey and is holding a phone like it’s a lifeline.
“Is… is that Cal Fraser?” she whispers, pointing.
Cal’s face goes as red as a tomato. “Hi… yeah. That’s me,” he mutters, waving awkwardly. “Go on, mate. Don’t be shy.”
The girl nods and practically runs out, still staring. I bite back a laugh. Watching a grown man, who can skate circles around the best defenders in the league, turn crimson in a shop aisle is strange. And oddly endearing.
“Well,” I say, leaning against the counter and trying to hide my own amusement, “everyone knows you, even in shops where you don’t belong.”
He lets out a breathy laugh. “Yeah… I guess I don’t blend in very well.”
“No,” I tease, “you’re conspicuous. People probably notice your hair alone.”
He groans dramatically. “You’re merciless.”
I shrug. “I call it honesty.”
He shifts slightly, still glancing around, but I notice a subtle tension in his shoulders. Not arrogance or confidence, but guilt. I don’t know why it struck me, but it does. There is something in the way he carries himself, careful, restrained, as though he’s trying to undo something unseen.
“Need a hand with anything?” I ask, motioning to the pile of notebooks teetering on the counter.
He hesitates before bending slightly to straighten them. “I… can manage. Don’t want to… break anything.”
I laugh. “You? Break something? That’s a first.”
He chuckles, and it’s low and warm, a little embarrassed. “I’m full of surprises.”
I tilt my head, studying him. “Surprising, maybe. But conspicuous too. You can’t exactly walk through the city unnoticed.”
“Yeah,” he admits, “that’s the problem.”
We fall into a rhythm, him carefully straightening notebooks and me teasing him about almost toppling them over.
The shop feels small and warm, and the ache in my ankle softens slightly as my attention shifts to him.
The bell jingles with every customer, and I catch glimpses of him glancing at the door, I guess he’s here for a reason bigger than stationery.
“You’re limping,” he says suddenly, his voice low, careful.
I wince, shifting my weight. “It’s fine,” I mutter. “Ankle’s still recovering. Work hours got cut, so I’m just… managing.”
He frowns. “Work hours… cut?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Accident. It’s fine. I’ve managed.”
He looks down at his hands, jaw tight. “Right. Managing. Got it.”
I see the tension in him. Something simmering beneath the surface, but he doesn’t say it. There is a pull there, something dangerous and intriguing. My pulse speeds up slightly.
“Photographing local sports now,” he says suddenly, tilting his head. “I saw some of your posts online.”
I blink. “Yeah. Mostly school games, community events. Nothing professional.”
“Sounds like you’ve got an eye for it,” he says. “Good composition and energy… I admire it.”
I smirk. “You like it? You? Hockey star and critic?”
He shrugs. “I watch a lot of hockey. You’d be surprised what a forward notices.”
“Is that an offer or a threat?” I tease, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Maybe both,” he says, chuckling. “Look, if you ever want to photograph the Panthers, I could get you a pass. Home game, front row access.”
I pause, the idea thrilling and intimidating all at once. “Front row, huh? That’s tempting.”
“It’s an experience,” he says, leaning slightly closer. “I think you’d make it work.”
I feel a blush creep up my neck and fiddle with a display of cards. “You’re laying it on thick, aren’t you, Mr. Fraser?”
He grins, but there is seriousness in his eyes. “I mean it. You’re good at what you do. Don’t sell yourself short.”
I swallow, my heart thudding, and look down at the counter. “Thanks,” I murmur.
The bell jingles again, and he steps back. “I should probably go. Don’t want to keep you from work.”
“Sure,” I say.
We linger for a moment, the awkward tension between us palpable. Curiosity, amusement, and something else. Something I can’t name.
“Thanks,” he answers finally. “For the chat. Seeing you is good.”
I tilt my head. “Good? That’s the best you’ve got?”
He flushes then chuckles, and turns for the door. I watch him go, and the bell tinkles one last time, leaving silence behind.
I lean against the counter and exhale. My ankle throbs, my shifts are short, and my life is still in a kind of half-shuffled routine. But Cal Fraser has left something in the air, a pull I can’t ignore.
When the door closes, I allow myself a small smile. Maybe the Panthers’ forward and I will cross paths again. Maybe there is a reason he’s found me again, and walked into a shop I’d never expect him to visit.
For now, though, I focus on the shop, my ankle, and the small thrill of realising the world might be larger than just the pages of my assignments and the aisles I stock.
And I can’t stop thinking about the offer. Front row tickets at a Panthers game. I’d be close enough to capture the madness and the speed, and maybe even the unguarded moments behind the rink.
I have a feeling I’ll take him up on it.