Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
ROSE
By the time I’ve finished stacking the display of gloves near the till, my ankle is aching in that dull, low way that makes me want to throw the whole box across the shop. It’s been three weeks since the accident, and I’m walking fine mostly, but standing all day still makes my leg complain.
The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up out of habit.
And, of course, it’s him.
Callum Fraser, in all his six-foot-something, broad-shouldered glory, standing in the doorway of a half-empty shop looking lost. Baseball cap, hoodie, that too-casual look that only makes him more noticeable.
My brain does this weird little stutter, like it hasn’t caught up to reality yet. He gives me a small smile, it’s awkward, uncertain even, and I try not to gape.
“Hey,” he says, stepping forward. “Didn’t think you’d be here.”
“It’s my shift,” I reply, forcing my voice to stay level even though my pulse does a little leap. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of an off-season.”
That earns me a crooked grin. “Fair. But it’s not off-season. We’ve got a home game tonight.”
“Right,” I say, remembering the posters outside the arena. “Against the Wolves.”
He nods, rocking on his heels as if he’s nervous. Callum Fraser—nervous. The thought is ridiculous, but the way he keeps glancing toward the shelves instead of at me makes it seem almost true.
“So, um,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck, “I was thinking, well, I thought you might want to come by. To the game.”
I blink. “To the game?”
“Yeah. I, uh, left a ticket for you at the front desk. Figured you could get some photos. You said you were doing more sports photography, right?”
For a second, I’m certain I misheard him. “You… left me a ticket?”
He nods again, sheepish. “I thought it might help. You know, for portfolio stuff.”
I should say no. I should tell him that showing up at a professional game because a player invited me sounds insane. But the warmth in his voice catches me off guard; the genuine kind, not the polished charm I’ve seen on TV interviews.
“That’s actually really thoughtful,” I say, softer than I mean to. “Thanks.”
He shrugs as if it’s nothing, but there’s a flicker of relief in his eyes. “No big deal. You’ll get great shots from the press section. Just tell them your name. They’ll have it.”
The bell jingles again behind him. A couple of teenage boys walk in, stop mid-step, and stare as if they’ve just seen royalty.
“Holy crap,” one of them whispers. “You’re Callum Fraser!”
Callum winces. “Hey, lads.”
They’re immediately fumbling for their phones, one of them practically dropping his energy drink in excitement. I’m trying not to laugh, but it slips out anyway.
He looks at me, mock-offended. “You think this is funny?”
“Extremely,” I say. “You look as if you’re about to bolt.”
“Because I might,” he mutters under his breath as one of the kids asks for a selfie.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, pretending to be fascinated by the till as he poses. The boys thank him about five times before finally leaving, grinning like idiots. When they’re gone, Callum exhales a long, theatrical sigh.
“You okay, superstar?” I tease.
“Not my fault people love hockey,” he says, but his ears are red, and I can’t stop smiling.
“Sure,” I say. “Definitely not because you’re plastered all over the team’s Instagram page.”
His grin widens a fraction. “You check the Panthers feed often, then?”
I roll my eyes, he’s caught me out. “Occupational research.”
“Uh-huh.” He steps a little closer, that familiar spark flickering between us again. It’s subtle, like static you can feel more than see, but it’s there. “So, you’ll come tonight?”
I hesitate, fingers drumming on the counter. “You’re really okay with that? Me showing up?”
“I’m more than okay with it,” he says. “Besides, it’ll give me something to play for.”
The way he says it, half-joking, half-serious, sends a flutter straight through my chest. I open my mouth to reply, but he’s already backing away, tugging his hood up.
“See you later, Rose,” he says, and before I can think of anything clever to say, he’s gone.
That evening, I can hear the crowd from half a block away. The air outside the arena hums with noise. Music, shouts, the echo of skates slicing across fresh ice. I clutch my camera bag as though it’s a lifeline, and try not to feel completely out of place.
The woman at the front desk doesn’t even blink when I give my name. “You’re on the guest list,” she says, handing me a pass. “Media access.”
Media. The word makes my stomach twist, but I take it.
Inside, the rink is a blur of light and sound. Players warm up in sleek black jerseys, the Manchester Panthers logo glinting under the spotlights. My pulse skips as I spot him; number 14, skating with sharp, effortless precision. Callum Fraser in his element.
From behind the lens, the world feels safer. I start shooting. The click of the shutter is rhythmic, grounding. I capture the flex of muscle, the streak of movement, the moment before the puck slams into the net.
And then the game starts.
It’s fierce. Fast. The kind of pace that makes your heartbeat climb just watching it.
Callum’s playing like a man possessed. He checks one of the Wolves players into the boards so hard the glass trembles.
The crowd roars. He barely reacts. Something in him looks untethered.
Reckless even. As though he’s trying to bleed out whatever’s clawing at him from the inside.
And yet, I can’t look away. Through the camera, I follow the tight lines of his focus, the bite of his jaw, the raw drive that makes him seem almost untouchable.
Every time he hits the ice, I catch my breath.
When he scores, top corner, with a lightning-fast wrist shot, the arena erupts.
I’m grinning before I even realise it, my camera pressed to my face.
The Panthers win 5–3.
When the final horn sounds, Callum skates off with the rest of his team, chest heaving, face flushed. He glances toward the stands and somehow finds me. Our eyes lock across the unruliness. He smiles, small but sincere, and my stomach flips.
Most of the crowd has cleared out by the time I finish packing my gear away. I linger near the lower rows, reviewing a few shots on my camera, when I hear footsteps.
“Hey,” Callum says, voice low, still rough from shouting on the ice.
I look up, and there he is again, hair damp, kit bag slung over his shoulder, the faint scent of soap and adrenaline clinging to him.
“You were incredible,” I blurt, before I can stop myself.
He laughs, rubbing a hand over his neck. “I’ll take that as a review.”
“I mean it,” I say, holding up my camera. “You play like you’re trying to outrun something.”
His smile falters for half a second, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Maybe I am.”
The air shifts. I tuck the camera strap under my arm, suddenly hyperaware of how close he’s standing.
“Thanks for the ticket,” I say, softer. “I got some great shots.”
“I’m glad,” he says. “You looked like you were into it.”
“I was,” I admit. “It’s different, seeing it through the lens. You guys make it look easy.”
“Trust me,” he says, smiling again, “it’s not.”
We fall into step as he leads me toward the exit. The arena is tranquil now, echoing with the hum of the ice machines and the faint clang of equipment being packed away.
“You ever thought about shooting for the team?” he asks suddenly.
“What, professionally?”
He nods. “You’ve got the eye for it.”
I laugh softly. “Pretty sure they’d rather hire someone who isn’t starstruck.”
“You’re not starstruck,” he says, his tone almost daring.
I meet his gaze, and the space between us hums. “You sure about that?”
His grin tilts. “Not even a little.”
We stop by the exit doors, the cold air spilling in from outside. For a heartbeat, everything slows. His eyes flick to my mouth, and something electric charges the space between us. I can feel it; the pull, the wanting, but neither of us moves.
“Cal,” I whisper, because it feels strange calling him anything else.
“Yeah?”
“Why me?” I ask quietly. “You barely know me, and yet…”
He looks at me for a long time, expression softening. “Maybe I just like the way you see things.”
It’s such a simple answer, but it hits deeper than I expect. My breath catches, and for a moment I think he’s going to lean in.
But he doesn’t. He hesitates, shifting his weight as if he’s debating something.
Then he nods toward the camera strap still looped around my neck.
“You’ve got an eye for this stuff,” he says.
“If you send me a couple of your shots, I can show the lads what proper talent looks like.” His grin is teasing, but there’s a flicker of sincerity beneath it.
When I laugh, he holds out his hand. “Here, give me your phone. I’ll save my number before you decide I’m not worth the follow-up. ”
Stupidly, I dig my phone out and hand it over. Watching as he adds his details to my contact list and then he sends himself a text. From my phone. And all the breath leaves my lungs. He steps back, clears his throat. “Get home safe, yeah? Text me if you want the full-access pass next game.”
I nod, still half-dazed. “Sure.”
He hesitates as if he wants to say more, then turns and walks toward the players’ lot, his figure disappearing into the night.
I stand there for a long time, camera hanging loose at my side, the image of him all sweaty and smiling with a storm in his eyes burned into my mind.
When I finally make myself move, I realise my hands are trembling.
I don’t know what this is between us, whether its curiosity or something else, but it’s real. And for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel broken or fragile. I feel alive.