Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
CALLUM
The night air slaps me instantly when I step out of the rink. Cold, sharp, clean. It smells of rain and exhaust and something that almost feels like peace, until I remember I don’t get that anymore.
Rose’s laugh still echoes in my head. The way she’d tilted her chin when she told me I played like I was trying to outrun something. She wasn’t wrong.
I fish my keys from my pocket, still half-expecting to see her when I glance back, but she’s gone.
There’s just the reflection of my own face staring back at me from the huge glass walls of the arena—helmet hair, tired eyes, a man who’s supposed to have it all and somehow keeps wanting something else.
The drive home’s peaceful. Streetlights smear gold across wet tarmac.
I leave the radio off. My hands are still buzzing from the game, the adrenaline sitting under my skin like static.
But the rush that usually carries me home is gone, replaced by something heavier.
Guilt, maybe. Or longing. Probably both.
By the time I pull into the car park, the rain’s started again.
Our building looks the same as it always does, expensive and detached.
I sit in the driver’s seat a minute too long, watching droplets crawl down the windshield, trying to convince myself to go inside.
Talia’s there. She’ll want to talk about the game, about engagement stats, about the brand deal she’s filming tomorrow.
She’ll want me to smile like the version of me she sells online.
I rub a hand over my face and step out into the rain.
The flat is warm and smells of candles. A vanilla, cloying scent that’s sweet enough to make my teeth ache.
“Baby!” she calls before I’ve even closed the door. “How’d it go?”
She’s in the living room, curled on the sofa in silk pyjamas that are more of a costume than comfortable, phone propped on a tripod. The ring light paints her in false gold.
“Won three–two,” I say, dropping my gear bag in the hall. “Good game.”
“Perfect!” She doesn’t look up from her screen. “I filmed a reaction video for the win post. Can you just say something for the camera? Maybe, ‘We couldn’t have done it without you, babe’, you know, something sweet.”
I stare at her, dripping water onto the rug. “I just got home.”
“It’ll take two seconds.”
My jaw ticks, but I do it. Because that’s what I do. Smile for the brand. Play along. Pretend we’re the dream couple the internet thinks we are.
She blows me a kiss for the camera. “That’s my man. I’ll post it tomorrow morning.”
“Can we not?” I mutter, heading for the kitchen. “I’m starving.”
She huffs. “You could at least try to sound enthusiastic. People notice when you’re distant, Cal.”
People. Always people. Never me.
I open the fridge, it’s full of protein shakes, cold pizza, and half a lemon. No comfort there. I grab the pizza and eat standing up, staring at the black window. My reflection stares back, pale and tired, a man-shaped ghost.
Talia chatters from the sofa about her brand trip to Paris next month.
About a new sponsorship. About someone she met at an influencer dinner who “absolutely adores hockey players.” I barely listen.
Instead, my head drifts back to the rink lights reflecting in Rose’s eyes.
To the way she’d smiled when I teased her, quiet and authentic.
It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.
And now, standing in my own kitchen, with the sound of my girlfriend’s voice bouncing through the flat, all I can think about is another woman’s laugh.
“Are you even listening?” Talia says sharply.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Paris. Sponsorship. Something about a dinner.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re impossible lately.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired. You think you’re the only one who works hard? I’ve been editing all night.” She gestures to her phone. “This stuff doesn’t film itself.”
I let out a slow breath. “Didn’t say it did.”
“You implied it.”
“Talia—”
“No, seriously, what’s going on with you? You’ve been weird for weeks. You barely talk to me, you never want to go out anymore, and you barely look at me unless there’s a camera between us.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “Maybe because the camera’s always there.”
She blinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means I want to come home to something that isn’t content.”
Her mouth tightens. “This is our life, Cal. It’s part of the job. You knew that when we started.”
“Yeah. I did.” I swallow hard. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
Her face hardens. “So, what? Now you’re too good for me? For this?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
I close my eyes and count to three. “Forget it. I’m going to shower.”
“Fine.” Her voice goes cold. “Maybe try not to drown in self-pity while you’re at it.”
I don’t answer.
The water scalds my skin, but it doesn’t burn away the restlessness twisting in my chest. I lean my forehead against the tile, eyes closed, watching Rose’s face bloom behind my eyelids again and again.
Her voice. Her calmness. The way she’d looked at me and saw past the helmet, past the highlight reels, past the bullshit.
I wonder what she’s doing right now. Editing her photos, maybe. Uploading shots of the game. Does she still have the ticket stub in her pocket? Does she think of me when she sees my name flash on the scoreboard?
I turn the water hotter, until it stings.
When I finally step out, the flat is quiet.
Talia’s gone to bed. Her phone glows on the nightstand, notifications rolling in like waves.
I crawl into my side of the bed. She’s already half-asleep, her back to me.
The duvet between us feels like a wall. My phone buzzes once on the dresser with a social media tag.
She’s already posted a ‘post-game gratitude’ story, a picture of us smiling from weeks ago, captioned;
Always my number one #PowerCouple.
The comments are full of hearts and fire emojis. I scroll anyway, reading the strangers who think they know us.
He’s so lucky!
Relationship goals!
They’re perfect together!
Perfect.
I toss the phone away and stare into the dark.
I used to believe in perfect. In the clean lines of success, the script of how life’s supposed to go.
Career, image, girl, trophies. But lately, the script feels wrong.
The pages out of order. And tonight, I don’t want to fix it.
I just want something honest. Like the way Rose looked at me when she said I played as if I was trying to outrun something.
Because she was right. I am.
Sleep won’t come. The rain taps steady against the glass, a rhythm I can’t match.
I give up and pad into the kitchen, barefoot and half-dressed, the tiles cold under my feet.
The city outside is a smear of light and shadow.
I pour a glass of water and sip it while I stare at nothing.
My reflection stares back from the window again, with eyes too dark, jaw too tight, someone I barely recognise.
I pick up my phone before I can talk myself out of it. Open my messages. Scroll past Talia’s name; blue hearts, selfies, schedules. Stop on the blank chat window that’s waiting just beneath it.
Rose.
I never saved her contact properly. Just her number from when I’d typed it in her phone. It’s still blank, still unnamed. The cursor blinks at me. Say something, it seems to whisper.
I type: You get any good shots tonight?
Then delete it.
Type again: Thanks for coming.
Delete.
Type: Couldn’t stop thinking about your question.
Delete.
In the end, I set the phone down like a coward.
Or an idiot. Something in between, maybe.
I lean back against the counter and exhale.
What am I doing? I’ve got a girlfriend, one the world thinks I love, one I probably should love.
I’ve got a career people would kill for, fans who chant my name, sponsors who shake my hand.
And yet, a woman I barely know has somehow managed to carve her way under my skin.
I press my palms to the counter, knuckles white.
Maybe it’s just guilt. Maybe I’m confusing remorse with attraction.
But it doesn’t feel like guilt. It feels like gravity.
She’s the only person who’s looked at me lately and seen me.
I grab my jacket and step out onto the balcony.
The air bites cold and clean. Down below, the city hums. I watch the rain come down in sheets, try to let it wash the thoughts away.
It doesn’t. Instead, my mind plays tricks.
Rose at the shop, camera in hand, that small smile when I teased her.
Her voice, low and soft: You play like you’re trying to outrun something.
And the way I wanted to tell her what it was.
It’s after two when I finally go back to bed. Talia stirs when I crawl under the duvet, murmuring something that might be my name. Her hand lands on my arm, light, automatic.
I stare at the ceiling, the space between us loud with everything we don’t say.
She loves the version of me that looks good in photos. The one who remembers brand launches and shows up smiling to every event. Rose doesn’t even know the whole story, and somehow, she already sees more.
I close my eyes. It’s a mess. I know that.
I’m not about to throw away my life over a woman I barely know.
But the thought of carrying on pretending and performing, it’s starting to rot something inside me.
I turn onto my side, away from Talia, and picture Rose instead.
The way she’d squinted through her camera, biting her lip as she focused the lens.
The moment her eyes met mine after the game, as though she’d caught something private and kept it. My chest tightens. I should forget her.
I know I won’t.
By morning, Talia’s already gone, filming breakfast content somewhere that smells of coffee and ambition. The flat’s quiet again, all polished surfaces and staged comfort. I make my own coffee and stand at the counter, phone in hand, thumb hovering over that blank chat window.
Still empty. Still waiting.
Maybe she’s looking through her photos right now.
Maybe she sees me in every frame, eyes too sharp, jaw too tense, like I’m trying to tell her something without words.
Maybe she feels it too. The thought lodges somewhere deep, both dangerous and comforting.
I set the phone down, take a long sip of coffee, and let the warmth spread through my chest. Something’s shifting.
I don’t know where it leads yet, but I know the next time I see her, pretending indifference won’t be an option.