Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROSE
Morning sunlight creeps through the thin curtains, a pale wash across my duvet that feels almost too gentle for how restless my mind is. I haven’t slept. My camera bag’s still open on the desk, memory card pulled out, laptop waiting. The itch to look is unbearable.
I roll onto my side and give in.
The photos load slowly, each click another heartbeat. The familiar rhythm calms me a little, like slipping into a language I know by instinct. Composition, light, motion. The controlled madness of capturing what can’t be paused.
And then, there he is.
Callum Fraser.
Number 14, cutting across the ice like the rink belongs to him.
Eyes narrowed, jaw tight, every line of his body wired with purpose.
He looks dangerous and beautiful, and completely out of reach.
The camera doesn’t lie, but sometimes it reveals more than the eye can catch.
In frame after frame, I see him differently, not just the athlete, but the man beneath.
The strain in his shoulders. The shadow that follows him, even mid-celebration.
He’s everywhere.
I scroll through the shots again, trying to pretend I’m assessing focus and exposure, but my gaze keeps snagging on him. The way his eyes cut to the stands, just once. I tell myself he wasn’t looking for me. He couldn’t have been. Except maybe he was.
I exhale, pushing my hair back. This is ridiculous. He’s a professional hockey player with a life miles away from mine. A girlfriend, even. One I’ve seen plastered across his social media feed in perfectly staged couple shots.
I close the laptop. The room feels smaller without the glow of the screen, as though I’ve shut something vital away. “Right,” I mutter. “Coffee. Reality. Rent.”
The limp is worse today. My leg still pulls tight where the bruises bloom dark and ugly, and my shoulder twinges when I reach for the kettle. The doctor said light walking was fine, but I’m starting to think she underestimated the part where I work on my feet all day.
The shop’s dead when I clock in, just the hum of the fridge and the clink of the key in the till. It’s one of those small independent places near the arena—half convenience store, half gift shop, and perpetually understocked.
“Morning, love,” my manager, Fran, says, juggling boxes of snacks. “You look knackered.”
“Didn’t sleep,” I admit.
“You and me both. There’s coffee in the back, miracle-grade.” She squints at me. “How’s the leg?”
“Fine.”
She arches a brow.
“Mostly fine,” I concede.
“Don’t push it,” she warns, but there’s warmth in her tone.
The bell above the door chimes just as I’m shelving crisps.
I glance up, expecting the usual early regulars; students, parents, someone grabbing a paper.
It’s him. Callum. He’s in a hoodie and cap pulled low, hands stuffed into his pockets, pretending to browse the drinks fridge like he’s not six-foot-something and unmistakable.
For a second, I forget how to breathe. Then I remember myself, remember the conversation at the hospital, the easy charm, the way he’d made my pulse jump when he smiled.
I also remember the game. The way he’d played as though he had something to prove, every hit a little too hard, every stride a fraction too desperate.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I say, keeping my tone light as I step behind the counter.
His head lifts, and when his eyes find mine, there’s that flicker again—guilt, maybe, or surprise. “Hey.” He clears his throat. “Didn’t know you worked mornings.”
“You didn’t exactly ask.”
He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair point.”
“So,” I say, folding my arms, “what’s the verdict? Forgot to buy milk or just stalking your new favourite photographer?”
His grin crooks sideways. “Maybe both.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile. “You know, subtlety isn’t your strength.”
He steps closer to the counter, lowering his voice. “And yet, here you are still talking to me.”
I hate how right he is. “Touché.”
He reaches for a bottle of water, twisting the cap but not drinking. “I left you that ticket because I figured you’d get better shots from lower down. Didn’t know if you’d actually show.”
“Of course I did. Wouldn’t miss the chance to photograph the madness up close.”
“Madness?”
“Yeah. You play like you’re running from something.”
He freezes, just a second, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. But then he exhales, a low laugh escaping. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Occupational hazard.”
There’s something different about him today. Softer around the edges, maybe. Or just tired. The kind of tired that seeps past bone and into thought.
“Good photos?” he asks finally.
“Maybe.” I tilt my head, enjoying the flicker of anticipation in his eyes. “Not sure if I should show you yet. You might get a big head.”
He laughs, leaning on the counter. “Too late for that.”
“Figured.”
His gaze lingers, steady and a little too intense. “Still limping?”
I glance down, caught. “Occupational hazard,” I echo, but my smile wobbles.
He frowns. “You shouldn’t be on your feet all day.”
“You planning on telling my boss that?”
“Maybe I should.”
The way he says it, all quiet and sincere, does something odd to my chest. No one’s worried about me in a long time. Not since before the accident.
“Don’t,” I say softly. “I need the hours.”
His jaw tightens, he wants to argue but knows he shouldn’t. “At least tell me you’ve got a lift home.”
“I take the bus.”
He shakes his head. “Next time, I’ll—”
“Don’t even think about it,” I cut in. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way his eyes darken, and the shadow of guilt that clings to him. But he doesn’t push. He just nods, a quiet concession.
The doorbell chimes again, and a pair of teenagers walk in. One gasps, the other immediately elbows her.
“Oh my God—Callum Fraser?”
He looks as though he’d rather be hit by a puck than deal with this. “Hey. Just grabbing a drink.”
“Can we get a picture?”
He glances at me, he’s silently asking permission. I smirk. “Go ahead, superstar.”
The girls squeal, and he smiles politely, ducking between them for a quick selfie. One of them whispers something about his girlfriend being “so stunning,” and his jaw tightens just enough for me to notice.
When they leave, I can’t resist. “Smooth under pressure,” I tease.
“Don’t,” he groans, running a hand down his face. “I’ll never get used to that.”
“Really? You seem built for attention.”
He gives me a look that lands somewhere between sheepish and sincere. “Not the kind that comes with filters.”
That catches me off guard. There’s something raw in the way he says it, and suddenly I remember every perfect, polished photo of him online. Smiles too white, life too curated.
“You don’t like that world much, do you?” I ask.
“Lately?” He shakes his head. “No. It’s exhausting pretending everything’s perfect when it’s not.”
Something twists in me. I know that feeling too well, the performance of being fine, the practiced ease of smiling through cracks. “Maybe you should stop pretending,” I say.
His eyes meet mine, and the air between us tightens. For a moment, it feels as though the rest of the shop falls away. “I don’t think I can,” he says finally.
And I don’t know why that sounds sadder than it should.
He straightens, breaking the moment. “Anyway, send me those photos when you can. Maybe the team can use one for the promo stuff.”
“Sure,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed that he’s pulling away.
“I should go,” he says finally, voice low.
“Yeah,” I manage. “You’ve got… practice or something, right?”
“Something,” he says, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “You’ll send those photos?”
“Maybe,” I tease, because if I don’t lighten it, I’ll drown in the weight of his eyes.
He laughs, but it doesn’t reach all the way. “You’ve got my number,” he says, almost as though he’s reminding himself.
“I remember.”
“Good.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then he nods once, as if that’s all he can allow himself, and pushes the door open.
The bell jingles as he leaves, the sound small and sharp in the calm that follows.
Then he’s gone with his hood up, head down, swallowed by the drizzle outside.
I’m left with the faint scent of his cologne and a heartbeat that won’t slow down.
The rest of the shift drags. I try to focus on stocking shelves, ringing up customers bills, counting change, but my mind keeps replaying every look, every word.
By the time I get home, the sky’s dark again, and my leg aches.
I dump my bag, make tea, and finally sit with my laptop.
The photos wait, patient and silent. I click through them one by one.
The game. The crowd. The blur of motion and ice. And him.
Always him.
Even in wide shots, my focus drifts to where he is. Always centre frame, a storm in motion. It’s as if my camera knew before I did.
I pause on one close-up: Callum mid-stride, eyes locked forward, mouth set, a smear of light across his cheek.
There’s no helmet shadowing his face, no arrogance, no pose.
Just effort and pain and something fierce beneath it.
My chest tightens. I shouldn’t feel this much from a photograph.
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. It’s not a crush.
Not in the true sense. It’s curiosity. The kind that makes me want to know what’s behind those eyes.
Except maybe it’s also a crush. A slow one. Dangerous.
I sip my tea, trying to laugh it off, but the sound catches in my throat. My phone buzzes with a text from Fran, reminding me about next week’s rota. Another from a friend sending memes.
None from him.
Of course not.
I tell myself I don’t care. That the last thing I need is to get tangled up in someone like Callum Fraser—too visible, too complicated, too out of my world.
But when I open the folder of photos again, I don’t scroll past him.
I linger. Zoom in. Notice things I didn’t before; the faint crease between his brows, the way his eyes catch the light as though he’s always half-thinking, half-hurting.
And I realise with a sinking certainty that he’s already inside my head, and I don’t know how to make him leave.
Morning drifts into night, and the next day into another.
I keep telling myself it’s fine. That it’s just a story, just an athlete, just a man who happened to show me kindness when I didn’t expect it.
But when I lift my camera the next afternoon to test the light through my window, I find myself framing a shot I can’t take.
One of a man standing in rain, eyes tired, heart somewhere far away.
And I know exactly whose face it belongs to.