Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
CALLUM
Two days later, she’s still in my head.
I should be thinking about hockey, about the upcoming match against Glasgow, the drills Coach set for me to run, the plays I’m supposed to be revising. But every time I close my eyes, I see her through the lens of that camera. Rose.
The way she stood at the boards, half-lost behind the glass, her expression focused, lips slightly parted, camera pressed to her face. It wasn’t how Talia takes photos — all posing and performance. Rose looked as though she actually saw things. She saw me, even though she shouldn’t.
I toss the puck from hand to hand as I sit on the bench in the locker room.
The boys are loud today, music thumping, the smell of liniment and sweat mixing with the sharp chill off the ice.
There’s banter flying, pucks clattering, tape snapping, and I should be part of it. But I’m somewhere else entirely.
“Oi, Fraser,” Brennan, our captain, calls out from the far end, snapping his stick against the bench. “You alive, or planning your next influencer cameo?”
The lads laugh, and I manage a smirk, because that’s what’s expected. “Just trying to remember what it’s like to play hockey with you useless lot.”
“Careful, mate,” Liam chimes in. “Coach is already on your arse for being late twice this week. Wouldn’t want to give him a reason to actually bench you.”
He’s joking, but not entirely. Coach Byrne has been on my case since the last game. Says I’m skating angry. Says I need to control it before it controls me. He’s right, I am skating angry. I just don’t know how to stop.
Practice starts rough. Every sprint burns.
Every hit feels harder than it should. The rink isn’t just a place anymore, it’s a confessional.
The boards take the brunt of everything I can’t admit out loud.
I keep seeing headlights. The crunch of metal.
Her face, pale in the hospital room. I drive my blade into the ice, pushing harder.
Fast turns, sharp edges, the sound of my own breathing loud in my ears.
The guilt doesn’t leave. It just shifts shape.
“Eyes up, Fraser!” someone shouts, too late. The puck glances off my shinpad and bounces into the corner.
“Christ, Cal,” Coach snaps from the boards. “You sleeping out there?”
I grit my teeth. “No, Coach.”
He skates over, eyes hard. “Then show me. Because right now, you look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.”
I swallow down the instinct to bite back. “Yes, Coach.”
He studies me for a beat too long, then nods and blows his whistle. “Back to neutral-zone drills. Let’s go!”
We grind through the next half hour with endless breakouts, defensive recoveries, and odd-man rushes. My legs ache, my chest burns, and my brain won’t stop looping between two images: Rose smiling, Talia posing. One feels genuine. The other feels like a mirror I’m tired of looking into.
By the end, sweat runs into my eyes, stinging. Coach dismisses us with a curt nod. “Better. Still not where you should be.”
I skate off last, stripping my gloves, breathing hard. Ryan catches up, elbowing me lightly. “You all right, mate? You’ve been off your game all week.”
“Fine,” I say automatically.
“Sure you are.” He grins. “Just wondering if your missus has finally realised she could do better.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no bite to it. He means Talia, obviously. Everyone does.
By the time I get home, it’s dark. The flat smells faintly of scented candles and expensive face cream. Talia’s sprawled on the sofa, her ring light still glowing in the corner. Her voice is a soft, sing-song rhythm as she records something on her phone.
“—so grateful for all your love and support, babes, honestly, couldn’t do any of this without you—”
She stops mid-sentence when she sees me. “Oh, you’re home,” she says, adjusting her hair. “Couldn’t you text first? I was filming.”
“Didn’t know I needed to book an appointment.”
She pouts, not in anger, just reflex. Everything with Talia is performance. Even annoyance has an angle.
“I’m collaborating with that skincare brand,” she says. “You know, the one that wanted us to do a couple’s campaign? I told them you’re training too much at the moment, but they said maybe next month.”
“Right,” I mumble, dropping my bag. My shoulders ache but my head aches worse.
She glances over. “You look exhausted.”
“Because I am.”
“Maybe you should rest. Or eat. Or something.” She waves vaguely, already glancing back at her phone.
I go to the kitchen, grab a bottle of water, and lean against the counter.
Her voice fills the flat again, soft and chirpy, the rhythm of her Instagram Story rolling on.
It’s not that she’s a bad person. She’s just shallow.
Or maybe it’s me that’s changed. I used to like the attention, the shine of being in her world.
Now, every post feels like an act I’m forced to perform.
The captions about “power couples” and “balance” make my stomach twist.
When I check my own phone, I see she’s tagged me again in a story from last night:
Game night vibes with my favourite guy #Panthers #PowerCouple #WinningTeam
There’s a photo of me from the stands grinning, jersey half-off, the camera catching me at a flattering angle.
Except it’s not real. It was taken last month, after a win.
She’s recycling content. Pretending. And the only thing I can think about is Rose, standing in the crowd two nights ago, her eyes following the play as though she understood every heartbeat of the game.
I open Instagram. She’s posted some of her photos already; crisp shots of players mid-stride, sweat and light frozen in motion.
There’s one of me, just before a faceoff, jaw tight, eyes shadowed.
The caption just says Finding focus. I stare at it too long.
My thumb hovers over the like button. Then I drop the phone face-down on the table.
Talia wanders in, phone still in hand. “Babe? You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
“You sure? You’ve been weird lately. Distant.” She tilts her head, faux-concern slipping into something sharper. “If this is about that girl from the hospital,”
I freeze. “What?”
“You know, the one who was in that accident near the arena? I saw something online about a player visiting her. Was that you?”
I shrug, trying to sound casual. “Yeah. She’s fine.”
Talia’s lips curve in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Good. Wouldn’t want a random girl thinking you’re her hero.”
“Yeah,” I say flatly. “Wouldn’t want that.”
She drifts back toward the sofa, satisfied she’s won whatever argument she imagined we were having. But I can’t shake the heat creeping up my neck. Rose wouldn’t have said that. She wouldn’t have made it sound dirty.
I sink onto the edge of the bed later, still in my hoodie, scrolling through Rose’s photos again.
There’s something about the way she captures motion; it’s not about perfection.
It’s about truth. One photo stops me cold.
It’s me, mid-sprint, eyes locked on the puck.
The background’s blurred, just movement and ice and light, but the focus is razor-sharp on my face.
I look unguarded. Raw. Like someone caught me off-balance.
I don’t recognise that version of myself.
My fingers hover over her name in my contacts list. I type a message, then delete it. Type again. Delete again.
Nice shots.
Too plain.
You made me look better than I am.
Too flirty.
Thanks for coming to the game.
Too much.
In the end, I put the phone down and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The guilt should have faded by now. Instead, it’s sharper.
I keep replaying the accident. The sound of metal, the flash of headlights and then her voice in the hospital, soft but steady, telling me she was fine. She wasn’t fine. She was trying to be.
Talia comes in, half-heartedly brushing her hair. “You coming to bed?”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
She slides in beside me, phone glowing faintly in her hand. For a while, the only sound is the soft tapping of her typing a caption. I close my eyes, but the darkness fills with light instead. The burst of a flash, the click of a camera, her laugh.
Rose.
The next morning, I drag myself to the gym before sunrise. The locker room’s empty, the ice still peaceful. I lace up my runners and start hitting the treadmill, hoping the rhythm will drown her out. It doesn’t.
Sweat drips down my neck, but all I can think about is her standing there with that camera, the way she smiled when I said she took good photos.
What the hell am I doing? Talia’s the one I’m supposed to be building a life with.
She’s the one with the apartment, the followers, the plans.
She fits the version of me everyone expects; the charming forward, the face of the Panthers.
But with Rose, I don’t have to be that guy.
I don’t have to smile on cue or explain why I’m quiet.
She doesn’t expect perfect. She doesn’t even like perfect.
I slow to a walk, my chest heaving.
If she ever finds out the truth, that I caused the accident that night, that I panicked and drove off before stopping, she’ll never look at me the same way again.
Maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s why I keep going back to her, because it feels as though it’s a punishment, a confession.
The only kind of truth I’ve had in months.
The treadmill hums beneath my feet, steady, relentless.
I can’t stop thinking about her eyes. That grey-blue mix that looks like morning light over ice.
I know this is going to end badly. I know I should walk away now.
But I won’t. Because even though she doesn’t know who I really am; the liar, the coward, the reason she’s walking with a limp, she makes me feel like the man I want to be.
And that’s something worth ruining everything for.