Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
ROSE
The bruise on my hip has finally faded, but the ache hasn’t. Some mornings I still wake up stiff, every muscle reminding me of that night. Of the lights, the sound, the way time folded in on itself. I stretch carefully, one leg at a time, and try not to think about the driver’s face I never saw.
It’s Saturday, soft, pale light spilling through the window of my flat.
My camera sits on the table, battery charged, memory card full.
I haven’t gone through the rest of the photos from the Panthers game yet.
I keep meaning to. I just…I don’t know. Something about it feels loaded now, like opening a door I’m not sure I want to walk through. But I do it anyway.
The laptop hums to life, screen flickering to the folder I’ve been avoiding. Hundreds of images fill the screen. They’re full of motion, ice, speed, and chaos caught mid-breath. I scroll slowly, checking focus and exposure, deleting a few, adjusting others.
Then I find him. Callum Fraser. Number 14.
He’s in almost every frame that matters.
I didn’t plan that, my camera just kept finding him.
The way he moves, the control under the aggression, the split second before impact when everything in him tightens, like a held breath.
There’s one photo in particular I can’t look away from.
He’s skating hard, jaw clenched, eyes locked straight ahead, and the light hits his face just enough to make him look unguarded, not angry, not cocky, just genuine.
I should delete it. It’s too personal. But I don’t.
Instead, I pull it into the editor, adjust the contrast, crop it tighter.
The more I look, the more I see. The exhaustion around his eyes, the faint line of a scar near his hairline, the focus that turns him inside out.
When I finally lean back, my heart’s beating too fast. I take a breath. “Get a grip, Rose.”
I’m not some teenager crushing on a hockey player.
He was kind to me at the hospital, that’s all.
He felt guilty, probably thought it was his fault, being there when it happened.
That’s it. Except I can still hear his voice sometimes, low and careful.
You scared me that night. I still remember how he looked when he said it.
My phone buzzes on the table, jolting me back.
It’s an email from the Herald: the photo editor wants to run a short feature on local sports photographers.
“Send five of your best images by Monday,” it says.
I should be thrilled, its exposure, a shot at getting noticed.
But the idea of people seeing him like that, through my eyes, makes me hesitate.
I close the laptop and grab my coat.
The air outside is crisp, the kind that stings your lungs. The walk to the café is slower than it used to be. My limp’s better, but uneven pavement still makes me cautious. I tell myself it’s fine. It’s progress.
Inside, the warmth hits instantly, espresso machines hissing, chatter low and steady. My friend from uni, Isla, waves from behind the counter, dark curls piled on top of her head.
“Hey stranger,” she says. “Haven’t seen you since the game. You surviving?”
“Barely.” I smile, taking my usual seat by the window. “Editing all morning.”
“Of course you were.” She slides over a mug of coffee without asking. “Any good ones?”
“Some. A few that might actually make me look as if I know what I’m doing.”
She leans her elbows on the counter. “You mean a few of him, don’t you?”
I blink. “What?”
“Oh, come on. You’ve had that look all week — distracted, secretive, as though you’re living in a slow-motion replay.”
I laugh, too quickly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right,” she says, grinning. “You like him.”
“I barely know him.”
“Uh-huh. That’s never stopped anyone.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “He’s just… interesting.”
“Interesting’s the first step toward doomed,” she teases. “Careful, Rosie.”
I sip my coffee to avoid answering. She’s not wrong, and it strikes me how well she knows me considering we only met a year ago when she transferred over to the same uni.
But she’s wrong, it’s not just attraction, it’s curiosity.
There’s something in Callum’s eyes I can’t name.
Something that doesn’t match the confident version everyone else sees.
When I leave the café, the clouds have thickened. The air smells like snow, metallic and sharp. I pull my coat tighter and head toward the gallery; the community space where I sometimes help hang exhibitions. My tutor hooked me up with the owner, said it would be good for my development.
Inside, I find Marta on a ladder, wrestling with a frame twice her size. “Rose! Perfect timing,” she calls. “Can you hold this before I throw it at the wall?”
I laugh, stepping in to steady the frame. “Rough morning?”
“Every morning is rough when artists decide everything needs to be ‘slightly more existential’ two hours before opening.”
We get the last few pieces hung, and by the time we’re done, my arms ache in that satisfying way work can ache. Marta hands me a biscuit and eyes me shrewdly.
“You look better,” she says. “More colour in your face.”
“Thanks.”
“Been taking pictures again?”
“Yeah. Hockey, mostly.”
“Good. You need that.” She pauses. “You still having nightmares?”
“Not as much.” They’ve been less frequent this week. Still as vivid though.
She nods, the kind of nod that understands more than she says. “Keep busy. Don’t let your head make stories out of silence.”
I want to tell her it’s too late for that. My head’s already a film reel of what-ifs.
By evening, the light outside turns silver-blue. I’m back at my desk in my little flat, sorting through prints. My apartment smells faintly of developer fluid and the cheap takeaway I forgot to finish.
I hang the new prints to dry. The one of Callum catches the glow from the desk lamp. The sharp lines of his face, the concentration etched there. I shouldn’t look. I do anyway.
I pick up my phone and open Instagram. He hasn’t liked or commented on the photo I posted.
Not that I expected him to. Still, my chest dips a little.
Then I notice something else. He’s viewed my story.
The one I posted this morning of the rink lights flickering across the ice.
It’s such a small thing. A name in a list. But my pulse trips anyway.
I scroll through his page. It’s mostly hockey training clips, game shots, and team stuff.
A few old posts with Talia, the influencer girlfriend everyone online seems to adore.
I click one, it’s a photo of the two of them in matching jackets, her leaning into him, both smiling perfectly.
Something twists in my stomach and I exit out fast. This is stupid.
He’s not mine to think about. He’s just a man I met by accident after the stupid crash.
I try to focus on work again, but my brain won’t settle.
Instead, I end up on my balcony, cup of tea in hand, city lights winking below.
It’s cold enough that my breath fogs. I remember the way he looked at me in the hospital, careful but intent, as though he was trying to memorise me.
I remember his apology that didn’t make sense.
The way he seemed haunted. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him. I sit there until the tea goes cold.
It’s late when I finally crawl into bed.
The wind hums against the window, a low steady sound.
Sleep doesn’t come easy these days, too many thoughts looping, unfinished.
When I do drift off, I dream I’m back on the road that night.
The headlights come fast, bright enough to swallow the world.
But this time, when the car in front stops, the door opens. Someone gets out. I can’t see his face.
I wake with my heart racing.
The clock says 3:14 a.m. My room is blue with streetlight. I lie there, listening to the sound of my own breathing, until my phone buzzes softly on the nightstand. A message. For a second, my brain refuses to believe it.
CAL: Hey. It’s Cal. From the rink.
I stare at the screen. My pulse jumps.
Then another message appears.
CAL: Sorry if this is weird. Just wanted to say your photos were incredible. You’ve got a good eye.
I type, then erase. Type again. My fingers shake.
Thanks. You played well.
Too short. Delete.
Thanks. You were fun to photograph.
Too flirty. Delete.
ROSE: Thanks. That means a lot.
Simple. Safe.
I hit send before I can overthink it. The typing bubble flashes, then disappears. Flashes again.
CAL: Didn’t think you’d answer.
ROSE: Why wouldn’t I?
CAL: Dunno. You seemed… out of my league.
I laugh gently into the dark.
ROSE: I think that’s the first time anyone’s said that to a photographer covered in coffee stains.
There’s a pause.
CAL: You underestimate yourself.
I stare at the words until they blur.
He sends one more.
CAL: Anyway. Didn’t mean to wake you. Just couldn’t sleep.
My fingers hover. I could leave it there. I should leave it there. Instead, I type.
ROSE: Yeah. Me neither.
Then nothing. Just silence and the faint sound of rain starting against the window. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like silence. It feels like a beginning.
Morning comes pale and slow. My phone’s still beside me, screen dark, no new messages.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, and try to decide if I imagined the whole thing.
I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what I want it to be.
But as I scroll through the photos one last time before sending them to the Herald, my eyes find his face again; focused, unguarded, and human, and something in me shifts.
Maybe it’s not about the accident anymore. Maybe it’s about what comes after. And maybe I’m ready to find out.