Collide

Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CALLUM

The rink hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the rasp of skates biting ice. I’ve been here since dawn, trying to skate the restlessness out of my body. It’s not working. Every stride feels like a question I don’t know how to answer.

The lads are filtering in behind me, filling the air with laughter, music, and the smell of sweat and coffee.

Normally it grounds me. Today it just makes my chest tighter.

I’m still thinking about that message. I shouldn’t have sent it.

Couldn’t sleep. Been thinking about your photos.

Too much, too honest. I must’ve stared at the screen for ten minutes before pressing send.

She replied with a simple, Thanks, means a lot.

Professional and casual. But I’ve read it at least twenty times, trying to decide if there’s something hidden between the lines.

“Morning, superstar,” Liam calls, slapping his stick against the bench. “You look rougher than a week-old kebab.”

“Cheers,” I mutter, tugging on my gloves.

He grins. “Talia keeping you up too late filming another bedtime routine?”

A couple of the lads snicker. I force a smirk. “Jealous?”

“Of watching you moisturise for likes? Not a chance.”

It’s all banter, but the noise scrapes against the inside of my head.

I skate out to the circle and start running puck drills, eyes locked on the tape.

The rhythm should be enough to drown everything out, but my mind won’t settle.

I keep imagining Rose leaning over the barrier with her camera, hair falling into her face, focus sharp enough to slice through glass. I shouldn’t be this distracted.

The whistle shrieks, dragging me back.

“Fraser!” Coach Byrne’s voice ricochets across the rink. “You planning to join us, or are you posing for the cameras again?”

Laughter ripples down the bench. I bite down the urge to snap back. “Coming, Coach.”

He eyes me as I line up for the next breakout. “Need you switched on today. You’ve been skating angry all week.”

“Not angry.”

He raises a brow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

The whistle blows again. I push off, stick low, lungs burning. The drills blur in fast passes, edge control, collision drills that sting my shoulders. Each impact jolts something loose inside me, a mixture of guilt and adrenaline. When the final whistle goes, I’m soaked in sweat but no calmer.

“Better,” Coach says, crossing his arms. “Now keep it there. I don’t need another outburst like last week.”

“Got it.”

The lads start peeling off their helmets and drifting toward the tunnel, still chirping. Ryan sidles up beside me, bumping my shoulder with his. “You good, mate?”

“Fine.”

He grins. “Sure you are. Because you’ve had the expression of a man who’s either murdered someone or fallen in love. Maybe both.”

I roll my eyes. “Get lost.”

He laughs, skating away. But his words linger longer than they should.

By the time I hit the locker room, the place is a steam cloud of chatter and wet gear. Someone’s playing grime on a portable speaker, half the lads are still ribbing each other about last night’s pub quiz, and I’m in the corner scrolling through my phone like an addict.

Rose’s photo sits on the screen. That same shot she posted of me mid-sprint. It shouldn’t hit this hard. There’s something unfiltered about it. She caught me raw, mid-breath, she peeled back the armour and found the man underneath. It feels dangerous.

I’m still staring when Coach Byrne strides through the door with Laura Denton, our PR manager, trailing behind.

She’s efficient, sharp, and always in control.

She glances over the room, clipboard in hand.

“Morning, boys. Quick note, we’re updating the media kit this week.

New promo shots, social features, all that good stuff.

Try to keep the bruises to a minimum, yeah? ”

A few groans ripple around the room.

“Laura,” I call out before I can talk myself out of it.

She glances up, surprised. “Cal?”

“Can I show you something?”

She narrows her eyes. “If it’s another sponsor idea involving your family dog, the answer’s no. The last one nearly set the locker room on fire.”

That gets a round of laughter. I grin faintly and shake my head. “Not that. It’s… something else. Come here.”

I pull up Rose’s photos on my phone and hand it over. Laura scrolls, the screen light catching her glasses.

“Who took these?” she asks, eyes brightening.

“A local photographer. Rose Bennett. She shot some stuff at the game the other night. Thought you might like them for promo.”

She swipes through, pausing at the one where the team’s mid-huddle, the light glinting off helmets. “These are good. Clean lines, she’s captured the actual emotion behind the players. Not the usual stiff media stuff.”

“She’s got an eye for it,” I say, trying to sound casual.

Laura nods thoughtfully. “Would she be interested in doing more? We could use some fresh content. More in-the-moment shots. The fans love authenticity.”

My chest tightens. “Yeah. I think she’d be up for that.”

“Right.” She taps a note into her phone. “I’ll have the office reach out. Or, since you know her, maybe you ask? Save us the formalities.”

“Sure,” I say, too quickly.

Laura eyes me for a second, as if she’s weighing something up, then nods. “Good. Tell her to pop by next week. We’ll get her a pass.”

As she walks out, Ryan whistles from his stall. “Bloody hell, Fraser, since when are you the Panthers’ resident talent scout?”

I toss a towel at him. “Since you started missing open nets.”

“Touché.” He grins. “But seriously, who’s the photographer? You’ve been weird since that last game.”

“Just someone doing good work.” I grin slyly.

“Right,” he says, dragging out the word. “And totally not someone you’re suddenly defending like she’s the Queen.”

I glare at him, but he just laughs. The rest of the lads keep the jokes coming. I take it, and let it roll over me. But under the noise, there’s something else. An undercurrent of energy that wasn’t there before. I can feel it pulsing in my veins. Because now I’ve got a reason to see her again.

The day drags. I sit through a film review session, run another gym circuit, and still can’t focus.

Every time I stop moving, my brain fills with the same questions.

What will she think when I ask? Will she wonder why I keep showing up in her orbit?

Will she look at me with that same half-smile and see right through me?

By mid-afternoon, I’ve made up my mind.

I wait until after the weights session to head to the PR office. Laura’s behind her desk, laptop open, surrounded by sponsor folders and coffee cups. She looks up when I knock.

“Changed your mind already?” she says dryly.

“Nah. Just thought I’d get the ball rolling.”

Her brow lifts. “Efficient. I like it.”

“Figured I’d reach out to her tonight. Let her know what’s what.”

“Perfect. Tell her we’ll pay standard freelance rates and she’ll have full credit on socials. We’re going for a ‘community roots’ angle next month, so it fits perfectly.”

“Got it.”

As I leave, Laura calls after me, “Oh, and Cal?”

“Yeah?”

“Good eye. We need more stories like that. Makes the team feel real again.”

Real. The word sits heavy in my chest as I push open the door.

When I get home, Talia’s perched at the kitchen island, laptop open, ring light still set up from some livestream. Some days I’m not even sure she moves from there. Her nails click across the keys, perfect and rehearsed.

“Hey, babe,” she says without looking up. “You’re trending again.”

“Great.”

“Apparently the fans love that photo of you, mid-sprint. They’re calling you ‘Captain Chaos.’”

“Not sure that’s a compliment.”

She grins, still typing. “Doesn’t matter. It’s good engagement.”

I drop my bag on the floor, suddenly exhausted. “You ever get tired of talking like that?”

She pauses, blinking. “Like what?”

“Like everything’s numbers. Likes, engagement, algorithms. All that shit, it gets on my nerves.”

“It’s my job,” she says, frowning. “Same way yours is skating around in circles.”

“Right.” I rub a hand over my face. “Forget I said anything.”

She shrugs, returning to her laptop. “Dinner’s in the fridge. Or order something. I’ve got a brand call at eight.”

I nod, but I don’t move. Everything feels fake.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I already know who I want it to be.

I open her Instagram instead. Rose Bennett Photography.

Her latest post is a carousel with shots from a junior league match, kids grinning, helmets askew, eyes bright.

The caption reads: Everyone starts somewhere.

I stare at it until the screen dims. Then I open my messages.

CAL: Hey. PR team saw your photos and loved them. Want to come in next week? We’re doing promo shots and they’d love to use you.

I hit send before I can overthink it. Then I toss the phone onto the counter and open the fridge, pretending to look for dinner, when I’m secretly trying to still my mind. My pulse is hammering anyway.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzes.

ROSE: Wow. Seriously? That’s… yeah. I’d love that. Thank you.

I can almost hear her voice in the words, surprised, but smiling.

CAL: You earned it. Your shots were class.

ROSE: Thanks. Might have had a good subject.

That one undoes me a bit. I stare at it, thumb hovering over the keyboard, fighting the stupid grin that wants to spread across my face.

CAL: You free to stop by before the session? I’ll show you around.

ROSE: Sure. As long as you promise not to photobomb your own promo.

I huff out a laugh. There it is. That spark.

Talia walks in just as I pocket the phone. “Who’s that?”

“PR stuff,” I lie easily. “Setting up a shoot.”

She eyes me for a second, then smiles too sweetly. “Make sure they get your good side.”

I force a smirk. “Didn’t know I had a bad one.”

She rolls her eyes and disappears down the hall, still on her phone. The silence she leaves behind feels deafening.

Later that night, I’m back on the balcony with a beer, city lights glinting across the glass towers.

The hum of traffic rises from below, faint but constant.

I scroll through Rose’s messages again, then through her photos, and something settles in me that feels dangerously close to peace.

Not because she forgave me, she doesn’t even know what I need forgiving for, but because when she looks at me through that camera, I feel seen for the person I am.

The guilt twists in my gut, sharp as ever.

She deserves better than a liar. Better than the man who drove away.

But for the first time since that night, I can breathe without it choking me.

Maybe because, just for a second, I can believe in the version of me she’s captured — focused, steady, worth something more than headlines and damage.

Down below, the city pulses with lights flickering and cars streaking past like shooting stars. I take a long pull of beer and let the cold bite against my teeth. Tomorrow, I’ll see her again. Professional, clean, nothing that crosses the line. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Because deep down, I know the line is already gone.