Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROSE
The rink smells of cold air and ambition.
That’s the first thought that hits me when I step through the doors, camera bag slung across my shoulder, nerves knotting in my stomach.
It’s quieter than on game night, there’s no roar of fans, no echoing commentary, but the hum of activity is still there.
Sticks clatter. Someone laughs from the bench.
The boards gleam under the lights, a perfect stage for everything I’ve been dreaming about.
“Rose Bennett?”
I turn. A woman in a smart jacket and trainers strides toward me, clipboard in hand. “Laura Denton,” she says. “Team PR manager. You must be our new photographer.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Callum’s been singing your praises.”
My heart stutters. “Has he?”
“Oh yes.” Laura’s smile is knowing but kind. “Said you’ve got a good eye. We’re lucky to have you. Just keep your head on a swivel, they’re a handful when they’re together.”
“I can handle hockey players.”
She laughs. “That’s what they all say.”
We head toward the ice, her explaining the plan as we walk; group shots for the media site, candid moments for socials, sponsor banners, a few portraits. I nod professionally, but my pulse is racing.
I sense him before I see him. Callum’s at centre ice, leaning on his stick, helmet off, hair damp from the morning skate.
He’s laughing at something one of the players says, Brennan, their captain, I think, and for a second, it hits me just how stupidly magnetic he is.
Not the polished, PR-perfect version you see online. This is something else entirely.
He catches sight of me and straightens, something flickering in his expression before he smiles.
“Hey,” he says when I reach the boards. “You made it.”
“I said I would.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“Didn’t doubt it.” His grin softens. “You good?”
“I’m fine. Just trying not to fall on the ice.”
“Want a hand?”
“Not from you,” I tease. “I’ve seen you crash into the boards enough times.”
That earns me a low laugh, and God help me, I love the sound of it.
“Alright, everyone!” Laura claps her hands. “Group shots first, then we’ll break for individual stuff. Rose, do your thing.”
I kneel by the barrier, adjusting my lens, pretending not to notice Callum watching me. Through the viewfinder, he’s just another player - focused, composed, part of the machine that makes this team tick. But outside the glass, my pulse hammers.
The camera clicks in rapid bursts. Shouts, laughter, the slap of sticks. Brennan wraps an arm around a winger’s shoulder. Someone throws a puck at the camera; I duck and hear Callum bark, “Oi! You break that thing and she’ll kill you!”
Laura grins. “Told you they were a handful.”
Once I’ve captured the more formal shots I keep shooting, shifting angles, catching the tiny moments. A shared joke, a spray of ice, Callum tugging off his gloves between drills. Through the lens, he’s all edges and focus, but there’s warmth there too, something human that makes the frame hum.
After a while, Laura calls, “Let’s get a few of Fraser solo!”
My fingers tighten around the camera.
Callum skates over, breath visible in the cold air. “Guess that’s my cue.”
“You ready for your close-up?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Depends who’s behind the lens.”
“Flattery won’t fix bad lighting.”
He smirks. “Then we’ll make do with charm.”
I line up the shot, trying to focus on the job, not the way his jaw flexes as he adjusts his grip on the stick. “Look right at me,” I say, clicking the shutter. “No, not the camera. Me.”
His eyes find mine and the world narrows. I click again, then again, and each time feels as though crossing a line I shouldn’t. “Good,” I manage. “Hold it there.”
He does. When I lower the camera, he’s still looking.
“You make that look easy,” he says.
“It’s not.” I try in vain to hide my grin. There’s a pause, thick with something I don’t have the words for.
Laura breaks it. “Perfect, that’s a wrap for the on-ice shots. Let’s move into the hallway for the portraits.”
I exhale, grateful for the interruption, though my hands are shaking slightly as I gather my gear.
The rest of the session blurs. The lads cycle through one by one for headshots, some goofing off, some taking it seriously. I keep it professional, giving directions, laughing where appropriate. But every time Callum’s voice drifts from somewhere nearby, my attention wavers.
When it’s finally over, Laura claps me on the shoulder. “You killed it, Rose. These are going to look brilliant. Send me the edits this week?”
“Of course.”
She heads off, leaving me packing up alone in the corridor. Or so I think.
“Need a hand?”
When I look up Callum’s leaning against the wall, still in his base layer, hair damp, grin crooked.
“You have a habit of showing up at exactly the wrong time,” I say.
He shrugs. “Or the right one.”
“Debatable.”
“Laura happy?”
“She seems to be.”
“She should be. You made us look half decent from the few that I saw.”
I smile despite myself. “Half decent is generous.”
He laughs, stepping closer, lowering his voice. “You okay? Looked like a long day.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Want a coffee? There’s a decent place two streets away.”
“I should get home.”
He nods, but there’s something in his expression, disappointment maybe, that twists in my chest. “Thanks for the opportunity, though,” I add. “It means a lot.”
He hesitates, then says softly, “You earned it.”
We’re too close now. The corridor feels smaller, the air charged. I should move or say something clever. Instead, I just stand there, staring at the flecks of green in his eyes.
He clears his throat first. “Wait for me. I’ll walk you out.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Humour me.” He says as he dashes off to get changed.
Outside, the late afternoon air is crisp, sunlight pooling in gold streaks across the pavement. My car’s still wrecked, so I’m walking to the bus stop. Callum falls into step beside me, hands in his jacket pockets.
“So,” he says, “what happens after this? Big photography career? Sports Illustrated covers?”
I laugh. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Maybe. But you’ve got something. The way you see people, it’s different.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me without trying to sell me something.”
He grins. “Guess I’m losing my touch.”
“Or finding it.”
He looks at me, and the smile falters. “You ever feel like you’re living someone else’s life?”
The question catches me off guard. “All the time.”
“Yeah.” He exhales, gaze distant. “Thought so.”
We reach the bus stop. I shift my bag higher, trying to ignore the way my heart’s thudding.
“Well,” I say, “thanks for walking me. Again.”
“Anytime.”
“Careful. I might start expecting it.”
He smirks. “Wouldn’t be the worst habit.”
The bus pulls up with a hiss of brakes. I step forward, turning back just once.
He’s still standing there, hands in pockets, watching.
For a moment, I think he’ll say something else but he doesn’t.
I climb on board, finding a seat by the window.
When the bus pulls away, he’s still there, silhouette fading against the rink’s glass front.
That night, I upload the photos.
The light in my flat is soft and dim, the only sound the whirr of my laptop and the occasional buzz from the fridge. The screen fills with frozen moments of laughter, motion, and the sharp gleam of ice.
And him.
He’s in almost every frame. Sometimes at the edge, blurred by movement, sometimes centre stage.
Even when I wasn’t focusing on him, my camera was.
It’s as if my lens betrayed me, drawn to him the way my eyes always are.
I linger on one shot, it’s Callum mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, helmet dangling from one hand.
Unscripted, unposed. Authentic. The longer I look, the more I feel that tug in my chest I don’t want to name.
I tell myself it’s just curiosity. He’s an athlete, famous and complicated.
I’m a woman who’s survived something messy and is still putting herself back together.
This isn’t what I need. And yet when I open my editing software, I start with his photos first.
The hours slide by. I crop, adjust exposure, and tweak colours.
Every time I try to move on, I find another image of him, another angle, another flicker of expression that shouldn’t mean anything but does.
By midnight, the folder is full. I save everything, lean back, and close my eyes.
Outside, the city lights blur through the window.
I tell myself I’ll forget about him in the morning. But I know I won’t.
The next morning, I wake to an email from Laura: The team loved your work. Can we talk about keeping you on for a few more sessions?
My stomach flips.
Then, just below it, a text.
CAL: You make us look better than we deserve. Coffee to celebrate?
I smile before I can stop myself. My fingers hover over the screen, half ready to type, half terrified to. Outside, sunlight spills across the street. The world feels lighter somehow. I tell myself it’s just work. Just opportunity. Just coffee. But deep down, I already know better.