Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CALLUM
The text is still sitting on my screen when I wake up.
Rose: Coffee sounds good.
It’s simple. Polite. But it hits harder than it should. I reread it three times before I even drag myself out of bed.
The morning light cuts through the blinds, streaking across the wall.
The air smells of burnt coffee and the faint sweetness of Talia’s candles, something floral, too perfect to be real.
She’s still asleep beside me, blonde hair spilling across the pillow, phone clutched in her hand like a second heartbeat.
Her lock screen glows faintly with notifications of likes, comments, and reposts. Her world.
Mine feels quieter lately. Sharper. And that’s the problem.
I get up, tug on a hoodie, and head straight for the kitchen.
My head’s pounding, not from training or a hangover, but from the ache that comes with knowing something has to give.
The coffee machine hisses, the kind of domestic noise that used to feel comforting.
Now it just sounds like static. I can’t stop thinking about Rose.
The way she looked behind that camera; steady, focused, and she could see right through all the noise.
At the rink, practice is brutal. Coach is in a mood, probably because we dropped two points last weekend and the press haven’t let it go.
The drills are relentless with suicides, puck control, and checking drills that leave bruises blooming along my ribs.
Every time my blade hits the ice, I try to skate the feeling out.
The guilt. The confusion. The way her voice keeps replaying in my head.
“Jesus, Fraser,” Brennan mutters as I smash into the boards after a sprint. “You trying to kill yourself or make Coach cry?”
“Bit of both,” I manage, chest heaving.
“Relax, mate,” Liam adds, snapping the tape off his stick. “It’s practice, not penance.”
They laugh, and I try to join in, but it feels forced. Every drill, every play, feels like an apology I can’t say out loud. When Coach finally blows the whistle, I collapse onto the bench, sweat dripping from my hair.
“Good shift,” Brennan says, tossing me a towel. “You still brooding, or did someone finally cheer you up?”
“Neither.”
“Liar.” He grins. “Word is you brought in that photographer. The brunette.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, half the lads are wondering if she’s single.”
I shoot him a look. “Don’t.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Just saying, if you’re that protective already…”
I roll my eyes, but my pulse spikes. Protective. He doesn’t know how right he is.
After practice, I hang back while the others hit the showers.
The rink’s peaceful again, just the low murmur of the refrigeration units and the occasional drip of water from a broken pipe.
My stick leans against the boards, tape fraying.
This place used to feel like home. Now it’s just a place where I hide.
I pull out my phone. The last text from Rose still glows on the screen. Coffee sounds good.
I type out a reply:
Cal: Tomorrow? Eleven? That café near the station?
I stare at it for a second before pressing send. It’s like lighting a match in a dark room. And then I leave the stadium and head home.
Talia’s already filming by the time I get back to the flat. Ring light glowing, phone propped on the counter, her voice all honey and gloss.
“—and don’t forget to use my code for twenty percent off, babes! You know I wouldn’t share anything I don’t love—oh!”
She stops when she sees me, turning down the brightness. “Hey, babe. You’re back early.”
“Yeah.” I drop my gear bag by the door. “Can we talk?”
She blinks, lashes fluttering. “Sure. Just give me two minutes to finish this story,”
“Talia.”
My tone makes her stop. That’s rare enough to make her frown.
“What’s wrong?”
I rub a hand over my face. “I think we need to call it.”
“Call what?”
“Us.”
There’s a beat of silence that’s heavy and loaded. Then she laughs lightly. “Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You’re tired, Cal. You always get dramatic when you’re tired.”
“I’m serious.”
Her smile wavers. “You can’t be.”
“I can.” I exhale slowly. “Look, you’re great. You are. But this, whatever we’ve been doing, it’s not right anymore.”
She stares at me as if I’ve just spoken another language. “Not right? You’re having a bad week, that’s all.”
“It’s not a week, Talia. It’s been months.”
“Because you’re moody!” Her voice sharpens. “You don’t post, you don’t show up at events, you make everything difficult! Do you have any idea how that looks? My followers think we’re perfect!”
“That’s kind of the problem,” I mutter.
Her face hardens. “Oh, don’t you dare. Don’t you start with that ‘fake life, fake people’ rubbish. You loved it when it suited you.”
“I did.” I nod. “And I hate it now.”
She folds her arms, jaw tightening. “So what then? You want to be the tortured athlete now? Brooding in some dingy flat while I cry on a podcast?”
“This isn’t about an image, Talia.”
“Then what is it about?” Her eyes narrow. “Her?”
I flinch. “Who?”
“That photographer. The one you’ve been messaging. Don’t look surprised, Cal. You’re not subtle.”
I open my mouth, and then close it again. The silence gives her all the answer she needs.
Her laugh is sharp, ugly even. “Unbelievable. You meet one girl with a camera and suddenly you’re done with me?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” she snaps. “You going to tell me you’re just friends? That she ‘gets you’?”
I swallow hard. “I’m saying I care about you, but I can’t keep pretending this works.”
“You care about me?” She shakes her head. “Don’t insult me. You liked the version of me that looked good next to you. Now that you’re sulking through practice, you want something deep, right? Something tragic?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” She snorts. “You think this is fair? You’re throwing away the best thing that ever happened to you because you’re bored.”
I take a breath, steadying myself. “I’m moving out tonight.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re joking.”
“I’ve already packed some stuff.”
She glares, a bitter twist of disbelief in her mouth. “You honestly think you can just walk away? After everything I’ve done for you? You think the team wanted you doing brand deals before I came along? You think the sponsors cared?”
“This isn’t about sponsors.”
“It’s always about sponsors!” she snaps. “You’re just too naive to admit it. You think she’s going to get you magazine spreads and charity gigs? Wake up, Cal. She’s a nobody. And you’re a fool.”
Her words sting more than I want to admit. But under the hurt, there’s a flicker of relief, because now I can finally see her for what she’s been this whole time. Not evil. Just shallow. Built for a world I don’t want to live in anymore. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Save it.” She turns away, voice clipped. “Go play your tortured hero somewhere else.”
I grab my bag from the hallway, pausing at the door. “You’ll be fine, Talia. You always are.”
She doesn’t answer. The click of the door behind me sounds like freedom and failure all at once.
The drive feels endless. Rain streaks the windscreen, city lights blurring in the dark.
I should feel lighter, but instead I feel hollow, like a man peeling off one mask only to find another underneath.
By the time I reach the empty flat the club keeps for players, I’m soaked through.
The place smells of dust and emptiness, but it’s tranquil. Mine, for now anyway.
I drop my bag on the floor and sink onto the couch, phone heavy in my hand.
No messages. No missed calls. I scroll aimlessly until I land on Rose’s Instagram.
The newest photo stops me cold. It’s a close-up of the rink, light bouncing off the ice, captioned Home looks different when you’re behind the glass.
I know it shouldn’t mean anything. But it does.
I type a message before I can talk myself out of it:
Cal: Still on for tomorrow?
Her reply comes a minute later.
Rose: Wouldn’t miss it.
Sleep doesn’t come easily that night. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, the city bustle drifting through the window. Every time I close my eyes, I see her with her camera in hand, a smile tugging at her mouth, eyes that resemble morning over frozen water.
I think about what Talia said. About sponsors, about perception.
She’s not wrong. My career has always been a balancing act; one part talent, one part PR gloss.
But with Rose, none of that seems to matter.
She doesn’t care seem to about the image.
She cares about what’s real. And maybe that’s exactly what scares me.
Because the real me, the man who panicked at the sound of screeching tyres, who drove away instead of helping, doesn’t deserve someone like her.
I turn over, restless, the sheets tangling around my legs.
Somewhere in the distance, I can still hear the echo of skates cutting through ice, the rhythm that’s been my life for as long as I can remember.
Tomorrow, I’ll see her again. Tomorrow, I’ll tell myself it’s just coffee. Just conversation. Just friendship. But I already know better. Because somewhere between guilt and redemption, I’ve started falling.
And I’m not sure I want to stop.