Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ROSE
Ikeep rereading his last message like it might change if I stare long enough.
You made us look better than we are. Appreciate it.
On the surface, it’s harmless, polite even, the kind of thing any player might text a photographer after a shoot.
But I can feel something beneath the words, a pulse that won’t let me go.
I sit there with my phone glowing in my hand, heart skittering as if it’s forgotten how to keep a steady rhythm.
Three drafts later, I give up and send a single heart emoji because anything else feels too much.
Too much, too soon, too risky. And then, of course, I don’t sleep.
I lie in bed listening to the city breathe outside my window and wonder if he saw it, if he knew what I meant without me saying a word.
By morning, I’ve given up on pretending I’m fine.
The light coming through the curtains is the washed-out kind that belongs to half-hearted mornings.
There’s a cup of tea gone cold on the table beside my laptop, and the same folder of Panthers photos is still open from last night.
I should move on to editing other work, but every image seems to drag me back to the rink, the camera clicking, his laugh echoing off the boards.
I tell myself to focus, but all I can think about is the way he said my name in that café, low and careful, like he wasn’t sure if saying it might change something between us.
My camera sits on the counter where I left it.
I pick it up and scroll through the shots on the memory card.
The one that catches me every time is the one I didn’t mean to take.
Cal laughing, head tilted back, a streak of light across his jaw.
It’s imperfect, slightly out of focus, but authentic.
Honest in a way that most of my photos aren’t.
I should delete it. Instead, I drag it into a private folder. Just for me.
The ping of an email jolts me out of my thoughts. My stomach flips when I see who it’s from.
Laura Denton – PR Manager, Manchester Panthers.
Hi Rose,
The team and I absolutely loved your work on the recent shoot, both the player portraits and the candid rink shots were fantastic. We’d like to invite you to join us for this weekend’s away game in Glasgow to capture additional promotional content for our media channels.
We’ll handle accreditation, logistics, and access at the venue. Let me know if you’re available, and we’ll sort travel arrangements accordingly.
Best,
Laura
I read it twice before it sinks in. They want me to go with them.
My first reaction is pure, giddy excitement, the kind that shoots straight through my chest. Then, as quickly as it comes, it tangles with panic.
Travel? Accommodation? Food? My brain starts adding up costs before I’ve even finished the email.
There’s no mention of payment, and I’ve learned the hard way what “we’ll handle arrangements” can mean in PR terms: exposure, not expenses.
Still, my pulse won’t calm down. This is work that could lead somewhere. And, my traitorous brain adds, he’ll be there. Cal.
I grab my phone before I can talk myself out of it.
Rose: Hey. So Laura just emailed me. She’s asked if I want to come to Glasgow with the team this weekend to shoot the away game. Is that normal? Or a weird one-off?
The waiting feels endless. I stare at the screen so long the brightness dims and my reflection stares back at me, hair a mess, eyes tired. When the phone finally vibrates, I almost drop it.
Cal: Normal. Means you impressed them.
I smile, though I try not to.
Rose: Right. I just wasn’t sure if it’s something I should say yes to. It’s a long trip and not sure I can afford the travel and hotel stuff on short notice.
His reply comes fast this time.
Cal: They’ll cover all costs. Transport, hotel, food. You’re working for them, remember?
Rose: Still feels weird. Like I’m crashing a private thing.
Cal: You’re not. It’s good for the team. And good for you. You should come.
Rose: You sound very sure about that.
Cal: Because I am.
There’s a pause, then another message.
Cal: I’ll talk to Laura and make sure everything’s cleared. Don’t stress about logistics. Just bring your camera.
I reread that last sentence, my chest tightening in a way that feels both thrilling and terrifying. I want to say something flirty back, something light, but instead I just stare at his words until the letters blur.
The rest of the day passes in a haze of half-done tasks.
I charge my camera batteries, check my lenses, back up files.
The rhythm of it calms me a little. Every few minutes, I catch myself smiling.
I keep imagining what it’ll be like, being on the team bus, watching the game from behind the glass, seeing him in his element.
The thought makes me restless and giddy, and then guilty for feeling that way.
Clara, my best friend, Face Times me that evening, hair wrapped in a towel, eyebrows already raised before I say a word. “You look suspiciously happy,” she says.
“I got invited to shoot the Panthers’ away game,” I say, trying for nonchalant, but failing completely.
Her grin spreads. “No way. That’s amazing! Wait, Cal’s team, right?”
“Yeah.”
The grin turns sly. “So, you’re telling me you’re spending the weekend surrounded by hot hockey players, including the one who makes you blush every time he texts?”
“Shut up.”
“I’m just saying,” she teases, then softens when she sees my face. “Be careful, Rosie. He’s fresh out of something, and you… well, you feel things deeply. Don’t let him hurt you, okay?”
I nod, though I’m not sure I can promise that. “I’ll be fine. It’s just work.” But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie.
After we hang up, I start packing. Not that I need much; camera gear, a couple of outfits, my battered notebook, chargers. I slip my old film camera into the side pocket for luck, then sit on the edge of the bed and just breathe.
The quiet amplifies everything I’m trying not to think about. The fact that he’ll be there. The way his voice sounds when he laughs. The way I felt in that café, when the whole world had narrowed to just us.
My phone buzzes again just before midnight.
Cal: Everything’s sorted. Laura will email you travel details tomorrow. Don’t back out.
Rose: I wasn’t going to.
Cal: Good. Looking forward to seeing you there.
I stare at the words until my eyes ache. There’s nothing overtly flirtatious in what he’s written, nothing anyone could call inappropriate. But the charge in it purrs right under the surface, unobtrusive but undeniable. Looking forward to seeing you there.
When I finally set the phone down, I feel lightheaded, as though I’ve stepped off something solid.
I eventually manage to sleep, but it’s restless and bright, filled with flashes of light off ice, the sound of blades cutting speed, his voice somewhere just behind me. Those steel grey eyes finding me at every opportunity.
The next morning, the official email from Laura arrives.
Hi Rose,
Travel and hotel are covered by the Panthers. Breakfast and dinner are also included but you’ll probably want to grab lunch. You’ll be joining the team coach on Saturday morning. We’ll organise your access pass and email your itinerary later today.
Thanks again, can’t wait to see what you capture this weekend!
Laura
I read it three times, grinning like a fool by the end. It’s happening. I’m going to Glasgow. Before I can overthink it, I open my messages again.
Rose: Guess it’s official. Looks like you’re stuck with me this weekend.
His reply comes instantly.
Cal: Wouldn’t have it any other way.
Something warm and dangerous blooms low in my chest. I put the phone down slowly, afraid that if I move too fast, I’ll break whatever this is.
I spend the rest of the day half in a daze. Editing, re-packing, pretending to eat dinner. Every time I glance at my camera bag by the door, my pulse skips. It feels like standing on the edge of something huge and not knowing if the ground beneath me is going to hold or give way.
Later, when the sky turns navy and the city stills, I sit cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through my photos again.
His face appears again and again; laughing, focused, unaware.
In some, he looks untouchable. In others, human in a way that makes my chest ache.
There’s one where he’s glancing toward the lens, just a fraction of a smile tugging at his mouth, Lukas is in the background showboating.
I don’t even remember taking it. But it feels as though he’s looking right at me.
I close the laptop but the image lingers behind my eyes.
His gaze, steady and knowing, and the way he said my name.
I try to convince myself this is just work, that the flutter in my chest is nerves, not something deeper.
But I know better. Because something has already shifted. Something I can’t undo.
And as much as I tell myself not to fall, it already feels too late.