Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ROSE
The hotel window looks out over rain-slicked Glasgow streets, lights glittering like stars fallen too low. I should be asleep, big day tomorrow and all that, but my heart hasn’t slowed since the bus, since the way Cal looked at me like he was trying not to look at me.
I keep replaying our coffee date. Our conversations, the smiles we pretended were casual, the almost-touches that felt anything but. This is dangerous. I know it. But knowing doesn’t make me want it any less.
When morning comes, too early and too bright, I pull my hair into a messy braid, sling my camera over my shoulder, and meet Laura in the lobby. She’s organised and chipper, already juggling passes and schedules.
“Just stay close until you get your bearings,” she says. “Once the game starts, go where you need for shots. Just avoid the bench unless someone invites you there.”
Avoid the bench. Avoid him. Easier said than done.
The arena is colder than I expect, even colder than Manchester, and the sound hits first: pucks slamming against boards, skates carving deep into ice, the echo of coaches barking orders.
The Panthers are in warm-ups, black and teal uniforms contrasting sharply under bright stadium lights.
My chest tightens when I spot him with his helmet off, hair damp, and laughing at something Brennan says.
He looks happy. Alive. As though the ice is the only place he remembers how to breathe.
I lift my camera, using the viewfinder as a shield. Through the lens, he sharpens. The effortless power in his stride, the messy curl of his hair against his temple, the fierce focus when he lines up a shot. Every frame feels intimate and as if I’m capturing something I shouldn’t.
He skates past where I’m standing near the plexiglass and flicks his gaze toward me, it’s a tiny flicker of recognition that sends heat spiralling into my stomach.
He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t look away either.
His steely eyes hold mine just long enough to make my fingers stutter on the shutter.
Laura bumps my shoulder. “You’re doing great,” she whispers.
I’m not. I’m completely falling apart.
The game starts intense and only ramps up.
Glasgow plays dirty. A shoulder check sends Cal into the boards so hard I gasp out loud.
He shakes it off, jaw set, fires back twice as hard.
He scores once, then again. The second goal followed by a triumphant grin thrown right in my direction.
My camera trembles in my hands. God, what is he doing to me?
By the time the buzzer sounds the Panthers win by one and my heart is racing like I’ve been out there skating with them. Fans roar. Sticks slam against the ice. Cal’s teammates tackle him in celebration. He’s glowing, all flushed, sweaty, and downright beautiful.
And I’m hopeless.
Laura finds me in the crowd. “You can go down to the tunnel for a couple post-game shots if you like,” she says. “Locker room’s players only, but the corridor is great for candids.”
A warning tone hides beneath her friendliness. Keep a line. Remember the rules. I follow anyway.
The corridor outside the dressing room is chaotic with players peeling off gloves, helmets, breath still fogging the air. Cal spots me before I can pretend that I’m invisible. His smile is slow, unstoppable. He breaks away from Brennan mid-celebration and strides over, still catching his breath.
“I could see you from the bench,” he says, voice low and a little breathless. “Every time I looked up… you were there.”
The heat in my chest flares. “That’s kind of the job,” I tease lightly, lifting my camera just to have something to hold.
“Don’t care,” he says, grin turning softer. “Still made me skate harder.”
The team flows past us, giving varying degrees of smirks and eyebrow waggles. Brennan whistles low under his breath as he passes, and Cal gives him a shove. Lukas flashes me a friendly wave before disappearing into the locker room.
We’re suddenly alone in the noise.
Cal leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Thank you for being here.”
Heat pools under my skin. “Thank Laura. She invited me.”
“I asked her to.”
I blink. I already knew this but hearing him say it out loud hits a little differently and my heart skips. He nods, eyes soft and a little scared. “I wanted you here.”
My pulse stutters. “Cal…”
He reaches up, fingertips brushing a stray lock of hair from my cheek, it’s the gentlest touch, but it wrecks me.
“It’s okay if you don’t want this,” he says, voice rougher now. “Just tell me to stop and I will.”
My breath breaks. He thinks I don’t want this? He thinks I haven’t been falling since the moment he walked into the shop pretending it was coincidence? “I don’t want you to stop,” I whisper.
The truth spills before I can second-guess it.
Something in him gives way followed by a low exhale of relief, like he’s been holding himself back from gravity and finally lets go.
He steps closer. The air between us snaps tight.
I can see every fleck of grey in his eyes, every rise of his chest. His hand finds my jaw, thumb grazing my cheekbone, and for a moment we just breathe the same breath. Then he kisses me.
It’s not careful or tentative, it’s as if he’s been waiting, wanting, burning even.
His mouth captures mine with a hunger that steals all coherent thought.
My fingers curl into the fabric of his jersey, pulling him closer.
He tastes like victory and adrenaline and something that feels heartbreakingly akin to sincerity.
He deepens the kiss, slow but intense, his other hand sliding to the back of my neck as if he can’t bear the idea of distance. My whole body sparks, heat curling under my skin, knees weak as the world tilts.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads touching, his smile crooked and awed as though he can’t quite believe it happened.
“Jesus, Rose,” he whispers. “I should’ve done that days ago.”
I laugh, shaky and overwhelmed. “I’m not sure I’d have survived it.”
His thumb traces my bottom lip, tender now. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “More than okay.”
Somewhere down the hall, a coach shouts for last interviews. The world rushes back in; the noise, the rules, reality, but something has already changed. Before he pulls away, he presses one more kiss to the corner of my mouth. It’s soft, secret, and stolen.
“I’ll be back soon,” he says. “Wait for me?”
He says it as a promise. Like he’s terrified I won’t. I nod. “Always.”
He squeezes my hand once before slipping into the locker room, and I press my fingers to my lips, heart still sprinting.
Everything feels too big for my chest, from the heat of the kiss and the way he looked at me, to the terrifying, exhilarating fact that something real just happened.
I lean back against the cold wall and steady my breathing, knowing without a doubt this is not just a crush. Not a mistake. Not something I can walk away from anymore.
Whatever this is between us, it’s already unstoppable.