Chapter 44
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CALLUM
Idon’t find out from Rose and that feels right somehow. If she’d reached out directly, if my phone had lit up with her name, I know exactly what would’ve happened. My chest would’ve cracked open with relief. I’d have taken it as permission. As a sign that I could push, explain, fix.
But she doesn’t. I find out from Lukas, who waits until after practice, until the locker room has thinned and the noise has settled into something manageable.
He leans against the counter beside me while I tape my wrist, my movements slow and methodical, like I can anchor myself to routine if I try hard enough.
“She might talk to you,” he says carefully as he holds his phone up to show me the message from he’s received from Rose.
I pause mid-wrap. Might. Not will. Not soon.
Not she misses you. Just… might. I don’t let myself react straight away.
I finish taping my wrist, smoothing the edge down with my thumb.
My heart is hammering hard enough that I can feel it in my throat, but I don’t move.
I don’t smile. I don’t ask the question that’s clawing its way up my chest.
“When?” I say finally.
Lukas exhales. “She didn’t say.”
I nod once. That’s all I give him.
“Callum,” he adds, quieter now. “This isn’t—”
“I know,” I cut in, not sharply, but firm. “It’s not a promise.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Good.”
Lukas drifts off to join the rest of the guys, leaving me standing there with the echo of might ringing in my ears.
I finish packing my bag slower than usual, folding things that don’t need folding, stalling without meaning to.
Around me, the locker room empties out in stages with laughter fading, showers shutting off, the sharp scent of liniment and sweat giving way to the hum of the rink winding down for the day.
Normally, I’d be replaying practice in my head. Shifts, positioning, what Coach clocked. Instead, every thought circles the same point. She might talk to me.
It sits heavy in my chest all the way through the drive home.
Traffic crawls, red lights stretching longer than they should, and I don’t turn the radio on because silence feels more honest. My phone stays face down on the passenger seat.
I don’t pick it up at lights. I don’t check for missed calls I already know won’t be there.
When I finally step into my flat, it feels too still.
Like it’s holding its breath. I drop my keys into the bowl by the door and stand there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the space Rose filled so naturally it still feels shaped like her.
This is usually when I break. When I pace.
When I draft messages I won’t send. When I convince myself that one more explanation might be the thing that tips the balance.
Instead, I sit. I sit on the edge of the sofa, elbows braced on my knees, and let the urge pass through me without acting on it.
It’s uncomfortable, worse than uncomfortable.
It’s like holding back a reflex. Like staying down when every instinct says get up and chase.
But now there’s this thin, fragile thread of possibility.
And I realise something unsettling. Hope is dangerous if you treat it like entitlement.
I don’t get to earn forgiveness by suffering.
I don’t get to trade remorse for access.
If Rose chooses to talk to me, it will be because she is ready, not because I deserve it.
So I do the hardest thing I’ve done yet. I decide to stop trying to reach her. Instead, I book the therapy session I’ve been avoiding.
The office is small and unassuming, the kind of place that doesn’t advertise comfort or judgement. Just neutrality. I sit across from her with my hands clasped too tightly, my knee bouncing despite my best efforts to keep still. She doesn’t ask about hockey first. That alone disarms me.
“What brings you here?” she asks.
I stare at the floor for a long moment before answering.
“I caused an accident,” I say. “And then I ran.”
She waits.
“I didn’t hit anyone,” I add quickly, like that makes it better. Like it reduces the weight of what I did. It doesn’t. She doesn’t correct me. Doesn’t reassure me. Just lets the silence stretch until I feel exposed enough to keep going.
“I ran a red light. Caused a chain reaction. People got hurt; not badly, but still. I stopped for a second. Maybe ten. And then I left.”
“What did running give you?” she asks.
The question hits harder than anything else so far.
“Nothing,” I say immediately.
She tilts her head slightly. “Then why do it?”
My throat tightens.
“Because if I stayed,” I say slowly, “I’d have to see myself clearly. And I didn’t know how to be that person.”
She nods, like that makes sense. We talk about fear. About identity. About what happens when your sense of self is built on control and image and being untouchable, and how panic sets in the moment that illusion cracks.
“You can’t repair what you won’t fully face,” she says gently. “And repair doesn’t start with forgiveness. It starts with consistency.”
I leave the session drained and strangely steadied, like something raw has finally been exposed to air.
At the rink, the season end loom closer with every shift.
The tension is palpable with tight smiles, clipped conversations, and the way everyone moves like they’re holding their breath.
This is usually where I thrive. Where pressure sharpens me.
Now, it forces restraint. Coach notices during video review.
“You’re playing quieter,” he says.
“More controlled,” I correct.
He watches the screen for a moment longer before nodding. “Good. Heroics lose games.”
We talk afterward. Not about stats or minutes or matchups, but about the future and about who you are when the jersey comes off.
“You won’t play forever,” he says. “You need to know who you are without it.”
That night’s game is tight and physical. I keep my head down, make smart decisions, don’t chase glory. When I score, it’s because I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, not because I forced the moment. The crowd roars anyway.
That night, I sit at my kitchen table with a blank sheet of paper and a pen. I don’t rush. I don’t start with Dear Rose. And I just breathe.
When I do write, it’s slower than I expect. Deliberate. I don’t explain the accident again. She’s read it. Lived it. I don’t justify the fear or the silence.
I don’t say but I loved you.
Instead, I write:
I am sorry I let you build trust on incomplete truth.
I am sorry I took away your choice.
I am sorry that my fear became your pain.
My hand shakes, but I keep going.
You don’t owe me forgiveness.
You don’t owe me access to you.
If we never speak again, I will still carry responsibility for what I did.
I fold the letter carefully, seal it, and sit with it for a long moment like it’s something alive. Then I take it to Lukas. He doesn’t open it. Just looks at me like he’s seeing me without the armour for the first time.
“When she’s ready,” I say.
He nods. “She will be.”
I understand that both outcomes are survivable. And that might be the most important thing I’ve learned yet.