When the door closes, I allow myself a small smile. Maybe the Panthers’ forward and I will cross paths again. Maybe there is a reason he’s found me again, and walked into a shop I’d never expect him to visit.
For now, though, I focus on the shop, my ankle, and the small thrill of realising the world might be larger than just the pages of my assignments and the aisles I stock.
And I can’t stop thinking about the offer. Front row tickets at a Panthers game. I’d be close enough to capture the madness and the speed, and maybe even the unguarded moments behind the rink.
I have a feeling I’ll take him up on it.
CHAPTER FIVE
CALLUM
The air is sharp with cold and the tang of sweat, the steady thud of pucks against the boards punctuating the scrape of blades across the ice. Every corner of the rink hums with energy, echoing with the rhythm of the game. I lean on my stick for a second, letting my lungs draw in the cold air. My chest aches, my thighs burn, but I’m not done. Not yet.
“Fraser!” Coach’s voice cuts through the din like a knife. “Circle back! Again!”
I push off, skating hard across the neutral zone. Puck on my stick, I whip it to the corner, pivot, and cut back toward the blue line. Ryan’s tailing me, grinning. “Gonna collapse out there, mate, or are you actually trying?”
I grit my teeth. “Shut it, Ryan. You’re next.”
Mike clatters past, stick tapping the ice like a metronome. “Thought you were captain once. You skating like a rookie now?”
I snap a glare over my shoulder. “Captain, yeah. One time. Don’t drag me into this.”
Coach blows his whistle sharply, and the drill resets. We’re doing power-play rotations, they’re fast, precise, and punishing. Every turn, sprint, and stop burns, and my lungs are screaming. I feel the familiar weight of exhaustion press into my shoulders, but it’s nothing I haven’t handled before. Except today, my mind isn’t fully on the game.
There’s a tightness in my chest I can’t shake. It isn’t fatigue, not really. It’s everything else; the guilt, the tension, the way the last few weeks have been piling on me like snow on the rink roof.
The puck clatters into the corner as I slide to a stop. Coach’s sharp whistle pierces the air again. “Fraser! Eyes up!”
“Yeah, yeah!” I mutter under my breath, grabbing the puck and flipping it to Ryan. He catches it with ease, his grin infuriatingly smug. “Thought you’d be faster than this, superstar.”
“Don’t call me that,” I growl, skating to my next station.
Mike skates past, his voice loud enough for half the rink to hear. “Hey, Cal! Still got that PR stunt girlfriend? You thinking about her instead of the drill?”
I snort, half in irritation, half in disbelief. “Shut up.”
Ryan laughs. “Oi, leave him be. He’s probably picturing her posting some staged breakfast in bed again or something.”
I clamp down on my teeth and push harder. Coach blows the whistle again. “Two-liners! Sprint the length, tight turns, no mistakes! Show me the Fraser who can actually handle pressure!”
The session turns brutal. Puck after puck, sprint after sprint. I can feel every muscle in my legs screaming, every breath burning my lungs. By the time we rotate into defensive drills, I’m drenched in sweat, my jersey sticking to me. Still, I push. I always push.
Ryan skates alongside me on a break. “Gonna make it through this session or collapse like last week?”
“Not happening,” I mutter. My focus is ironed onto the ice, on the drills, but my mind keeps straying. Thoughts of Rose creep in unbidden. The way she’d smiled and teased me the last time I saw her. The way she didn’t know how worried I’d been, didn’t know how wrong it felt to leave her in pain after the accident.
The whistle screams again. “Power play against the first line! Move, Fraser!”
I spin, drop low, block a pass, then swipe the puck down the ice with a sharp strike. Ryan grins. “That’s the Fraser I know. Took you long enough.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I huff. But I allow the grin to slip despite myself.
By the end of the session, I’m physically spent, muscles trembling, and lungs burning. Sweat streams into my eyes, blurring the rink lights as Coach blows the final whistle. “You’ll thank me tomorrow for this one, Fraser. Or hate me. Probably both.”
I head to the locker room, peeling off gear and tossing it onto the bench. The team’s energy is chaotic, voices overlapping, water bottles clattering. Mike nudges me as I sling my bag onto the floor. “Oi, playing house again this week? Thought you were busy.”
“Busy?” I snap, tossing him a glare. He laughs, shrugging. Ryan grins too, but neither pushes further. They know when to back off.
