I pick up my phone and stare at it for a long moment before opening my messages. I don’t scroll through Callum’s unanswered texts. I don’t read the apologies again. Instead, I find Lukas’s name.
My fingers hover. Then I type.
Tell Callum I’ll talk. Not yet. But I will.
I send it before I can overthink it, before fear can talk me out of it.
The phone feels lighter when I set it down and so do I. Suddenly, since everything blew apart, I don’t feel like I’m waiting to be chosen or abandoned. I feel like I’ve chosen myself.
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. Notwill. Notsoon. Notshe 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 ofmightringing 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 thatone more explanationmight 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 toearnforgiveness by suffering. I don’t get to trade remorse for access. If Rose chooses to talk to me, it will be becausesheis 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.”
