I press the letter to my chest and let myself cry, not the jagged, breaking sobs from before, but something slower. Grief mixed with recognition. Mourning not just what we lost, but who I was brave enough to be with him.
I don’t plan to go to the game.
The thought comes fully formed, resolute, as I dress that evening. Jeans, hoodie, hair pulled back. Incognito. Anonymous. Just another face in the crowd.
And yet, somehow, I end up there anyway.
I buy my ticket at the gate, heart hammering like it might give me away, and slip into a seat halfway up the stands. Not in the family box. Not anywhere I could be recognised. Just close enough to see the ice clearly, but far enough to disappear.
The rink is alive with lights blazing, crowd buzzing, and that familiar thrum of anticipation vibrating through the air.It feels strange to be here without him knowing, without the understated exchanges, the way he used to glance over during warm-ups like he was checking in.
I tell myself I’m here for closure. Nothing more.
When Callum steps onto the ice, the reaction is mixed.
Applause, yes. But scattered. Uneven. A few boos cut through the noise like sharp edges, and I flinch even though I know they aren’t aimed at me. He doesn’t react. Doesn’t lift his chin or posture himself into defiance.
He just skates.
And I watch.
Not as his girlfriend. Not as the girl at the centre of a scandal. Just as someone seeing him clearly for the first time. He plays differently now. There’s no flash, no showboating. No reckless charges or unnecessary risks. His movements are controlled and deliberate. He passes when he could shoot. Holds position instead of chasing glory. It’s disciplined. Mature. Like a man who understands restraint.
At one point, during a stoppage, his gaze lifts instinctively toward the stands and my breath catches, stupid and hopeful, but he doesn’t scan. He doesn’t search. He looks away again, focused inward. That matters more than I expect it to. He’s not here to perform remorse. He’s not looking for absolution in my face. He’s just playing.
The game stays tight. Playoff tension coils through the arena, every hit drawing gasps, every near miss sparking groans. When Callum blocks a shot in the third period, grimacing as he gets back to his feet, pride flares hot and unwelcome in my chest.
I don’t cheer. I don’t boo. I just sit there, hands clasped together, heart finally calming in a way it hasn’t for weeks. By the final whistle, I know something has shifted. Not healed or resolved. But steadied.
I leave before the crowd does, slipping out with my head down, the cold night air sharp against my cheeks. I walk for a long time before I stop, the city stretching out around me, familiar and strange all at once. When I finally pull out my phone, my hands are steady. I stare at his name for a long moment.
Then I type.
One conversation.
I pause before I add more.
Public place. No touching. No promises.
My thumb hovers and then I finish the text message.
But the truth. All of it.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it. The message whooshes away, small and terrifying and powerful all at once. I don’t know where this leads. I don’t know if we find our way back to each other, or if this is the moment we learn how to let go with honesty instead of pain.
But now, since everything shattered, the choice is mine. And that feels like the bravest thing I’ve done yet.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
ROSE
My phone buzzes while I’m standing at the kitchen sink, staring at nothing in particular. Callum’s name lights up the screen and my chest tightens, not with panic this time, but with something more dangerous; hope, edged with caution. We keep it practical, almost formal. A park near the river. No expectations, no rehearsed apologies. Each message is careful, respectful, like we’re both handling something fragile we don’t trust ourselves not to break. When I lock my phone and slip it into my pocket, my hands are steady, but my heart isn’t. I’m not going to see him because I’m ready to forgive. I’m going because I’m ready to hear him.
The park is less busy than I expect for a weekday morning. Pale sunlight filters through the trees, catching on damp leaves and half-frozen grass, the air sharp enough to sting when I breathe too deeply. I chose this place deliberately because it’s neutral ground, open space, nothing that belongs to either of us. Somewhere I can leave without feeling trapped.
I spot him before he sees me.
Callum stands near one of the benches, shoulders hunched slightly like he’s bracing for impact, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. He looks thinner. Tired in a way that isn’t physical. The familiar ache flares in my chest, sharp and unwelcome, and I force myself to slow down as I approach. He looks up when I’m a few steps away. Relief flashes acrosshis face, quick and instinctive, before he reins it in. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t step toward me. Just nods once, like he’s grateful I came at all.
