The locker room thins out eventually, leaving me in silence with the lingering smell of sweat and aftershave. I grab a towel, wipe down, and allow my body to collapse onto the bench.
Home is no better.
Talia is there, of course, her phone glued to her hand, recording another story. “And here’s my morning routine, loves! Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe!” she chirps, picking at her lipstick.
I freeze, gripping my keys in the doorway. I don’t know whether to laugh or storm out. This isn’t what I came home for. Home should be somewhere I can relax, not feel as though I’m constantly on show or performing for yet another reel.
“Cal!” she beams, not even looking at me. “You’re late. Did you practice hard? We can film a cute little breakfast segment if you want!”
I drop my bag with more force than necessary. The clatter makes her look up. “What are you doing?” I ask, my voice tight.
She laughs. “What? Sharing our perfect mornings, obviously. Everyone loves a little Callum Fraser romance, don’t they?”
I run a hand over my face. “Talia… I don’t want… I don’t want perfect.” The tiredness and frustration are evident, in not only my voice but my body too.
She frowns, phone dangling. “What do you mean? Perfect is what people want to see! Fans love it. Sponsors love it. It’s… easy.”
“It’s fake,” I mutter. “All of it. The breakfast, the smiles, the stories… it’s not me. It’s not us. It’s marketing.”
She laughs again, a little too bright, a little too loud. “Cal, you’re overthinking it. It’s social media. It’s fun. Relax. Smile.”
“I’m not relaxing,” I snap. My voice is louder than I intend, echoing off the walls of the flat. “I’m tired of pretending. Tired of acting as though this is enough. As though it matters. I’m done being a prop in your stories.”
Her eyes flash, but she masks it quickly with another laugh. “Wow. Drama. I’m just trying to have fun, babe. You can chill.”
I pace, my hands shaking slightly. “No. I’m serious. I don’t want to be part of a show. I don’t want to perform for likes. I want… I don’t know, real life. authentic people with genuine feelings. Not this.” I gesture to her phone, the cameras, the curated world she lives in. “Not this fake perfection. It’s exhausting.”
Talia rolls her eyes, tossing her phone onto the counter. “You’re so dramatic sometimes. Everyone’s on the same page except you.”
I freeze for a moment, the weight of that sinking feeling hitting me hard. Everyone except me. I realise I’m surrounded by people performing, smiling for the audience, living a life that isn’t mine. And I hate it. I hate being part of it.
I lean against the counter, fists clenched. “I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to keep pretending.” My knuckles turn white as I grip my keys even tighter.
She scoffs, turning back to the camera as though nothing has changed. “Fine. Have your moment. I’m still going to post. People expect it.”
And there it is. That casual dismissal. The world she’s built, the persona, is bigger than me, stronger than me. And the pull of it irritates me in ways I didn’t expect.
I sit heavily at the bar, gripping the edge. “I don’t want this. I don’t want you.”
Her head snaps toward me, alarm flickering across her face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this—us—it’s wrong. Not you. Not entirely. Just… it’s fake. And I’m tired of it. I don’t want to be part of it anymore.”
She opens her mouth, but I cut her off. “I’m not saying we’re done. Not yet. I’m figuring it out. But something has to change. Or I’m gone. And I don’t think either of us will be happy if I stick around pretending.”
She stares at me, mouth slightly open. For a moment, silence hangs in the air. Then she laughs, it’s sharp and brittle. “Figures you’d be the dramatic one.”
I grit my teeth. “This isn’t drama. This is me being honest. For once.”
She scoffs again, muttering something under her breath about ‘perfectionism’ and ‘overthinking.’ I don’t respond. I can’t.
I pour myself a drink, letting the bitter liquid burn down my throat. The TV flickers in the background, showing highlights from the Panthers’ last home game. I focus on the players, the movement, the raw energy of the ice. That’s real. That’s what I miss. That’s what I want.
And I realise, with a sinking clarity, that Talia, her smiles, her stories, and her endless performance, isn’t it. Not anymore. I sit back, head in my hands, thinking of the rink, of drills, of sweat, and the simplicity of skating hard with nothing else to think about. I think of Rose, the pull I feel when I see her laugh, the way she doesn’t pretend. I know what I want now. And it isn’t this. But I’m not ready to walk away yet. Not fully. Not until I know what I’m walking toward.
So, I sit there, drink in hand, the flat silent except for the hum of the city outside, knowing something has to give, knowing the pretence is cracking, and knowing I can’t keep living this way.
And the raw, ugly truth settles over me. Unfiltered.
