I don’t want her anymore. Not the fake, perfect version everyone else sees. I want real. I just don’t know how to get it yet.
CHAPTER SIX
ROSE
By the time I’ve finished stacking the display of gloves near the till, my ankle is aching in that dull, low way that makes me want to throw the whole box across the shop. It’s been three weeks since the accident, and I’m walking fine mostly, but standing all day still makes my leg complain.
The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up out of habit.
And, of course, it’s him.
Callum Fraser, in all his six-foot-something, broad-shouldered glory, standing in the doorway of a half-empty shop looking lost. Baseball cap, hoodie, that too-casual look that only makes him more noticeable.
My brain does this weird little stutter, like it hasn’t caught up to reality yet. He gives me a small smile, it’s awkward, uncertain even, and I try not to gape.
“Hey,” he says, stepping forward. “Didn’t think you’d be here.”
“It’s my shift,” I reply, forcing my voice to stay level even though my pulse does a little leap. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of an off-season.”
That earns me a crooked grin. “Fair. But it’s not off-season. We’ve got a home game tonight.”
“Right,” I say, remembering the posters outside the arena. “Against the Wolves.”
He nods, rocking on his heels as if he’s nervous. Callum Fraser—nervous. The thought is ridiculous, but the way he keeps glancing toward the shelves instead of at me makes it seem almost true.
“So, um,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck, “I was thinking, well, I thought you might want to come by. To the game.”
I blink. “To the game?”
“Yeah. I, uh, left a ticket for you at the front desk. Figured you could get some photos. You said you were doing more sports photography, right?”
For a second, I’m certain I misheard him. “You… left me a ticket?”
He nods again, sheepish. “I thought it might help. You know, for portfolio stuff.”
I should say no. I should tell him that showing up at a professional game because a player invited me sounds insane. But the warmth in his voice catches me off guard; the genuine kind, not the polished charm I’ve seen on TV interviews.
“That’s actually really thoughtful,” I say, softer than I mean to. “Thanks.”
He shrugs as if it’s nothing, but there’s a flicker of relief in his eyes. “No big deal. You’ll get great shots from the press section. Just tell them your name. They’ll have it.”
The bell jingles again behind him. A couple of teenage boys walk in, stop mid-step, and stare as if they’ve just seen royalty.
“Holy crap,” one of them whispers. “You’re Callum Fraser!”
Callum winces. “Hey, lads.”
They’re immediately fumbling for their phones, one of them practically dropping his energy drink in excitement. I’m trying not to laugh, but it slips out anyway.
He looks at me, mock-offended. “You think this is funny?”
“Extremely,” I say. “You look as if you’re about to bolt.”
“Because I might,” he mutters under his breath as one of the kids asks for a selfie.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, pretending to be fascinated by the till as he poses. The boys thank him about five times before finally leaving, grinning like idiots. When they’re gone, Callum exhales a long, theatrical sigh.
“You okay, superstar?” I tease.
