“Not my fault people love hockey,” he says, but his ears are red, and I can’t stop smiling.
“Sure,” I say. “Definitely not because you’re plastered all over the team’s Instagram page.”
His grin widens a fraction. “You check the Panthers feed often, then?”
I roll my eyes, he’s caught me out. “Occupational research.”
“Uh-huh.” He steps a little closer, that familiar spark flickering between us again. It’s subtle, like static you can feel more than see, but it’s there. “So, you’ll come tonight?”
I hesitate, fingers drumming on the counter. “You’re really okay with that? Me showing up?”
“I’m more than okay with it,” he says. “Besides, it’ll give me something to play for.”
The way he says it, half-joking, half-serious, sends a flutter straight through my chest. I open my mouth to reply, but he’s already backing away, tugging his hood up.
“See you later, Rose,” he says, and before I can think of anything clever to say, he’s gone.
That evening, I can hear the crowd from half a block away. The air outside the arena hums with noise. Music, shouts, the echo ofskates slicing across fresh ice. I clutch my camera bag as though it’s a lifeline, and try not to feel completely out of place.
The woman at the front desk doesn’t even blink when I give my name. “You’re on the guest list,” she says, handing me a pass. “Media access.”
Media. The word makes my stomach twist, but I take it.
Inside, the rink is a blur of light and sound. Players warm up in sleek black jerseys, the Manchester Panthers logo glinting under the spotlights. My pulse skips as I spot him; number 14, skating with sharp, effortless precision. Callum Fraser in his element.
From behind the lens, the world feels safer. I start shooting. The click of the shutter is rhythmic, grounding. I capture the flex of muscle, the streak of movement, the moment before the puck slams into the net.
And then the game starts.
It’s fierce. Fast. The kind of pace that makes your heartbeat climb just watching it. Callum’s playing like a man possessed. He checks one of the Wolves players into the boards so hard the glass trembles. The crowd roars. He barely reacts. Something in him looks untethered. Reckless even. As though he’s trying to bleed out whatever’s clawing at him from the inside. And yet, I can’t look away. Through the camera, I follow the tight lines of his focus, the bite of his jaw, the raw drive that makes him seem almost untouchable. Every time he hits the ice, I catch my breath. When he scores, top corner, with a lightning-fast wrist shot, the arena erupts. I’m grinning before I even realise it, my camera pressed to my face.
The Panthers win 5–3.
When the final horn sounds, Callum skates off with the rest of his team, chest heaving, face flushed. He glances toward the stands and somehow finds me. Our eyes lock across the unruliness. He smiles, small but sincere, and my stomach flips.
Most of the crowd has cleared out by the time I finish packing my gear away. I linger near the lower rows, reviewing a few shots on my camera, when I hear footsteps.
“Hey,” Callum says, voice low, still rough from shouting on the ice.
I look up, and there he is again, hair damp, kit bag slung over his shoulder, the faint scent of soap and adrenaline clinging to him.
“You were incredible,” I blurt, before I can stop myself.
He laughs, rubbing a hand over his neck. “I’ll take that as a review.”
“I mean it,” I say, holding up my camera. “You play like you’re trying to outrun something.”
His smile falters for half a second, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Maybe I am.”
The air shifts. I tuck the camera strap under my arm, suddenly hyperaware of how close he’s standing.
“Thanks for the ticket,” I say, softer. “I got some great shots.”
“I’m glad,” he says. “You looked like you were into it.”
“I was,” I admit. “It’s different, seeing it through the lens. You guys make it look easy.”
“Trust me,” he says, smiling again, “it’s not.”
