We fall into step as he leads me toward the exit. The arena is tranquil now, echoing with the hum of the ice machines and the faint clang of equipment being packed away.
“You ever thought about shooting for the team?” he asks suddenly.
“What, professionally?”
He nods. “You’ve got the eye for it.”
I laugh softly. “Pretty sure they’d rather hire someone who isn’t starstruck.”
“You’re not starstruck,” he says, his tone almost daring.
I meet his gaze, and the space between us hums. “You sure about that?”
His grin tilts. “Not even a little.”
We stop by the exit doors, the cold air spilling in from outside. For a heartbeat, everything slows. His eyes flick to my mouth, and something electric charges the space between us. I can feel it; the pull, the wanting, but neither of us moves.
“Cal,” I whisper, because it feels strange calling him anything else.
“Yeah?”
“Why me?” I ask quietly. “You barely know me, and yet…”
He looks at me for a long time, expression softening. “Maybe I just like the way you see things.”
It’s such a simple answer, but it hits deeper than I expect. My breath catches, and for a moment I think he’s going to lean in.
But he doesn’t. He hesitates, shifting his weight as if he’s debating something. Then he nods toward the camera strap still looped around my neck. “You’ve got an eye for this stuff,” he says. “If you send me a couple of your shots, I can show the lads what proper talent looks like.” His grin is teasing, but there’s a flicker of sincerity beneath it. When I laugh, he holds out his hand. “Here, give me your phone. I’ll save my number before you decide I’m not worth the follow-up.”
Stupidly, I dig my phone out and hand it over. Watching as he adds his details to my contact list and then he sends himself a text. From my phone. And all the breath leaves my lungs. He steps back, clears his throat. “Get home safe, yeah? Text me if you want the full-access pass next game.”
I nod, still half-dazed. “Sure.”
He hesitates as if he wants to say more, then turns and walks toward the players’ lot, his figure disappearing into the night. I stand there for a long time, camera hanging loose at my side, the image of him all sweaty and smiling with a storm in his eyes burned into my mind. When I finally make myself move, I realise my hands are trembling.
I don’t know what this is between us, whether its curiosity or something else, but it’s real. And for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel broken or fragile. I feel alive.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CALLUM
The night air slaps me instantly when I step out of the rink. Cold, sharp, clean. It smells of rain and exhaust and something that almost feels like peace, until I remember I don’t get that anymore.
Rose’s laugh still echoes in my head. The way she’d tilted her chin when she told me I played like I was trying to outrun something. She wasn’t wrong.
I fish my keys from my pocket, still half-expecting to see her when I glance back, but she’s gone. There’s just the reflection of my own face staring back at me from the huge glass walls of the arena—helmet hair, tired eyes, a man who’s supposed to have it all and somehow keeps wanting something else.
The drive home’s peaceful. Streetlights smear gold across wet tarmac. I leave the radio off. My hands are still buzzing from the game, the adrenaline sitting under my skin like static. But the rush that usually carries me home is gone, replaced by something heavier. Guilt, maybe. Or longing. Probably both.
By the time I pull into the car park, the rain’s started again. Our building looks the same as it always does, expensive and detached. I sit in the driver’s seat a minute too long, watching droplets crawl down the windshield, trying to convince myself to go inside. Talia’s there. She’ll want to talk about the game, about engagement stats, about the brand deal she’s filming tomorrow. She’ll want me to smile like the version of me she sells online.
I rub a hand over my face and step out into the rain.
The flat is warm and smells of candles. A vanilla, cloying scent that’s sweet enough to make my teeth ache.
“Baby!” she calls before I’ve even closed the door. “How’d it go?”
She’s in the living room, curled on the sofa in silk pyjamas that are more of a costume than comfortable, phone propped on a tripod. The ring light paints her in false gold.
