“Because it’s true.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way his eyes darken, and the shadow of guilt that clings to him. But he doesn’t push. He just nods, a quiet concession.
The doorbell chimes again, and a pair of teenagers walk in. One gasps, the other immediately elbows her.
“Oh my God—Callum Fraser?”
He looks as though he’d rather be hit by a puck than deal with this. “Hey. Just grabbing a drink.”
“Can we get a picture?”
He glances at me, he’s silently asking permission. I smirk. “Go ahead, superstar.”
The girls squeal, and he smiles politely, ducking between them for a quick selfie. One of them whispers something about his girlfriend being “so stunning,” and his jaw tightens just enough for me to notice.
When they leave, I can’t resist. “Smooth under pressure,” I tease.
“Don’t,” he groans, running a hand down his face. “I’ll never get used to that.”
“Really? You seem built for attention.”
He gives me a look that lands somewhere between sheepish and sincere. “Not the kind that comes with filters.”
That catches me off guard. There’s something raw in the way he says it, and suddenly I remember every perfect, polished photo of him online. Smiles too white, life too curated.
“You don’t like that world much, do you?” I ask.
“Lately?” He shakes his head. “No. It’s exhausting pretending everything’s perfect when it’s not.”
Something twists in me. I know that feeling too well, the performance of being fine, the practiced ease of smiling through cracks. “Maybe you should stop pretending,” I say.
His eyes meet mine, and the air between us tightens. For a moment, it feels as though the rest of the shop falls away. “I don’t think I can,” he says finally.
And I don’t know why that sounds sadder than it should.
He straightens, breaking the moment. “Anyway, send me those photos when you can. Maybe the team can use one for the promo stuff.”
“Sure,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed that he’s pulling away.
“I should go,” he says finally, voice low.
“Yeah,” I manage. “You’ve got… practice or something, right?”
“Something,” he says, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “You’ll send those photos?”
“Maybe,” I tease, because if I don’t lighten it, I’ll drown in the weight of his eyes.
He laughs, but it doesn’t reach all the way. “You’ve got my number,” he says, almost as though he’s reminding himself.
“I remember.”
“Good.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then he nods once, as if that’s all he can allow himself, and pushes the door open. The bell jingles as he leaves, the sound small and sharp in the calm that follows. Then he’s gone with his hood up, head down, swallowed by the drizzle outside. I’m left with the faint scent of his cologne and a heartbeat that won’t slow down.
The rest of the shift drags. I try to focus on stocking shelves, ringing up customers bills, counting change, but my mind keeps replaying every look, every word. By the time I get home, the sky’s dark again, and my leg aches. I dump my bag, make tea, and finally sit with my laptop. The photos wait, patient and silent. I click through them one by one. The game. The crowd. The blur of motion and ice. And him.
Always him.
