Even in wide shots, my focus drifts to where he is. Always centre frame, a storm in motion. It’s as if my camera knew before I did.
I pause on one close-up: Callum mid-stride, eyes locked forward, mouth set, a smear of light across his cheek. There’s no helmet shadowing his face, no arrogance, no pose. Just effort and pain and something fierce beneath it. My chest tightens. I shouldn’t feel this much from a photograph. I lean back, staring at the ceiling. It’s not a crush. Not in the true sense. It’s curiosity. The kind that makes me want to know what’s behind those eyes. Except maybe it’s also a crush. A slow one. Dangerous.
I sip my tea, trying to laugh it off, but the sound catches in my throat. My phone buzzes with a text from Fran, reminding me about next week’s rota. Another from a friend sending memes.
None from him.
Of course not.
I tell myself I don’t care. That the last thing I need is to get tangled up in someone like Callum Fraser—too visible, too complicated, too out of my world. But when I open the folder of photos again, I don’t scroll past him. I linger. Zoom in. Notice things I didn’t before; the faint crease between his brows, the way his eyes catch the light as though he’s always half-thinking, half-hurting. And I realise with a sinking certainty that he’s already inside my head, and I don’t know how to make him leave.
Morning drifts into night, and the next day into another. I keep telling myself it’s fine. That it’s just a story, just an athlete, just a man who happened to show me kindness when I didn’t expect it. But when I lift my camera the next afternoon to test the lightthrough my window, I find myself framing a shot I can’t take. One of a man standing in rain, eyes tired, heart somewhere far away.
And I know exactly whose face it belongs to.
CHAPTER NINE
CALLUM
Two days later, she’s still in my head.
I should be thinking about hockey, about the upcoming match against Glasgow, the drills Coach set for me to run, the plays I’m supposed to be revising. But every time I close my eyes, I see her through the lens of that camera. Rose.
The way she stood at the boards, half-lost behind the glass, her expression focused, lips slightly parted, camera pressed to her face. It wasn’t how Talia takes photos — all posing and performance. Rose looked as though she actuallysawthings. She sawme, even though she shouldn’t.
I toss the puck from hand to hand as I sit on the bench in the locker room. The boys are loud today, music thumping, the smell of liniment and sweat mixing with the sharp chill off the ice. There’s banter flying, pucks clattering, tape snapping, and I should be part of it. But I’m somewhere else entirely.
“Oi, Fraser,” Brennan, our captain, calls out from the far end, snapping his stick against the bench. “You alive, or planning your next influencer cameo?”
The lads laugh, and I manage a smirk, because that’s what’s expected. “Just trying to remember what it’s like to play hockey with you useless lot.”
“Careful, mate,” Liam chimes in. “Coach is already on your arse for being late twice this week. Wouldn’t want to give him a reason to actually bench you.”
He’s joking, but not entirely. Coach Byrne has been on my case since the last game. Says I’m skating angry. Says I need to control it before it controls me. He’s right, Iamskating angry. I just don’t know how to stop.
Practice starts rough. Every sprint burns. Every hit feels harder than it should. The rink isn’t just a place anymore, it’s a confessional. The boards take the brunt of everything I can’t admit out loud. I keep seeing headlights. The crunch of metal. Her face, pale in the hospital room. I drive my blade into the ice, pushing harder. Fast turns, sharp edges, the sound of my own breathing loud in my ears. The guilt doesn’t leave. It just shifts shape.
“Eyes up, Fraser!” someone shouts, too late. The puck glances off my shinpad and bounces into the corner.
“Christ, Cal,” Coach snaps from the boards. “You sleeping out there?”
I grit my teeth. “No, Coach.”
He skates over, eyes hard. “Then show me. Because right now, you look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.”
I swallow down the instinct to bite back. “Yes, Coach.”
He studies me for a beat too long, then nods and blows his whistle. “Back to neutral-zone drills. Let’s go!”
We grind through the next half hour with endless breakouts, defensive recoveries, and odd-man rushes. My legs ache, my chest burns, and my brain won’t stop looping between two images: Rose smiling, Talia posing. One feels genuine. The other feels like a mirror I’m tired of looking into.
By the end, sweat runs into my eyes, stinging. Coach dismisses us with a curt nod. “Better. Still not where you should be.”
I skate off last, stripping my gloves, breathing hard. Ryan catches up, elbowing me lightly. “You all right, mate? You’ve been off your game all week.”
“Fine,” I say automatically.
“Sure you are.” He grins. “Just wondering if your missus has finally realised she could do better.”
