“Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no bite to it. He means Talia, obviously. Everyone does.
By the time I get home, it’s dark. The flat smells faintly of scented candles and expensive face cream. Talia’s sprawled on the sofa, her ring light still glowing in the corner. Her voice is a soft, sing-song rhythm as she records something on her phone.
“—so grateful for all your love and support, babes, honestly, couldn’t do any of this without you?—”
She stops mid-sentence when she sees me. “Oh, you’re home,” she says, adjusting her hair. “Couldn’t you text first? I was filming.”
“Didn’t know I needed to book an appointment.”
She pouts, not in anger, just reflex. Everything with Talia is performance. Even annoyance has an angle.
“I’m collaborating with that skincare brand,” she says. “You know, the one that wanted us to do a couple’s campaign? I told them you’re training too much at the moment, but they said maybe next month.”
“Right,” I mumble, dropping my bag. My shoulders ache but my head aches worse.
She glances over. “You look exhausted.”
“Because I am.”
“Maybe you should rest. Or eat. Or something.” She waves vaguely, already glancing back at her phone.
I go to the kitchen, grab a bottle of water, and lean against the counter. Her voice fills the flat again, soft and chirpy, the rhythm of her Instagram Story rolling on. It’s not that she’s abad person. She’s just shallow. Or maybe it’s me that’s changed. I used to like the attention, the shine of being in her world. Now, every post feels like an act I’m forced to perform. The captions about “power couples” and “balance” make my stomach twist.
When I check my own phone, I see she’s tagged me again in a story from last night:
Game night vibes with my favourite guy #Panthers #PowerCouple #WinningTeam
There’s a photo of me from the stands grinning, jersey half-off, the camera catching me at a flattering angle. Except it’s not real. It was taken last month, after a win. She’s recycling content. Pretending. And the only thing I can think about is Rose, standing in the crowd two nights ago, her eyes following the play as though she understood every heartbeat of the game.
I open Instagram. She’s posted some of her photos already; crisp shots of players mid-stride, sweat and light frozen in motion. There’s one of me, just before a faceoff, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. The caption just saysFinding focus.I stare at it too long. My thumb hovers over the like button. Then I drop the phone face-down on the table.
Talia wanders in, phone still in hand. “Babe? You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
“You sure? You’ve been weird lately. Distant.” She tilts her head, faux-concern slipping into something sharper. “If this is about that girl from the hospital,”
I freeze. “What?”
“You know, the one who was in that accident near the arena? I saw something online about a player visiting her. Was that you?”
I shrug, trying to sound casual. “Yeah. She’s fine.”
Talia’s lips curve in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Good. Wouldn’t want a random girl thinking you’re her hero.”
“Yeah,” I say flatly. “Wouldn’t want that.”
She drifts back toward the sofa, satisfied she’s won whatever argument she imagined we were having. But I can’t shake the heat creeping up my neck. Rose wouldn’t have said that. She wouldn’t have made it sound dirty.
I sink onto the edge of the bed later, still in my hoodie, scrolling through Rose’s photos again. There’s something about the way she captures motion; it’s not about perfection. It’s about truth. One photo stops me cold. It’s me, mid-sprint, eyes locked on the puck. The background’s blurred, just movement and ice and light, but the focus is razor-sharp on my face. I look unguarded. Raw. Like someone caught me off-balance. I don’t recognise that version of myself.
My fingers hover over her name in my contacts list. I type a message, then delete it. Type again. Delete again.
Nice shots.
Too plain.
You made me look better than I am.
