Too flirty.
Thanks for coming to the game.
Too much.
In the end, I put the phone down and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The guilt should have faded by now. Instead, it’s sharper. I keep replaying the accident. The sound of metal, the flash of headlights and then her voice in the hospital, soft but steady, telling me she was fine. She wasn’t fine. She was trying to be.
Talia comes in, half-heartedly brushing her hair. “You coming to bed?”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
She slides in beside me, phone glowing faintly in her hand. For a while, the only sound is the soft tapping of her typing a caption. I close my eyes, but the darkness fills with light instead. The burst of a flash, the click of a camera, her laugh.
Rose.
The next morning, I drag myself to the gym before sunrise. The locker room’s empty, the ice still peaceful. I lace up my runners and start hitting the treadmill, hoping the rhythm will drown her out. It doesn’t.
Sweat drips down my neck, but all I can think about is her standing there with that camera, the way she smiled when I said she took good photos. What the hell am I doing? Talia’s the one I’m supposed to be building a life with. She’s the one with the apartment, the followers, the plans. She fits the version of me everyone expects; the charming forward, the face of the Panthers. But with Rose, I don’t have to be that guy. I don’t have to smile on cue or explain why I’m quiet. She doesn’t expect perfect. She doesn’t evenlikeperfect.
I slow to a walk, my chest heaving.
If she ever finds out the truth, that I caused the accident that night, that I panicked and drove off before stopping, she’ll never look at me the same way again. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s why I keep going back to her, because it feels as though it’s a punishment, a confession. The only kind of truth I’ve had in months.
The treadmill hums beneath my feet, steady, relentless. I can’t stop thinking about her eyes. That grey-blue mix that looks like morning light over ice. I know this is going to end badly. I know I should walk away now. But I won’t. Because even though she doesn’t know who I really am; the liar, the coward, the reason she’s walking with a limp, she makes me feel like the man Iwantto be.
And that’s something worth ruining everything for.
CHAPTER TEN
ROSE
The bruise on my hip has finally faded, but the ache hasn’t. Some mornings I still wake up stiff, every muscle reminding me of that night. Of the lights, the sound, the way time folded in on itself. I stretch carefully, one leg at a time, and try not to think about the driver’s face I never saw.
It’s Saturday, soft, pale light spilling through the window of my flat. My camera sits on the table, battery charged, memory card full. I haven’t gone through the rest of the photos from the Panthers game yet. I keep meaning to. I just…I don’t know. Something about it feels loaded now, like opening a door I’m not sure I want to walk through. But I do it anyway.
The laptop hums to life, screen flickering to the folder I’ve been avoiding. Hundreds of images fill the screen. They’re full of motion, ice, speed, and chaos caught mid-breath. I scroll slowly, checking focus and exposure, deleting a few, adjusting others.
Then I find him. Callum Fraser. Number 14. He’s in almost every frame that matters. I didn’t plan that, my camera just kept finding him. The way he moves, the control under the aggression, the split second before impact when everything in him tightens, like a held breath. There’s one photo in particular I can’t look away from. He’s skating hard, jaw clenched, eyes locked straight ahead, and the light hits his face just enough to make him look unguarded, not angry, not cocky, just genuine.
I should delete it. It’s too personal. But I don’t. Instead, I pull it into the editor, adjust the contrast, crop it tighter. The more I look, the more I see. The exhaustion around his eyes, the faint line of a scar near his hairline, the focus that turns him inside out. When I finally lean back, my heart’s beating too fast. I take a breath. “Get a grip, Rose.”
I’m not some teenager crushing on a hockey player. He was kind to me at the hospital, that’s all. He felt guilty, probably thought it was his fault, being there when it happened. That’s it. Except I can still hear his voice sometimes, low and careful.You scared me that night.I still remember how he looked when he said it.
My phone buzzes on the table, jolting me back. It’s an email from theHerald: the photo editor wants to run a short feature on local sports photographers. “Send five of your best images by Monday,” it says. I should be thrilled, its exposure, a shot at getting noticed. But the idea of people seeinghimlike that, throughmyeyes, makes me hesitate.
I close the laptop and grab my coat.
The air outside is crisp, the kind that stings your lungs. The walk to the café is slower than it used to be. My limp’s better, but uneven pavement still makes me cautious. I tell myself it’s fine. It’s progress.
Inside, the warmth hits instantly, espresso machines hissing, chatter low and steady. My friend from uni, Isla, waves from behind the counter, dark curls piled on top of her head.
“Hey stranger,” she says. “Haven’t seen you since the game. You surviving?”
“Barely.” I smile, taking my usual seat by the window. “Editing all morning.”
“Of course you were.” She slides over a mug of coffee without asking. “Any good ones?”
“Some. A few that might actually make me look as if I know what I’m doing.”
