The rink hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the rasp of skates biting ice. I’ve been here since dawn, trying to skate the restlessness out of my body. It’s not working. Every stride feels like a question I don’t know how to answer.
The lads are filtering in behind me, filling the air with laughter, music, and the smell of sweat and coffee. Normally it grounds me. Today it just makes my chest tighter. I’m still thinking about that message. I shouldn’t have sent it.Couldn’t sleep. Been thinking about your photos.Too much, too honest. I must’ve stared at the screen for ten minutes before pressing send. She replied with a simple,Thanks, means a lot.Professional and casual. But I’ve read it at least twenty times, trying to decide if there’s something hidden between the lines.
“Morning, superstar,” Liam calls, slapping his stick against the bench. “You look rougher than a week-old kebab.”
“Cheers,” I mutter, tugging on my gloves.
He grins. “Talia keeping you up too late filming another bedtime routine?”
A couple of the lads snicker. I force a smirk. “Jealous?”
“Of watching you moisturise for likes? Not a chance.”
It’s all banter, but the noise scrapes against the inside of my head. I skate out to the circle and start running puck drills, eyes locked on the tape. The rhythm should be enough to drowneverything out, but my mind won’t settle. I keep imagining Rose leaning over the barrier with her camera, hair falling into her face, focus sharp enough to slice through glass. I shouldn’t be this distracted.
The whistle shrieks, dragging me back.
“Fraser!” Coach Byrne’s voice ricochets across the rink. “You planning to join us, or are you posing for the cameras again?”
Laughter ripples down the bench. I bite down the urge to snap back. “Coming, Coach.”
He eyes me as I line up for the next breakout. “Need you switched on today. You’ve been skating angry all week.”
“Not angry.”
He raises a brow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
The whistle blows again. I push off, stick low, lungs burning. The drills blur in fast passes, edge control, collision drills that sting my shoulders. Each impact jolts something loose inside me, a mixture of guilt and adrenaline. When the final whistle goes, I’m soaked in sweat but no calmer.
“Better,” Coach says, crossing his arms. “Now keep it there. I don’t need another outburst like last week.”
“Got it.”
The lads start peeling off their helmets and drifting toward the tunnel, still chirping. Ryan sidles up beside me, bumping my shoulder with his. “You good, mate?”
“Fine.”
He grins. “Sure you are. Because you’ve had the expression of a man who’s either murdered someone or fallen in love. Maybe both.”
I roll my eyes. “Get lost.”
He laughs, skating away. But his words linger longer than they should.
By the time I hit the locker room, the place is a steam cloud of chatter and wet gear. Someone’s playing grime on a portablespeaker, half the lads are still ribbing each other about last night’s pub quiz, and I’m in the corner scrolling through my phone like an addict.
Rose’s photo sits on the screen. That same shot she posted of me mid-sprint. It shouldn’t hit this hard. There’s something unfiltered about it. She caught me raw, mid-breath, she peeled back the armour and found the man underneath. It feels dangerous.
I’m still staring when Coach Byrne strides through the door with Laura Denton, our PR manager, trailing behind. She’s efficient, sharp, and always in control. She glances over the room, clipboard in hand. “Morning, boys. Quick note, we’re updating the media kit this week. New promo shots, social features, all that good stuff. Try to keep the bruises to a minimum, yeah?”
A few groans ripple around the room.
“Laura,” I call out before I can talk myself out of it.
She glances up, surprised. “Cal?”
“Can I show you something?”
She narrows her eyes. “If it’s another sponsor idea involving your family dog, the answer’s no. The last one nearly set the locker room on fire.”
