Later that night, I’m back on the balcony with a beer, city lights glinting across the glass towers. The hum of traffic rises from below, faint but constant. I scroll through Rose’s messages again, then through her photos, and something settles in me that feels dangerously close to peace. Not because she forgave me, she doesn’t even know what I need forgiving for, but because when she looks at me through that camera, I feel seen for the person I am.
The guilt twists in my gut, sharp as ever. She deserves better than a liar. Better than the man who drove away. But for the first time since that night, I can breathe without it choking me. Maybe because, just for a second, I can believe in the version of me she’s captured — focused, steady, worth something more than headlines and damage.
Down below, the city pulses with lights flickering and cars streaking past like shooting stars. I take a long pull of beer and let the cold bite against my teeth. Tomorrow, I’ll see her again. Professional, clean, nothing that crosses the line. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Because deep down, I know the line is already gone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROSE
The rink smells of cold air and ambition.
That’s the first thought that hits me when I step through the doors, camera bag slung across my shoulder, nerves knotting in my stomach. It’s quieter than on game night, there’s no roar of fans, no echoing commentary, but the hum of activity is still there. Sticks clatter. Someone laughs from the bench. The boards gleam under the lights, a perfect stage for everything I’ve been dreaming about.
“Rose Bennett?”
I turn. A woman in a smart jacket and trainers strides toward me, clipboard in hand. “Laura Denton,” she says. “Team PR manager. You must be our new photographer.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Callum’s been singing your praises.”
My heart stutters. “Has he?”
“Oh yes.” Laura’s smile is knowing but kind. “Said you’ve got a good eye. We’re lucky to have you. Just keep your head on a swivel, they’re a handful when they’re together.”
“I can handle hockey players.”
She laughs. “That’s what they all say.”
We head toward the ice, her explaining the plan as we walk; group shots for the media site, candid moments for socials, sponsor banners, a few portraits. I nod professionally, but my pulse is racing.
I sense him before I see him. Callum’s at centre ice, leaning on his stick, helmet off, hair damp from the morning skate. He’s laughing at something one of the players says, Brennan, their captain, I think, and for a second, it hits me just how stupidlymagnetiche is. Not the polished, PR-perfect version you see online. This is something else entirely.
He catches sight of me and straightens, something flickering in his expression before he smiles.
“Hey,” he says when I reach the boards. “You made it.”
“I said I would.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“Didn’t doubt it.” His grin softens. “You good?”
“I’m fine. Just trying not to fall on the ice.”
“Want a hand?”
“Not from you,” I tease. “I’ve seen you crash into the boards enough times.”
That earns me a low laugh, and God help me, I love the sound of it.
“Alright, everyone!” Laura claps her hands. “Group shots first, then we’ll break for individual stuff. Rose, do your thing.”
I kneel by the barrier, adjusting my lens, pretending not to notice Callum watching me. Through the viewfinder, he’s just another player - focused, composed, part of the machine that makes this team tick. But outside the glass, my pulse hammers.
The camera clicks in rapid bursts. Shouts, laughter, the slap of sticks. Brennan wraps an arm around a winger’s shoulder. Someone throws a puck at the camera; I duck and hear Callum bark, “Oi! You break that thing and she’ll kill you!”
Laura grins. “Told you they were a handful.”
