“Local Woman Injured in Deansgate Collision: Hockey Fan Recovering in Hospital”
Rose Bennett. Twenty-two. Photography student. Works retail part-time. And, according to one article, she’d been on her way to her shift after leaving a hockey game that night. My stomach drops.
I can’t stop thinking about her; her life, her independence, and being caught in the wreck that wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Cal?” Talia’s voice drifts from the sofa. She’s scrolling through her phone, probably live-streaming some disaster-clickbait content. “You’ve been glued to that screen for hours. Chill.”
“I can’t,” I mutter. “Someone got hurt. She got hurt.”
Talia looks at me, unimpressed. “It’s just?—”
“No,” I cut her off, my voice sharp. “She’s a hockey fan. She’d been at the game. I caused the crash. I saw the mess behind me. I can’t just do nothing.”
I know I can’t.
The next morning, I find myself outside the hospital, my nerves on edge. I tell the receptionist I work for the hockey teamshe’d been attending, that I was at the game too, and that I happened to drive past the accident. I phrase it carefully, leave out the part that makes me the reason for it. “I just want to check she’s okay. She’s a fan of the team.”
The receptionist hesitates, then nods. “I’m not supposed to give out information on patients but… Room 212. But she’s resting. Please, don’t get her wound up. And don’t tell anyone I gave you the room number.”
I take the elevator up to the second floor, my heart pounding. I pause outside her door, listening. Inside, she’s sitting up in bed, camera in her hands, reviewing photos from the previous day. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, glasses slipping down her nose. Focused, determined, unaware of me.
“Um… Rose?” I ask.
She glances up, startled, then frowns. “Do I… know you?”
“I… I was at the game last night,” I say quickly, hoping my explanation is enough. “I drove past the accident on Deansgate and wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Her eyes narrow, assessing me. “And you’re… a hockey fan too?”
I nod, cautiously. “Kind of. Manchester Panthers. I…play for them. Cal… Callum Fraser.” I swallow, aware of the weight those words carry. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
She studies me, still wary, but not hostile. “Fair enough,” she says finally. “Most normal people don’t check on strangers.”
I let out a breath. “I guess I’m not most people.”
A pause stretches between us, awkward but charged. Then she gestures to the empty chair by the bed. “Sit. If you’re going to hover awkwardly by the door.”
I do, aware of every heartbeat and every flicker of guilt and adrenaline. And as I settle beside her, I realise this isn’t going to be simple. Redemption rarely is. But there’s something about Rose and her resilience that makes me want to try anyway.
CHAPTER TWO
ROSE
Iwatch him settle in the chair beside my hospital bed, the smell of antiseptic and something faintly metallic clinging to the air. My fingers linger on my camera, almost reflexively. I’ve spent the last year framing life through a lens, capturing moments I can control. But right now, I feel exposed, and completely out of my depth.
“You’re really Cal Fraser?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, professional even, though there’s a nervous tremor I can’t hide.
He nods, hands clasped in his lap, trying not to fidget. There’s a carefulness in the way he moves, the way he sits. It looks deliberate. Almost as if he’s calculating every gesture. And for some reason, I find that interesting but annoying and intrusive. All at once.
“Yes. I…” He hesitates. I catch it, the tiny crack in his armour. “I wanted to make sure you were okay after the accident. I drove past.”
I swallow, glancing at the bruise blooming along my arm. It’s nothing too dramatic, just enough to sting if I press it. The thing that burns more, though, is the embarrassment. I’ve always been independent. Always gotten myself out of trouble. But yesterday, I was helpless in my car, and now this stranger, this hockey player I’ve only ever seen from the stands, shows up at my hospital room.
“You… drove past?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
“I did. I…” His gaze drops for a fraction of a second, then meets mine again. “I saw what happened. I wanted to check on you.”
There’s a pause, heavy and awkward. I don’t know if it’s the scent of his cologne, or the fact that he’s sitting there, bright-eyed, broad-shouldered, and entirely too close for comfort, but I feel the heat creep up my neck.
