“Want a coffee? There’s a decent place two streets away.”
“I should get home.”
He nods, but there’s something in his expression, disappointment maybe, that twists in my chest. “Thanks for the opportunity, though,” I add. “It means a lot.”
He hesitates, then says softly, “You earned it.”
We’re too close now. The corridor feels smaller, the air charged. I should move or say something clever. Instead, I just stand there, staring at the flecks of green in his eyes.
He clears his throat first. “Wait for me. I’ll walk you out.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Humour me.” He says as he dashes off to get changed.
Outside, the late afternoon air is crisp, sunlight pooling in gold streaks across the pavement. My car’s still wrecked, so I’m walking to the bus stop. Callum falls into step beside me, hands in his jacket pockets.
“So,” he says, “what happens after this? Big photography career? Sports Illustrated covers?”
I laugh. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Maybe. But you’ve got something. The way you see people, it’s different.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me without trying to sell me something.”
He grins. “Guess I’m losing my touch.”
“Or finding it.”
He looks at me, and the smile falters. “You ever feel like you’re living someone else’s life?”
The question catches me off guard. “All the time.”
“Yeah.” He exhales, gaze distant. “Thought so.”
We reach the bus stop. I shift my bag higher, trying to ignore the way my heart’s thudding.
“Well,” I say, “thanks for walking me. Again.”
“Anytime.”
“Careful. I might start expecting it.”
He smirks. “Wouldn’t be the worst habit.”
The bus pulls up with a hiss of brakes. I step forward, turning back just once. He’s still standing there, hands in pockets, watching. For a moment, I think he’ll say something else but he doesn’t. I climb on board, finding a seat by the window. When the bus pulls away, he’s still there, silhouette fading against the rink’s glass front.
That night, I upload the photos.
The light in my flat is soft and dim, the only sound the whirr of my laptop and the occasional buzz from the fridge. The screen fills with frozen moments of laughter, motion, and the sharp gleam of ice.
And him.
He’s in almost every frame. Sometimes at the edge, blurred by movement, sometimes centre stage. Even when I wasn’t focusing on him, my camera was. It’s as if my lens betrayed me, drawn to him the way my eyes always are. I linger on one shot, it’s Callum mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, helmet dangling from one hand. Unscripted, unposed. Authentic. The longer I look, the more I feel that tug in my chest I don’t want to name. I tell myself it’s just curiosity. He’s an athlete, famous and complicated. I’m a woman who’s survived something messy and is still putting herself back together. This isn’t what I need. And yet when I open my editing software, I start with his photos first.
The hours slide by. I crop, adjust exposure, and tweak colours. Every time I try to move on, I find another image of him, another angle, another flicker of expression that shouldn’t mean anything but does. By midnight, the folder is full. I save everything, lean back, and close my eyes. Outside, the city lights blur through the window. I tell myself I’ll forget about him in the morning. But I know I won’t.
The next morning, I wake to an email from Laura:The team loved your work. Can we talk about keeping you on for a few more sessions?
