My stomach flips.
Then, just below it, a text.
CAL: You make us look better than we deserve. Coffee to celebrate?
I smile before I can stop myself. My fingers hover over the screen, half ready to type, half terrified to. Outside, sunlight spills across the street. The world feels lighter somehow. I tellmyself it’s just work. Just opportunity. Just coffee. But deep down, I already know better.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CALLUM
The text is still sitting on my screen when I wake up.
Rose: Coffee sounds good.
It’s simple. Polite. But it hits harder than it should. I reread it three times before I even drag myself out of bed.
The morning light cuts through the blinds, streaking across the wall. The air smells of burnt coffee and the faint sweetness of Talia’s candles, something floral, too perfect to be real. She’s still asleep beside me, blonde hair spilling across the pillow, phone clutched in her hand like a second heartbeat. Her lock screen glows faintly with notifications of likes, comments, and reposts. Her world.
Mine feels quieter lately. Sharper. And that’s the problem.
I get up, tug on a hoodie, and head straight for the kitchen. My head’s pounding, not from training or a hangover, but from the ache that comes with knowing something has to give. The coffee machine hisses, the kind of domestic noise that used to feel comforting. Now it just sounds like static. I can’t stop thinking about Rose. The way she looked behind that camera; steady, focused, and she could see right through all the noise.
At the rink, practice is brutal. Coach is in a mood, probably because we dropped two points last weekend and the press haven’t let it go. The drills are relentless with suicides, puckcontrol, and checking drills that leave bruises blooming along my ribs. Every time my blade hits the ice, I try to skate the feeling out. The guilt. The confusion. The way her voice keeps replaying in my head.
“Jesus, Fraser,” Brennan mutters as I smash into the boards after a sprint. “You trying to kill yourself or make Coach cry?”
“Bit of both,” I manage, chest heaving.
“Relax, mate,” Liam adds, snapping the tape off his stick. “It’s practice, not penance.”
They laugh, and I try to join in, but it feels forced. Every drill, every play, feels like an apology I can’t say out loud. When Coach finally blows the whistle, I collapse onto the bench, sweat dripping from my hair.
“Good shift,” Brennan says, tossing me a towel. “You still brooding, or did someone finally cheer you up?”
“Neither.”
“Liar.” He grins. “Word is you brought in that photographer. The brunette.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, half the lads are wondering if she’s single.”
I shoot him a look. “Don’t.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Just saying, if you’re that protective already…”
I roll my eyes, but my pulse spikes. Protective. He doesn’t know how right he is.
After practice, I hang back while the others hit the showers. The rink’s peaceful again, just the low murmur of the refrigeration units and the occasional drip of water from a broken pipe. My stick leans against the boards, tape fraying. This place used to feel like home. Now it’s just a place where I hide.
I pull out my phone. The last text from Rose still glows on the screen.Coffee sounds good.
I type out a reply:
Cal: Tomorrow? Eleven? That café near the station?
I stare at it for a second before pressing send. It’s like lighting a match in a dark room. And then I leave the stadium and head home.
