He tells me about growing up skating, about his dad fixing broken sticks with duct tape, about nights when hockey felt like magic instead of pressure. His voice lowers as he talks, steadyand raw, and it makes me ache a little for him, for the boy he must’ve been, for how lonely that kind of success can feel.
In return, I tell him about uni, about how I almost quit photography after the accident because everything felt too much all at once, it felt pointless when everything else hurt, and my ankle still acts up. I tell him about the psychological effect the accident had on and the nightmares that still ruin my sleep. He listens as though it matters. As though every word I say is a thread pulling him closer. When my words trail off, he reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine. Just for a second. It’s enough to short-circuit my brain.
“Don’t quit,” he says softly. “You’ve got a good eye. It would be a waste of obvious talent.”
I smile, small and unsteady. “You’ve seen my photos?” My tone is jokey, making light of my ability has always been my go-to.
“More than once.” His thumb traces the rim of his cup as he smirks. “You catch things the rest of us miss.”
The compliment shouldn’t matter, but it lands somewhere deep.
When we finally leave, it’s almost midday. The clouds are lighter, the streets gleaming. He walks me halfway home without actually discussing it, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold.
“You’ve got training soon?” I ask.
“Yeah. But I’d rather be here.”
He says it casually, as though he’s talking about the weather, but it sends a ripple through me all the same.
We stop at the corner near the park. Neither of us wants to end our time together, but we both know we should. “Thanks for coffee,” I say.
“Thanks for saying yes.”
He hesitates, then gives me this crooked, almost bashful smile. “See you soon?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “See you soon.”
He turns to go, and I watch him for too long, tall, sure, but a little lost around the edges. When he finally disappears into the city haze, I exhale the breath I’ve been holding forever.
Back home, I make tea, but it goes cold before I touch it. The flat feels quiet after the warmth of that café. My laptop’s still open on the table from last night, the email thread with Laura from the Panthers sitting there. She said the shots were perfect — sharp, natural, exactly what they needed for the campaign. I should feel proud. I should be celebrating that a professional team wants to keep working with me. Instead, I just keep clicking through the folder, even though I’ve already sent everything off.
He’s in so many of them; skating, shouting, laughing. That intensity, that focus. Every frame feels alive. Even the ones where he’s off to the side, half in shadow, jaw clenched as he’s thinking too much. And then there’s the one that stops me. He’s looking straight into the lens. Straight at me. The smallest smile on his face, like he knows something I don’t.
It makes my pulse skip.
I close the laptop, press my fingers against my eyes, and tell myself to stop. It’s nothing. Just a moment. Just a man. But when I finally lie down, I can still see that look. The way my name rolls off his tongue. And I know, deep down, that this is how it starts. The part where something small becomes something dangerous, and I stop pretending I don’t want more.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CALLUM
Sleep doesn’t come.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her. The café light catching the auburn highlights in her hair. The way she saw right through all the bullshit, and still didn’t flinch. It’s stupid. One coffee. One morning. But it’s been years since anything felt that easy. Now it’s all I can think about.
The clock on my bedside table blinks 5:47 a.m. The team flat that Coach cleared for me to use is quiet and clean without Talia’s perfume clouding the air or her phone buzzing with notifications. I should feel free. Instead, I feel as though I’ve torn out a piece of my life and left it bleeding on the floor.
I drag myself up, pull on a hoodie, and stare out at the half-light creeping across the city. Rain still streaks the window; it’s the same cold drizzle that’s been following me all week. Fitting, really. The kind of weather that seeps in and settles. Talia’s words keep echoing in my head from the night I left. “You’ll regret this, Cal. You’re walking away from everything.” She said it like I was quitting a sponsorship deal, not ending a relationship. As if I was breaking a brand, not a life. I didn’t argue. Didn’t try to defend myself. There was no point. She’d already made up her version of the story.
And yet, even knowing it was the right thing, I can’t shake the guilt. Not because of her but because of Rose. Because somewhere along the line, my reason for leaving stopped beingabout what I didn’t want and started being about what I couldn’t stop wanting.
By the time I make it to the rink, the place is humming with early-morning energy. Music thuds low from the locker room, someone’s blasting out Arctic Monkeys. The smell of coffee, sweat, and fresh ice fills the air; home, in its own brutal way.
Brennan’s already there, a man on a mission, stick in hand. Ryan’s at his stall taping his blade, humming off-key, while the new kid, Lukas Devereux, is sitting cross-legged on the floor, wrestling with his laces.
“Morning, sunshine,” Ryan calls as I step in. “You look like hell. Rough night?”
“Didn’t sleep,” I mutter, tossing my bag onto the bench.
