“Well, thanks,” I finally say, turning back to my camera as if I’ve just remembered it exists. “Most people… don’t.”
“I’m not most people,” he mutters. I glance at him. He’s sheepish, but there’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes that makes my chest tighten.
I can’t help it. My overactive brain, always analysing, always dissecting, kicks in. He’s full of contradictions. Confident, yet cautious. Charismatic, but restrained. And somehow considerate.
“Fair enough,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “So, you’re a hockey player. That explains the interest in me, I guess.”
He laughs softly, a little self-conscious. “I…uh, yeah. Partly.” He glances at my camera. “I saw you reviewing photos from the game. You’re… into photography?”
“Yeah,” I reply, warming slightly to the topic. “I’m a student. Work part-time at a shop to pay the bills.” I shrug. “Nothing glamorous.”
“Photography isn’t nothing,” he says quickly. “It’s art.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Art, huh? That’s generous of you to call my photo experiments art.”
“Experiments?” His grin is sheepish, he’s almost embarrassed to admit he’s been paying attention.
I tilt my head, studying him. “Yeah. I’m always testing stuff. Composition, lighting and angles, that kind of stuff. I like capturing moments most people miss.”
“You mean a hockey player’s madness in the last minute of a game?” he asks. “Or the look on someone’s face when they realise their car’s about to be totalled?”
I laugh, the tension in my shoulders loosening. “I’d like to think I capture the emotion behind the turmoil. You’re obviously a man who knows chaos well.”
He swallows, shifting slightly. I notice a flinch, it’s almost imperceptible, when he moves his leg, probably from the adrenaline still lingering in his muscles after the game last night. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I know chaos.”
I sense he’s holding something back. That tiny hesitation, the way he avoids my eyes for a fraction too long, it’s interesting. I like the idea that maybe there’s more to this man than the confident player everyone else knows.
“So,” I say carefully, trying to steer the conversation, “you check on strangers after accidents often?”
“No.” His smile is a little crooked, but there’s honesty in it. “Not usually. Just… felt wrong not to. What with you being at the game and everything.”
I nod slowly. “That’s commendable. And slightly terrifying, to have a stranger show up in your hospital room.”
He laughs, genuine this time, and I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “I get that. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to scare you or anything.”
“I’m not scared,” I lie, sort of. “Maybe slightly startled. And a little curious.”
He tilts his head, eyebrows raising. “Curious?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Curious how a professional hockey player, someone probably used to the madness of the rink, ends up worried about the mess in a stranger’s life.”
He laughs; it’s a low, rich sound that makes my stomach flutter. “Guess I’m more complicated than I look.”
“More complicated than you look,” I echo, noting the subtle shift in his tone. He’s trying to charm me, I think. And somehow, it’s working.
For the next hour, we talk. Small talk, mostly, about how my course is going, how he trains, the upcoming season. But beneath it, a subtle current of something else is forming. Respect, maybe even a little attraction. And for the first time since the crash, I feel a little bit of lightness.
By the time the nurse comes in to check my vitals, he’s standing, hands shoved into his pockets, awkward but attentive.
“I should go,” he says. “You need rest. Photos and all.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Thanks for stopping by. For… you know, checking I’m okay.”
“Of course,” he mutters, voice low. “I’ll see you around. Hopefully not after another accident, though.”
I grin, a little mischievously. “Hopefully.”
He hesitates, then leans closer. “Do you want me to show you some of the shots I took at the game?”
