I blink. “You took photos?”
He smirks. “I do more than skate fast. Want to see?”
Something warm flickers through me. “Sure. Why not?”
He pulls his phone from his pocket, flipping through shots. Action-packed images of players mid-flight, sweat flying, sticks colliding. And then he pauses, holding the phone out to me.
“This one,” he says. “I got this shot of the goalie… the exact moment he realised the puck was slipping past him.”
I lean in, impressed despite myself. “Wow. That’s intense. You really do capture the emotion.”
“Like your photos,” he says softly. “Different kind of madness, same idea.”
My cheeks warm, and I glance away. “Thanks.”
There’s a beat of silence. Comfortable yet charged. I feel the flutter again, low in my stomach, and I realise I’m not used to feeling this visible. Vulnerable, maybe, but in a way I don’t hate.
“You really shouldn’t have come here,” I say finally, trying to regain some control. “Most people wouldn’t even get past the receptionist.”
“I know, she was a tough cookie to crack,” he admits. “But I couldn’t not.”
I study him, and now, I see beyond the blond hair, broad shoulders, and fame. I see guilt, responsibility, and a surprising amount of sincerity.
“You’re trouble,” I mutter, half-laughing, half-serious.
He grins, just enough to be infuriating. “Depends on who you ask.”
We exchange a look, lingering longer than necessary. I feel the unsteady pull between curiosity and caution, between the remnants of last night’s terror and this moment.
When he finally leaves, promising to catch me at the next game or drop me a message to see how I’m doing, I watch him walk away. His presence lingers in the air, like the faint echo of music or the scent of something comforting and foreign. I turn back to my camera, to my photos, and the reality of my life, the lectures, the deadlines, but a small, insistent thought keeps intruding. Maybe chaos isn’t always bad. Maybe sometimes, it’s exactly what you need.
And maybe a professional hockey player can be the kind of chaos worth paying attention to.
CHAPTER THREE
CALLUM
The rink smells of sweat and cold steel. Comforting, usually but today it feels more of a punishment.
My lungs are already burning, legs heavy, the kind of ache that makes your vision tighten at the edges. The puck ricochets off the boards, and I chase it down the line, stick tapping out a furious rhythm. Coach’s whistle pierces through the echo, and I know I’m a second too slow.
“Fraser!” Coach’s voice cracks across the ice. “You planning to join us today, or just taking a scenic tour of the neutral zone?”
I grit my teeth, cutting hard and stopping so ice sprays up around my skates. The rest of the lads are already lined up at centre ice, smirking. Ryan flashes me a look that’s half sympathy, half amusement. “Someone’s still daydreaming about his celebrity missus.”
“Shut it,” I mutter, skating back into line. But the damage is done. The chirping begins.
“Oi, Cal!” Mike calls. “You forget how to skate after all that red-carpet posing?”
The lads laugh. It should roll off me, and it usually does, but today it sticks. Every comment digs a little deeper under my skin.
Coach blows the whistle again. “Two-line drill. Let’s see if you remember what hard work looks like.”
We go again with sprint passes, tight corners, and quick stops. Over and over until my thighs are on fire and my shoulders ache from holding form. Every turn is a reminder that I was late this morning, and my head’s still back in that hospital room instead of on the ice where it belongs.
I can still see Rose’s face when she looked at me like she couldn’t decide whether to thank me or tell me to leave. That gentle confidence, the calm way she asked,You’re really Cal Fraser?Not like a fan. It was as though she was collecting data.
“Fraser!” Coach shouts again. “Eyes up!”
