Too late. The puck skims off my stick and slams into the boards. The whistle screams.
“Bench!” Coach barks. “Five minutes. Think about what sport you play.”
The lads skate past, trying not to laugh. Mike winks. “He’s still picturing her, boys. Leave him be.”
“Shut it,” I growl, ripping off my helmet and sitting down hard on the bench. My pulse hammers in my throat. I rub a glove over my face, trying to push everything out. Rose’s eyes and the gnawing guilt that’s been chewing at me since.
The clang of pucks and the squeal of skates is normally my rhythm, my reset. But right now, all I can think about is the crash. Her car spinning. The sound of metal and glass, and my hands gripping the steering wheel as if I could will it all to stop.
“Fraser!” Coach’s voice cuts in again, closer now. He’s standing over me, scowl deep enough to crack his jaw. “You want to tell me what the hell that was out there?”
“Just a rough morning, Coach.”
“Rough morning? You’ve had a rough bloodyweek. You missed Tuesday’s gym session, you’ve been late twice, and your passes resembles something out of a Sunday beer league. You want to sit out Saturday? Because if your head’s not back in it, I’ll find someone who gives a damn.”
I clench my jaw. “I give a damn.”
“Then prove it. Because right now, you look like you’re skating through mud.”
He stalks off, leaving a trail of frost in his wake. The lads keep their heads down, sensing the tension. I slam my stick against the boards, hard enough to make my hands sting. Ryan glances over as he glides past.
“Coach’s on one today,” he mutters. “You good, mate?”
“Fine,” I bite out. “Just tired.”
He doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t push. That’s Ryan; steady, calm and annoyingly perceptive.
We finish drills, defensive transitions, and end on power play rotations. Every second feels as though it’s a test I’m failing. By the end, sweat is dripping down my back, leaving my jersey clinging to my skin. I hit the showers without saying a word.
The locker room is bedlam. Someone’s got music blaring from a speaker, and the smell of deodorant and damp gear hangs thick in the air.
“Oi, Fraser,” Mike says from across the room, towel slung over his shoulder. “You see Talia’s story?”
I freeze. “What?”
He grins, waving his phone as bait. “Your girl’s doing the rounds again. Cute video about some breakfast-in-bed nonsense. The caption says‘My favourite mornings with my favourite man’. That you, superstar?”
The lads roar with laughter. I force a smirk, trying not to let my irritation show. “Yeah, mate. Must be. Shame I was here busting my arse while she filmed it.”
“Queen Influencer,” Ryan mutters. “She never misses a chance to post.”
I grab my bag and start pulling on my jeans. The laughter fades behind me as I leave the room, phone buzzing in my hand. Sure enough, her face fills the screen when I open Instagram.Perfect smile with the sunlight hitting the edge of the duvet like a film set. My tagged name sitting neatly beneath her caption.
My favourite man.
A lie wrapped in filters.
I swipe through the comments and the fans are eating it up, with my sponsors reposting it. The whole polished illusion of a happy couple. The same illusion I’ve been propping up for months. It’s supposed to make us both look good. She gets attention; I get stability and an easy headline. But every time she posts stuff that, it feels less like stability and more like a cage.
I drop my phone back into my pocket, and rub my palm over my face in exasperation. My head’s still buzzing from the drills, but it’s the photo that twists my stomach. The truth is we haven’t had breakfast together in weeks. We barely speak unless it’s for a camera. And even then, its lines rehearsed to sound sincere. I don’t know when the shift happened or even if it did. Maybe it’s always been this way and I let it slide for ease. I scroll again before I can stop myself. The comments all blur into a mass of words, but one catches my eye.
“They’re couple goals #perfectpair.”
Perfect. Right.
I head out of the stadium before someone else can say something clever.
Outside, the cold, sharp air hits me, it feels clean. The night is creeping in, with lights flickering across the car park. My car sits under a streetlamp, streaked with grime and salt. I climb in and start the engine, then I just sit there, listening to it rumble.
