The accident flashes back again. Rose’s car, twisted metal and screeching of brakes, the red light and the sound of horns beeping. The way she looked at me when she glanced up from the hospital bed, as though she was trying to piece together who I was and why I was there. I shouldn’t have gone to the hospital; I tell myself for the hundredth time. It wasn’t my place. But thenI remember how small she looked in that bed, how her voice wavered when she saidI’m fineeven though she clearly wasn’t. And now I can’t stop thinking about her. About the bruise on her arm and her forehead, the way she tried to hide them. About the fact that, for once, someone looked at me and didn’t see a headline.
The guilt sits heavy on my chest.
I pull out my phone again. Her name isn’t in it, of course. But the hospital name flashes in my mind. I still remember it from the band on her wrist. It’s stupid. But I call anyway.
The line rings twice before a receptionist answers. “Northern General Hospital, how can I help?”
“Hi, yeah. I was calling about a patient who was admitted yesterday. Her name’s Rose Bennett. She was brought in after a car accident and I came to visit her the day after. I just wanted to know how she’s doing.”
There’s a pause while the keyboard clatters on the other end. “I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t give out patient information without consent.”
“Right. Yeah. I just wanted to know if she was… okay. If she was still there.”
Another pause. Then, softer she says, “She’s been discharged.”
Discharged. The word lifts and crushes something within me all at once. “Okay. Thanks.”
I hang up before I can make it any weirder. She’s out. That’s good, it must mean she’s fine. Probably home, surrounded by friends. Already forgetting about the guy who showed up uninvited to her hospital room like some misplaced Good Samaritan.
I rest my head against the steering wheel. It feels cool against my skin, and I stay there for a long minute, breathing in, out, in again. Trying to let the guilt bleed away.
It doesn’t.
Instead, my brain replays the way she’d laughed, small, and unfiltered. The way she’d saidchaosas if it was something she understood. And suddenly, the rink doesn’t feel like the only place I’m losing control.
When I get home, the flat is silent. It feels sterile and clinical. The kind of place designed for photo ops, not people. Talia’s things are still scattered on the counter. There are flowers, empty coffee cups, a brand-new makeup palette lays open like a crime scene. I can smell her perfume, hanging heavy in the air. There’s a note on the counter. A neat pink Post-it with the perfect handwriting.
Dinner with PR team at 7. Don’t forget to repost the story. T.
Of course.
I grab a beer from the fridge and drop onto the sofa. The TV flickers, muted, hockey highlights rolling. My phone buzzes with a notification from Instagram. Talia’s story again, this time reposted by a lifestyle brand.
Perfect couple goals.
I down half the beer in one go. The taste of bitterness and metal sits on my tongue.
The thing is, I used to love the game for its simplicity. You skate hard, hit harder, and earn every bruise is a badge of honour. It was real, at least. Now it’s all noise and press events, sponsorships and fake smiles. Even Talia, who once felt like anescape, is just another mirror reflecting back the version of me everyone else wants to see.
And then there’s Rose. A stranger who shouldn’t matter, but does. Because for a few minutes in that hospital room, I wasn’tCal Fraser, forward for the Panthers.I was just a bloke who stopped at the wrong moment and tried to do something right. Something worthwhile for a change.
I flick off the TV and stare out the window. The city glows faintly in the distance, all orange streetlights, rain-slicked tarmac, and the hum of traffic as people go about the business. It’s grounding and suffocating all at once. And it makes me question so much of my life.
My phone buzzes again. Talia, this time.
You good for the shoot tomorrow? They want you in the navy suit. Xx
I stare at it for a second, then type back.
Yeah. Fine.
I don’t send it right away, my thumb hovering over the screen. Then, without thinking, I backspace the message to delete it, toss the phone onto the sofa, and grab my jacket. The need to get out of here burning deep within me.
The rink is closed by the time I get back, but the parking lot’s quiet, the ice still humming faintly behind the glass. I slip inside through the side door, using my keycard, perks of being captain once upon a time.
The rink is dark except for the low glow of emergency lights. The ice glints under them, pale blue, smooth as glass and so enticing. I step out onto it, no skates, just boots, the echo of my steps sharp and hollow. “Get your head back in the game,” Coach’s voice echoes in my mind.
Easier said than done.
