I pull my phone out again, staring at the black screen until it lights up. No new messages. No notifications that matter. Just silence. And for once, I let myself breathe properly. The kind of breath that comes when there’s no one to perform for.
I whisper it to the empty rink, just to hear the truth out loud. “I’m not fine.”
The sound bounces off the boards, soft and cold. It feels almost confessional. I think of Rose again. Her hand brushing her camera, the way her eyes had softened when she laughed. And for the first time since the crash, focus stirs in me. Not the kind I can skate through. Something sharper. More human.
Maybe I’ll never see her again. Maybe I shouldn’t want to. But I can’t shake the thought that she saw something the rest of the world stopped seeing a long time ago.
And now the ice doesn’t feel like home. It feels like a mirror.
CHAPTER FOUR
ROSE
The bell above the shop door jingles again as I step in, grimacing slightly as my ankle protests. The dull ache has turned into a constant throb, a reminder of the crash, my clumsiness, and the fact that work hours have been cut so low I’m forced to push through long shifts even while limping. I adjust my flats, hoping the thick rubber soles will give me a little relief.
The shop is quiet, the kind of lull that usually makes the time crawl. Wooden shelves lined with stationery, mugs, and little trinkets gleam under the fluorescent lights. The smell of polish and perfume mix oddly with the faint dustiness of the old floorboards. I set my bag down behind the counter and begin tidying, stacking notebooks and smoothing flyers. My fingers ache from gripping the broom, and I have to remind myself to be careful, or my ankle will pay for it.
I’m mid-sweep when the door jingles again, and I look up, expecting another regular customer or a teenager idly browsing. My breath catches and it takes me a second to school my features.
“Oh.”
He’s there. Cal Fraser. I recognise him instantly, of course. The blond hair, broad shoulders, that confident-but-somehow-vulnerable aura. He looks exactly like the photos on the Manchester Panthers’ website and every sports headline.And yet, he looks completely out of place standing by the door, scanning the shelves as though he’s afraid of touching something.
“Hi,” I say, forcing my voice to sound casual. My heartbeat a little faster than it should be. “Can I help you with something?”
He blinks at me, startled, then gives me a sheepish smile. “Uh… hey. Yeah. I didn’t expect to erm run into you here.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to keep my amusement out of my tone. “I didn’t expect to see you either. Shopping around here often?”
“Not… usually,” he admits quickly, hands raised in surrender. “I was… passing by. Thought I’d check out the shops. Support local businesses, you know.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, smirking. “That’s what people always say when they’re clearly… doing something else.”
He flushes, running a hand through his hair. “Okay… fine. Something else. Guilty.”
The bell jingles again, and a teenager pauses in the doorway, her mouth slightly open, eyes wide. She’s wearing a Panthers jersey and is holding a phone like it’s a lifeline.
“Is… is that Cal Fraser?” she whispers, pointing.
Cal’s face goes as red as a tomato. “Hi… yeah. That’s me,” he mutters, waving awkwardly. “Go on, mate. Don’t be shy.”
The girl nods and practically runs out, still staring. I bite back a laugh. Watching a grown man, who can skate circles around the best defenders in the league, turn crimson in a shop aisle is strange. And oddly endearing.
“Well,” I say, leaning against the counter and trying to hide my own amusement, “everyone knows you, even in shops where you don’t belong.”
He lets out a breathy laugh. “Yeah… I guess I don’t blend in very well.”
“No,” I tease, “you’re conspicuous. People probably notice your hair alone.”
He groans dramatically. “You’re merciless.”
I shrug. “I call it honesty.”
He shifts slightly, still glancing around, but I notice a subtle tension in his shoulders. Not arrogance or confidence, but guilt. I don’t know why it struck me, but it does. There is something in the way he carries himself, careful, restrained, as though he’s trying to undo something unseen.
“Need a hand with anything?” I ask, motioning to the pile of notebooks teetering on the counter.
He hesitates before bending slightly to straighten them. “I… can manage. Don’t want to… break anything.”
