Grief.
For the version of us that existed before I knew. For the girl I was when I believed love didn’t come with this kind of cost. And somewhere beneath all of that, a reluctant truth settles in my chest.
Whatever else Callum did wrong, when it mattered most, he didn’t hide anymore. And I don’t know what that means for us yet.
But for the first time since everything fell apart, the story feels unfinished instead of over.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CALLUM
The pub is loud in that familiar, comforting way with its low ceilings, sticky floors, and laughter bouncing off brick walls, the smell of beer and fried food hanging heavy in the air. Normally, this place feels like decompression. A release valve. Tonight, it just feels like noise.
I sit with a pint in front of me that I’ve barely touched, my elbow propped on the table, phone face-down beside it like it might bite me if I look too closely. Every vibration, be it real or imagined, sets my pulse jumping. Every time it stays silent, something inside me caves in a little more.
Rose still hasn’t called. She hasn’t even read the last message I sent hours ago, the one where I told her I understood if she needed space but that I was here, that I wasn’t going anywhere.
I don’t know how many times I’ve replayed her face in my head from the last night I saw her properly. The way she looked at me like she trusted me completely, like I was safe. The memory feels like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.
Across the table, Ryan nudges my knee with his foot. “You gonna drink that or just stare it into submission?”
I snort weakly and lift the glass, taking a swallow out of obligation more than enjoyment. It tastes flat. Like my mood.
“Still nothing?” he asks.
I shake my head.
Lukas sits to my left, solid and unmovable as ever, his presence like an anchor. He’s been like this all evening. Protective in that understated way of his. He clinks his bottle gently against my glass. “She’ll reach out when she’s ready.”
“Or she won’t,” I mutter.
“That’s not helping,” he says calmly.
“It’s realistic.”
“It’s self-pity,” he counters. “There’s a difference.”
I drag a hand down my face, scrubbing hard. “I just want to talk to her. That’s all. Five minutes. I’d take her screaming at me at this point. At least then I could make her understand.”
“She deserves time,” Ryan says. “You dropped a fucking nuclear truth bomb on her life, mate.”
“I know,” I snap, then immediately soften. “I know. I just—fuck, I miss her. We had something good. I can’t watch that disappear.”
That part slips out before I can stop it. The table goes silent for half a beat, then someone clears their throat.
“You’re allowed to miss her,” Ben says from across the table. “Doesn’t make you weak.”
“Doesn’t make it easier either,” I reply.
The guys don’t push. They never do. They shift the conversation instead, like they always have when one of us is hanging on by a thread. Someone starts talking about training tomorrow, about Coach’s mood, about how the playoffs are shaping up. I half-listen, nodding in the right places, my mind a million miles away.
My phone stays stubbornly silent and I tell myself I deserve this. Every unanswered message feels like penance. Proof that consequences aren’t theoretical. They’re real and they hurt.
I glance around the pub, letting the familiarity ground me. These guys, my teammates, are my family in a way few people will ever understand. They don’t excuse what I did. They don’ttry to sugarcoat it. But they also don’t abandon me when things get ugly.
Lukas leans closer, his voice low. “You did the right thing. Telling the truth. Even if it cost you.”
“Hasn’t finished costing me yet,” I say quietly.
