Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Which made Crosby… fascinating.
Apparently, he was engaged for a brief period to a woman named Cherry Brigham. No clue if Cherry is her real first name, and I didn’t bother to research it much, but let’s say she looks like a “cherry.” All flaming red hair and huge breasts that are always on display, no matter what she’s wearing. She and Crosby made a striking couple.
Cherry’s Instagram is public and tells a compelling story of a woman who doesn’t do much other than put herself out there. It’s all curated intimacy that blurs the line between authenticity and performance. She’s posted red-carpet photos, vacation shots and photos of her out partying. Crosby appeared often enough to establish them as a unit, but never comfortably. In almost every single photo, Cherry made sure to show off a massive sparkler of an engagement ring.
But always, Crosby never seemed to be a real part of her story.
I remember one post in particular—not because it was scandalous, but because it revealed more information about Crosby.
He was stepping out of the bathroom, towel slung low around his waist, water still clinging to his skin. Cherry had caught him mid-moment and it was a clear ambush by the look on his face.
She posted it with the caption, Look at my boo. How is this hotness even real?
I had to force myself not to gag over that. For Crosby’s part, he didn’t look amused, but he didn’t look angry either. Just resigned… like he was a man tolerating exposure because it made her happy.
Objectively, he’s devastatingly attractive, and I studied that picture longer than was necessary. Tall, wide at the shoulders, muscles in all the right places. His dark hair is usually mussed, his hazel eyes unreadable even when he’s relaxed. In still photos, he looks like someone who belongs at the center of attention, despite clearly having no desire to be there. I couldn’t pinpoint one photo where he looked like he was having a good time, and I found that a little sad.
Cherry, on the other hand, clearly loves the spotlight. She blooms under it. Her posts are open and personal, sometimes uncomfortably so. The message I received after looking at only a handful of them was that she got her validation and worth by being with a professional athlete.
And as I scrolled forward, mapping out the course of their relationship, posts with Crosby suddenly stopped.
No announcement. No carefully worded statement. One day Crosby disappeared from her posts, although she didn’t go back and delete the old ones.
What followed was a string of girls’ nights and club photos, sequined dresses and champagne flutes held high. The engagement ring was gone. One post had a caption that gave an explanation to this new life she was showcasing. Wonderful to be single again.
Cherry never mentioned Crosby Hale again and that was three years ago.
On the ice, Coach Monahan blows his whistle, and the drill resets. Defensemen rotate, wingers swap sides, the tempo shifts. Evan captures it all, occasionally glancing toward me for confirmation. I nod when he’s where I want him and my mind drifts back to the enigmatic Crosby Hale, because I found a nugget in Cherry’s timeline that sparked my documentarian interest.
A new man appeared. Familiar, if you’d studied hockey the way I had over the last few months.
Miller Parks.
He was picked up by Portland in the expansion draft, a second-line defenseman from the Vancouver Flash. I couldn’t quite figure out from Cherry’s social media how they hooked up, dated, and eventually married, but I know she’s here in Portland with him. She’s posted almost three times a day about her husband and his new team. She did a video of their new home they bought, which is ballsy given he hasn’t made it through training camp yet, but from all indications… he’s going to make the team.
What’s fascinating in her posts is that Miller seems to enjoy the limelight as much as his wife. He hams for the camera, is overly solicitous to her, and I get it. She’s a drop-dead gorgeous bombshell of a woman and it appears he’s proud to have her on his arm.
And now here he is, skating drills in the same jersey as Crosby Hale, married to the woman who once documented Crosby’s private moments for public consumption.
Coincidences exist and this one has teeth. There’s obviously a story there, but I will be patient until it reveals itself.
Yesterday in the locker room, Miller made a comment about the spotlight in passing to Crosby, his tone steel-edged enough to cut if you knew how to listen. At the time, I cataloged it and moved on.
Today, after having done my research on Crosby, I now know there’s more to uncover.
And stories don’t hide forever. They wait for the right pressure to reveal themselves.