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)
He rests one elbow on the bar, his stool angled my way. “I’ve learned you’re hard to scare with a truck horn, but are you always this unflappable? Or do you save that for goalies who think avoidance is a strategy?”
“Depends on the goalie.”
Arch’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “For what it’s worth, you didn’t do anything wrong back there. Hale’s just… Hale.”
I let that sit. Resist the instinct to ask what he means. This isn’t an interview, and I’m not here to pry, but I’m always learning, always seeking.
“And you?” I ask instead, turning the focus. “You always rescue misunderstood goalies, or is this a one-time public service?”
He laughs and lifts his glass. “Only the ones worth the effort. Hale’s one of my best buddies, so of course I have his back.”
“You two played together in Winnipeg,” I say. “Got any juicy stories?”
“None I’m willing to share,” he says with a flash of teeth.
The conversation settles into easy banter. We talk about Portland—how green it is, how damp, how different it feels from other cities with teams that have been around long enough to feel permanent.
“Winnipeg was good to me,” Arch says after a while, his tone shifting a notch deeper. “Great city. Loved the fans.”
“Sad to leave?” I ask.
He rolls his glass between his palms. “Nah… staying comfortable too long makes you forget what you’re capable of. I’m ready for a new challenge.”
That answer surprises me—not because it’s rehearsed, but because it isn’t.
“So, this is about proving something,” I say.
He nods once. “To myself.”
I like that. “Does training camp stress you out, knowing you’re not a lock?” I ask, not unkindly.
“Not really. I know nothing’s guaranteed, but I’m a risk taker, and I always push myself to my limits. No other way to live and be proud of yourself.”
“That’s very wise and mature.”
“You grow up fast in this league,” he quips before taking a sip of his drink. “I might have uprooted my entire life only to get sent down to the minors next week.”
“That doesn’t scare you?”
He smiles faintly. “Sure it does. But I’d rather be scared than bored.”
The noise of the bar swells—laughter from a table behind us, the clink of glassware, the steady rhythm of people unwinding.
“What about you?” he asks. “You always wanted to make documentaries?”
“I wanted to expose truths,” I say after a beat. “The medium came later.”
He tilts his head. “That’s a dangerous answer.”
“Why?”
“Because people who want the truth usually aren’t afraid of what they find.”
He’s not wrong. Nothing scares me after what I’ve been through in my life.
His gaze roams my face, not lingering but rather noticing. “Can I ask a question without it being weird?”
“Depends what it is.”
“I like your whole vibe,” he says. “Especially your piercings. It feels… intentional, but I don’t get the feeling you do it to get noticed.”
I lift a hand, fingers brushing the bar in my eyebrow. “I don’t like uniformity,” I say. “Or constraints.”
“That sounds personal,” he says.
“I was raised in a very conservative church. The type that gives women very little choice in anything. After I left, some would say I unfurled my wings.”
His brows lift a fraction, then settle. No follow-up. No curiosity that turns invasive. “Yeah,” he says. “That’ll do it.”
I’m neither relieved nor disappointed he doesn’t ask more about the church. It’s not anything I’ve ever hidden. On the contrary, I’ve spoken all over the United States about religious cults and the effect they have on children.
“When people grow up without much choice,” Arch says after a beat, “they usually swing one of two ways.” He glances at his glass. “They either spend their lives trying to lock everything down… or they make damn sure no one ever boxes them in again.”
“And Crosby?” I ask, deciding to take a shot.
Arch’s head swings my way, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I thought you’d ask about him way sooner than you did.”
I lift a shoulder nonchalantly. “It’s my job.”
He nods, understanding I’m not being nosy for nosy’s sake. “Hale builds his own rules. He’s the type who doesn’t trust the ones handed to him. Once he decides something matters, he’s all in. Team. Family. People.”
“And if that is threatened?”
“He steps away,” Arch replies. “Doesn’t negotiate with it.”
I nod, understanding sliding into place without triumph. If I apply that to what I’ve seen on social media with his ex-fiancée, it means he probably broke things off and walked away without a backward glance.
Does that make him confident? Decisive? Or unbendable?
The bartender drifts by again but we wave off another drink.
“Should I be worried that what I told you will end up in the director’s cut?”
“No camera tonight,” I point out.
“We’re completely off the record?”
“There is no record tonight,” I assure him.
“Good,” he says. “I appreciate that.”
We linger longer than either of us planned, conversation looping back to lighter things—bad road trips, worse playlists, the strange intimacy of locker rooms that haven’t yet decided what kind of team they want to be.