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)
When we finally step outside, the night air is cool and the pavement slick with recent rain. Arch walks me to my car without making a production of it, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.
“I’m glad you came out tonight,” he says.
“So am I.”
“You’re not what I expected,” he adds, smiling.
“Good,” I say. “I’d hate to be predictable.”
He chuckles and steps back. “See you around, Juno.”
“Later,” I reply.
As I pull away, one word stays with me when it comes to Arch Hewitt.
Solid.
And the mystery of Crosby Hale has deepened.
CHAPTER 7
Crosby
Training camp has a way of blurring days together, but a few stand out.
The ones where your body responds the way it should, your instincts sharpen instead of dull, and you start to trust that the work is paying off.
Today is one of those days.
It’s day seven, and tomorrow we play our first preseason game in our new arena. It’s been long enough that routine has set in and short enough that nothing feels settled yet. The cameras have become background noise—present, unavoidable, mostly ignored. I’ve stopped tracking where Evan is, stopped bracing every time Juno moves through a space. Not because I’m comfortable with it, but because constant vigilance is exhausting.
Besides that… she’s been ignoring me.
We finish goalie drills late morning—me and the two other prospects rotating through high-repetition sequences with the goalie coach barking reminders about angles, depth, patience. My legs burn in that satisfying way that tells me I didn’t coast. When we’re finally cut loose, sweat-soaked and starving, I take a quick shower and head to lunch with the rest of the guys.
This is another place where Rowe has outdone himself. All practice facilities I’ve been in have food services that range from buffet meals to personal nutritionists.
We have The Blue Line, which is set up like an actual restaurant. It’s as beautifully decorated as every other corner of this place with high ceilings, matte-black beams overhead, clean lines everywhere.
The centerpiece is the chef line that runs straight down the middle of the room. A long open kitchen has stainless steel stations facing outward so you can watch no fewer than three chefs work their magic, grills throwing off heat and the smell of seared protein, flat tops working eggs and burgers, wok burners flashing briefly when someone tosses vegetables and rice. Digital menu boards hang overhead, rotating through options—salmon, chicken, steak bowls, turkey burgers—nothing heavy, nothing sloppy. Food meant to fuel you, not knock you out.
As was rumored, they offer unlimited to-go food for those of us who are too lazy to cook on any given night.
But what makes this place special is that it feels like a real dining room instead of a mess hall. Round tables and long rectangles in dark wood, spaced generously so conversations don’t bleed into each other. Heavy chairs that don’t scrape or wobble. High-top counters along the chef line if you want to eat alone and keep it quick, outlets tucked underneath for phones and tablets. Along one wall, banquette seating upholstered in neutral tones—easy to wipe down, comfortable enough that guys linger longer than they mean to.
TVs line the perimeter, running games or film breakdowns with the volume low enough to fade into background noise. Staff moves through without hovering—removing plates, wiping tables, refilling drinks. Hydration stations sit at both ends of the room with water, electrolytes, and protein shakes ready to grab. It’s efficient without feeling rushed, social without being loud. A place you come to refuel, reset and sit with your teammates long enough for real conversations to happen without anyone calling it a team meeting.
The food smells so delicious, it’s hard to believe it’s nutritious. I grab a tray, load it with grilled chicken, rice, roasted vegetables and a green smoothie I’m not convinced is meant to taste good, then scan the room.
Arch catches my eye and lifts his hand. He’s sitting with Boss Calloway and Remy Dunn, both in the middle of an animated conversation. I head that way, set my tray down on their table, and slide into the open seat as Miller Parks approaches from the opposite side. He reaches his hand out for his chair as my ass hits my own.
There’s a brief pause… a flicker of awareness as we stare at each other. Arch watches, but Remy and Boss are clueless as they keep talking.
“Take a seat, man,” I say with a nod.
He considers the offer, then sets his tray down, lowering into the chair. The other guys cut their eyes at Miller, lift their chins in welcome, but continue with their conversation. Arch cuts me a glance but I just lift a shoulder.
Free country and all. The guy can sit where he wants.
Boss keeps talking about the game tomorrow night. It’s a big fucking deal for this city. New hockey franchise, brand-new arena downtown, Detroit Cardinals coming to town. He’s practically vibrating with excitement.