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 she’s done, her head lifts and she lets her gaze roam the table, beaming at all the guys sitting there. Her eyes land on me and I can tell by her expression she knew I was here all along. “Crosby,” she says brightly. “Good to see you.”
Wish I could say the same, but I use my inside voice for that thought. I meet her gaze without flinching. “Cherry.”
Her smile tightens as she waits for me to say more, but I don’t.
“I hope this isn’t awkward,” she says, sliding her hand across Miller’s chest. “You know, me being married to Miller.” She kisses his cheek again. “He’s my soulmate.”
The word hangs there, and she watches me intently. I know she’s looking for signs of hurt or even irritation. I was the one who ended our relationship and she did not take it well. I know she wants to believe that I made a mistake, but instead, I know I dodged a bullet.
I swallow, take a sip of my drink, and set it down. “Why would it bother me?” I ask calmly. “I ended things. You’re free to live your life however you want.” I glance at Miller, then back at her. “I truly wish you the best.”
Silence.
Arch coughs into his hand and Boss and Remy stare with their mouths open. They have no clue the history.
Cherry’s eyes narrow, irritation flashing. She shifts, clearly expecting more—anger, jealousy, anything she can feed off.
I give her nothing and keep eating.
Miller clears his throat. “Uh… babe? Let’s grab another table.”
She hesitates, then scoffs, sliding off his lap. “Fine.”
Boss lets out a low whistle after they take a table across the room. Arch snickers outright. “That,” he says, “was epic, dude.”
“What’s the story?” Remy asks, leaning over the table toward me. “I got the feeling she’d shank you in a dark alley given the chance.”
“Just history,” I mutter.
“She’s Crosby’s ex-fiancée,” Arch supplies, and I shoot daggers at him. Both Remy and Boss turn Cherry’s way for a more examining look, then back to Arch, who keeps running his mouth. “That was a few years ago, and Crosby broke it off with her. She’s a bit of a diva and well, we know our boy Crosby is not.”
“And she married Miller?” Boss asks, eyebrows knitting inward. “How’d that happen?”
“No clue,” I say, setting my utensils on my cleaned-off plate. “Don’t care either.”
“But it doesn’t bother you?” Remy presses.
“Not in the slightest,” I say, my eyes cutting over to Miller and Cherry, where she’s taking more selfies. “In fact… I feel a little sorry for the guy.”
Arch snorts and I let my gaze drift the other way across the room.
To Juno.
She’s watching—not with curiosity or judgment, but with quiet awareness. When our gazes meet, she offers a small smile.
I wonder what she knows about the history I have with Cherry. It’s public knowledge and any documentarian worth their salt will have done their research.
Maybe that’s why I’m avoiding her. I don’t want to rehash that part of my life. It’s over and has nothing to do with who I am today.
I look away first, but I know one thing with absolute certainty now. Juno Paxton isn’t hunting moments.
She’s waiting for them.
CHAPTER 8
Crosby
There are moments in a season that will stick with you the rest of your life and tonight is one of them.
The arena locker room still carries that clean, filtered smell that hasn’t been broken in yet. Dark wood stalls line the walls in a massive, open horseshoe where we all get ready together. This is vastly different from our personal spaces at the performance facility set in private rows. A more direct push toward camaraderie, which is never needed more than before a game.
Every cubby is lit from within and like the performance facility, a digital screen at the top shows a picture of the player, our name and number. It features the media pictures taken after the final team was announced, all of us in our new Wildfire jerseys, some guys with broad smiles, others with serious looks.
The luxury is obvious. Padded benches, textured rubber flooring, climate-controlled air that keeps the room cool no matter how much heat the gear throws off. TVs are built directly into the walls, updating lines and countdown clocks in real time.
It’s impressive in the way new things always are—but it hasn’t absorbed this team’s history.
That part comes later, after enough nights like this one.
My blood hums with contained energy fueled by the screams of the fans one level up, who are getting whipped into a frenzy with loud rock music blaring. Pregame adrenaline is normal and welcome, but this being the first game in the new arena with Portland’s brand-spanking-new hockey team… the buzz is almost overwhelming.
Arch drops onto the bench beside me, already dressed, rolling his shoulders one at a time like he’s working his joints loose, though I suspect it’s nerves too.