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)
Crosby snorts before he can stop himself. “What’d you say?”
“I told him I don’t acknowledge warning lights because they undermine my authority.”
That gets a real laugh. Completely unguarded, it transforms his face from being devastatingly handsome to downright alarmingly gorgeous.
“Well, cars should know their place,” he drawls.
“He gave me a ride to town. Wouldn’t take money but very sternly told me to stop treating machinery like it didn’t have feelings.” I smile, leaning against the bumper. “I ignored him, obviously.”
“I suggest you don’t lean against the car. You might knock it off the jack.”
“Oh my gosh,” I exclaim as I practically jump four feet away.
He shakes his head. “You always this honest with your bad decisions?”
“Only the entertaining ones.”
Silence settles again—but it’s different now. Easier.
The metal creaks as he cranks the jack, the car lifting inch by inch.
“You travel a lot for work?” he asks, casual, like it doesn’t matter either way.
“All the time,” I say. “You learn quickly that control is mostly an illusion. Tires included.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I get that.”
I watch him from where I stand—the way he doesn’t rush, doesn’t swear, doesn’t make the job bigger than it is. I’ve observed him enough to know that pressure slides off Crosby when there’s something concrete to do.
“I appreciate you stopping,” I say lightly. “You didn’t have to.”
He shrugs, setting the jack handle down. “Didn’t feel right driving away.”
Only after the car is lifted and he’s grabbing the lug wrench from the trunk do I figure out how to keep the conversation going. “You always this handy?” I ask.
“With cars?” He shrugs. “Yeah.”
“With people?”
He pauses briefly, then resumes working. “Depends on the person. Why were you here so late?”
I’m encouraged that he’s conversing with me, at least showing some interest in talking. “I go through the daily footage and mark important parts before sending it off to my assistant.”
“Sounds tedious,” he says as he starts on the first lug bolt. Crosby’s shirt fits his chest and arms a little too nicely, and I can’t help but notice the bulging muscles as he works it free.
“Why were you here so late?” I ask.
“Watching footage of Brian Sinclair in the film vault.”
“Ah,” I say with understanding. “The Demons’ rookie left-winger they just acquired. Searching for his secrets before the next game, huh?”
Crosby jolts and looks at me in surprise. “I’m impressed you know who he is.”
“I always research the subject matter of whatever I’m filming. That includes other players and teams.”
“Well, that’s one thing we have in common then.” He turns his attention back to the job. “Any goalie worth his salt studies the opponent, and I’ve not had the pleasure of going up against him yet.”
“I’m sure that separates out the good from the great,” I muse.
Crosby wrestles off another lug bolt and goes to work on the fifth and final one. He strains, this one a bit stickier than the others, but once he gets it turning, he says, “Is that what you’re looking for? The great versus the good?”
“No, not at all. I’m only looking for each player’s authentic self. For example, you could have left me here to fend for myself, but the fact you didn’t, even though that would put you in a forced proximity situation with the scary documentarian you’ve been trying to avoid, tells me you have a morally sound conscience.”
“Is that what you’ll say in the film about me?” he asks, tone a bit cool.
“Nah. Tonight’s completely off the record.”
His eyes come to mine and he seems to be weighing the truth of that.
“Look… I know I’m not your favorite person,” I say, keeping my tone light, careful not to make it feel like a challenge. “But I’m not the enemy.”
He pauses, straightening slowly, lug bolts clinking softly as he sets them aside. He looks at me then—not defensive, just assessing. “Never said you were.”
“Then why won’t you sit down with me for an interview?” I ask. I don’t push closer, don’t fill the space. I ask it plainly while there’s no lens and no audience.
He exhales through his nose, looking tired rather than irritated. “It’s nothing personal against you,” he says. “I don’t like being the center of attention.”
“I get that,” I say immediately. “And for what it’s worth, I’m never going to ask you to be something you’re not.”
That makes him look up again.
“I don’t script people,” I continue. “I don’t bait reactions. I don’t need you to perform or relive anything or bare your soul because it makes good television.” I give a small, self-aware shrug. “You seem like a confident guy. If I were you, I’d hate the idea of someone trying to turn that into a spectacle too.”
One brow lifts skeptically.
“And honestly?” I add. “You’re not the story.”
Crosby snorts.
“This is a documentary about an organization,” I explain, shooting my entire shot. “A city. A brand-new franchise finding its footing. Coaches. Players. Staff. Systems. Culture. There are dozens of people getting coverage. You’re part of it—but you’re not the focus unless you want to be.”