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)
“No way,” someone says.
Another voice—awed, reverent. “Holy shit.”
Arch steps on board and freezes inside the door. His eyes sweep the aisle, the pods, the lighting, the sheer width of the space. He takes two steps forward, then stops again.
“Is this… is this for us?” he asks, loud and unfiltered, perfectly mic’d by Evan’s camera. He slowly turns in a circle. “Because I swear I didn’t win the lottery.”
Laughter ripples through the cabin—real, disbelieving, almost giddy.
Players fan out instinctively, like kids set loose in a place they don’t quite trust yet. Hands trail over leather. Fingers tap the privacy panels. One guy slides into a pod, presses a button, and yelps when the seat reclines smoothly beneath him.
“Yo—yo—this thing moves,” he calls out.
Another leans halfway into a pod across the aisle. “Bro, it’s a bed. It’s actually a bed.”
Van Turner steps aboard with the coaches, pauses, and stares. He’s been in the league long enough to not impress easily, but even he lets out a low whistle. He nods once, slow and approving, then looks back at Patrick Rowe.
“Well,” he says dryly, “guess we’re not roughing it anymore.”
Rowe smiles, faint and unapologetic.
One of the assistants pokes his head into the lounge. “There’s a table back here,” he says, incredulous. “Like—chairs. Real chairs.”
“And an espresso machine,” someone else adds, already wandering toward the galley. “I’m never flying commercial again.”
A couple of the younger guys discover the privacy panels, sliding them partway closed, then opening them again, laughing like they’re testing something forbidden.
“This is dangerous,” Arch announces. “I might never leave my pod.”
Crosby steps on next and looks up after clearing the threshold.
For one rare, unguarded moment, the armor slips. His gaze travels the length of the cabin—the pods, the lounge, the light, the sheer grandeur of it all. His mouth falls open slightly before he catches himself.
He exhales, a short, stunned sound, and shakes his head once, like he needs to recalibrate reality.
Then he moves.
He moves past other players, directly to Patrick Rowe, and sets his bag down without looking away from him.
He offers his hand. “Thank you,” he says, and there’s nothing rehearsed about it. No polish. No captain’s voice. “This is… unreal.”
“You’re worth it,” Rowe replies.
Crosby nods once, eyes cutting to me. Evan’s there and he shifts the camera.
“What do you think?” I ask Crosby.
He glances at the lens, then back at the plane, eyes tracking the curve of the pods before he lets out a short laugh. “I think,” he says, “I’m gonna sleep like a damn baby on this road trip.”
The reaction is immediate—laughter from his teammates, a few claps, someone calling out that they’re stealing his pod if he doesn’t move fast enough.
Crosby’s mouth quirks a little, like he’s pleased with the response. Evan holds the shot for another beat, then lowers the camera, satisfied.
The noise swells around us—players claiming space, coaches herding, voices overlapping—and Crosby hoists his bag back onto his shoulder.
He looks at me.
“I’ve been waiting for you to pin me down for an interview,” he says, not accusing. “Figured today might be the day.”
I shrug lightly. “I’ve been busy.”
His brow lifts a fraction. “Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm. New plane. New dynamics.” I glance around pointedly. “Hard to ignore.”
That earns me a quiet huff of a laugh.
“You got some time over this road trip?” I ask, keeping my tone casual, like I don’t already know the answer. “Not to film. Just to talk.”
He considers it for half a second—enough to make it feel real—then nods. “Yeah. I’ll carve out some time.”
No promises beyond that. “Okay. I’ll hold you to it.”
He dips his head once in acknowledgment, then turns down the aisle and claims a seat.
I watch him go talk to Arch, who took the pod across the aisle, both of them laughing with the excitement of kids at Christmas.
Crosby’s guard is down and I could ask Evan to film him, but I don’t. We’ve got enough footage to properly characterize this moment, and now these guys can enjoy their due.
CHAPTER 11
Crosby
Vegas never really sleeps, but it does quiet down if you know where to sit.
I’d texted Juno earlier. Hotel bar, downstairs. If you’re up for it.
Most of the guys peeled off into Vegas the moment we dropped our bags, ready to hit the casinos. Arch tried to get me to come out with him and Boss and I was almost tempted but decided I’d knock out this talk with Juno. Because as much as I’m starting to see she’s kind of a cool woman, I would like to get her off my scent so I can concentrate on hockey.
The hotel bar is tucked far enough from the casino floor that I barely register the slots singing like wind chimes gone feral. In here, the lighting is low, amber pooling over dark wood and leather. The kind of place meant for conversations that don’t need to be shouted.