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)
My gaze, however, seems to be on a magnetic pull toward the net where Crosby is ready for the opening face-off. I tell myself this is professional awareness—the same way I track any subject once the story starts taking shape.
My pulse doesn’t buy it.
He’s skating side to side to stay warm and limber but with the kind of calm that comes from absolute control. The roar of the crowd doesn’t seem to touch him and I’m more than excited about going to his house this weekend for his interview.
Our text exchange last night lives rent-free in my head. It was a banter I hadn’t expected, and I slide my phone out of my back pocket and read the exchange one more time.
Me: You owe me an interview. When do I get that invite to your house?
Crosby: Consider yourself invited but remember, it comes with the promise of unpacking numerous boxes.
Me: I’m really good at moral support.
Crosby: Dangerous promise.
I don’t know why my stomach flutters now. I’ve interviewed war criminals, cult leaders, men who thrived on fear. A goalie’s text message shouldn’t be doing this to me.
It’s not that his words were flirty in and of themselves, but it was the quick comeback that engaged me, and I sent a reply before I could stop myself.
Me: You’d be surprised at what I can motivate.
I got back a laughing emoji and his address, along with a directive for Evan and me to come around six p.m. on Sunday.
I tuck my phone back in and stand near Evan as he films, periodically giving him suggestions that he really doesn’t need. I keep an eye on the game with more than a reasonable amount of interest in Crosby, who looks fantastic in goal.
Late in the first period, the Vipers press hard through the neutral zone, and I track Grizz McAvoy, their star winger. Not because of his size or the way he attacks the play, but because I’ve seen him everywhere in my research. Highlights, suspensions and substantial fines as punishment for his behavior. He’s a big personality—loud, volatile and always skating at the edge of control.
He barrels into the Wildfire zone like he’s daring someone to meet him head-on. He crashes the crease, but Crosby stays locked in, tracks the puck through a blistering wrist shot from McAvoy. He snatches it clean and the whistle blows. The home crowd erupts as McAvoy peels away with a glare, jawing at Crosby over his shoulder.
Crosby remains calm and turns his back on McAvoy, taking a lazy squirt of water from his bottle on the top of the net.
I can’t help but grin because not engaging with someone who thrives on engagement can be infuriating. It can also rattle someone into making stupid mistakes, and this is where Crosby’s experience will matter to this team.
Eventually, we meander back inside, and the filming flows easily. I can tell the guests who don’t mind if I ask them questions because they make direct eye contact when they see me and Evan coming. Laughter and conversation comes naturally and nothing feels staged.
That’s when I notice her.
She’s standing alone near the bar, posture relaxed but alert, hands folded loosely in front of her. Beautiful without trying—dark hair pulled back, eyes keen and observant. I recognize her immediately.
Simone Turner, wife of the assistant coach, Van Turner. I recognize her because she came up in my research on Van. The woman comes from deep hockey roots as both her brothers play for the Carolina Cold Fury. There was more than the usual biographical information one might find on immediate family members, mostly because Van has a singularly compelling personal story. His father was a convicted serial killer who died in prison and wrote a tell-all memoir that was published after he passed. It brought Van’s name back front and center, and Simone has been more than a vocal supporter and partner to her husband. She’s almost a protector.
At any rate, she’s now a member of the Wildfire family, and I approach slowly. The movement catches her attention, eyes flicking from me to Evan, whose camera is off, then back to me.
“Hi,” I say with a smile, sticking out my hand. “I’m Juno Paxton. This is Evan Langdon.”
I’m conscious of how I’m presenting myself—open, unthreatening, relaxed—but there’s also that quiet assessment running in the background, the one that never fully shuts off when I meet someone connected to a subject.
Simone doesn’t hesitate. She takes my hand easily, grip warm, confident. “I heard you were going to be here tonight. Van told me all about the documentary.”
That could go a dozen ways, and I brace for exactly half a beat. “Nothing scary, I hope.” I then touch the back of the barstool as a silent request to join her.
I don’t assume space—I never do—but I also don’t shrink. It’s a balance you learn when your job is built on proximity.