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)
“That’s not—” I start, then stop. Because that pretty much describes her.
Birdie’s grin softens, turning knowing instead of wicked. “You know she clocks everything, right?” she says.
I don’t respond, which reveals my hand.
Birdie hums, shaking her head. “Wow… I did not have that on my bingo card.”
“It wasn’t planned,” I say, quieter now, staring into my coffee cup like it might offer absolution.
“Nothing is ever planned when it comes to feelings.”
“This isn’t—” I stop short, the words catching in my throat. I take a breath and force myself to reframe, like that will make it truer. “We talked. A lot. It just… happened.”
Birdie doesn’t immediately respond. She studies me instead, really looks this time, like she’s lining up what I’m saying against what she knows. “And?” she prompts.
I shift my weight, my shoulder brushing the cabinet behind me. “And it was good,” I say, choosing the word carefully, like it might explode if mishandled. “We were already friends. The flirting finally… tipped over.”
It sounds flimsy the second it leaves my mouth. Like I’m trying to fit our feelings into a more manageable box.
Birdie hums as she pours herself coffee, unhurried. “What are you hoping to get out of this?”
It’s a good question and she’s my sister, so of course she’s going to ask it.
I open my mouth. Close it again.
The silence answers for me, meaning I’m not sure what I want from it. I only know I want it. “We agreed it has to stay separate,” I say finally, sipping my coffee. “From hockey. From her film. No interference. Keep it quiet. Keep it… light.”
Birdie snorts, stirring her coffee. “You don’t do light.”
“Yes, I do,” I say automatically.
She looks at me over the rim of her mug, unimpressed. “No, you don’t. You go all in or not at all.”
“This is different.” I hear the insistence in my own voice and don’t like it.
She arches a brow. “Is it?”
I lean back against the counter. “We’re having fun.”
The words feel thin, even to me.
I can tell my sister doesn’t buy them either. “You’re saying that like you believe it.”
“We’re both on the same page,” I insist. “Neither of us is looking for anything serious.”
She smiles slowly. “Famous last words.”
I scowl. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I like Juno,” she says simply. “And I like you. I don’t want you to screw it up.”
“I’m not going to.”
“And I don’t want you to get hurt,” she says, staring at me pointedly.
“I won’t,” I assure her.
She studies me a long moment, weighing the truth of whether I truly believe that. “Be careful. Don’t scare her off. And don’t lie to yourself.”
CHAPTER 19
Juno
The lobby of the performance facility smells of fresh coffee wafting through from The Blue Line restaurant, and had I not had two cups already this morning, I’d head that way for another.
Walter looks up as I approach the desk, his expression already sliding into bored suspicion. The man is night and day from Jimmy on night shift and acts like he doesn’t recognize me every morning.
I slide my badge to him and he eyeballs it like it personally offended him before picking it up.
He studies it intently, eyes cutting back and forth from my laminated picture to my face.
“Morning,” I say, friendly by default, but he only grunts in return.
I’m bound and determined to get more than that, so I wait, hands folded loosely in front of me, letting the silence stretch without filling it. I’ve learned that people who guard doors often expect either compliance or confrontation. Offering neither tends to disarm them.
“You’re early,” he says finally.
“I know,” I reply. “Filming in the medical and rehab unit and want to get a lay of the land before we start. Evan should be here in about thirty minutes.”
“Evan?” he asks, pretending ignorance, even though he’s waved him through every day and checked his credentials countless times. He slides the badge back across the counter, still unsmiling. “You know you can’t film players without consent.”
“I won’t,” I say. “They’re all aware. Paperwork’s been handled.”
Another pause. A flicker of annoyance maybe, before he nods and waves me through.
I thank him anyway. “Have a great day, Walter.”
It’s a habit I picked up young… courtesy as armor. He gives me another grunt and I take that as a win.
I bypass the elevator and head toward the west staircase, the quickest way to the medical and rehab unit. As I climb, I glance through the wall of windows that overlooks the main ice rink, glistening and ready for use.
While I’ve toured the medical area once already, I want to reacquaint myself with the space, get a vivid idea in my mind of how I want to shape today’s narrative.
Buildings tell a story of their own. I’ve always trusted places like this more than homes or churches or anywhere people claim sanctuary without accountability. Facilities like this have rules and processes. They are held in place by oversight.