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)
Familiar faces nod at me in passing—trainers, assistants, a couple of players wrapped in compression sleeves with earbuds in. I know them all, not only by name, but by personality now. I’ve been with the team for almost six weeks and I’ve had some manner of interaction with everyone.
Along the way, I’ve built trust.
The thought of Crosby slips in without warning—not as an image, but as a sensation, steady and warm.
Last night happened because there’s trust.
I don’t replay the sex we had, which was beyond amazing. That part was uncomplicated, and physical compatibility rarely surprises me anymore.
What lingers is the conversation we had during and after. The hours of it and the way it unfolded without effort. The way silence didn’t feel like a gap to be bridged.
Crosby’s unlike any man I’ve ever been intimate with and I have spent a lot of time unpacking why that is. I think to get there, I had to consider the type of woman I am and how I’ve dealt with past relationships.
Dating, for me, has always been transactional in the cleanest sense of the word. Mutually beneficial and clearly defined.
In my adult sexual life, I’ve very much enjoyed my past relationships… if you could even label them that. But whatever you call it, I always enjoyed sex due to the power dynamics. I was drawn to the way desire can exist without expectation. I’ve never told a man I loved him, and no one has ever said it to me.
Not because I was afraid to say the words, but because I never felt them. Love has always looked like surrender to me. When your parents barter you to a pedophile posing as a servant of God, you have a hard time letting anyone in.
Instead, I learned early that affection came with conditions and that safety came from self-reliance. By fourteen, I was taking care of myself and understood that attachment was a liability unless you controlled the terms.
So I did, and I built a life where no one stayed long enough to matter.
Until last night.
The one thing I can unequivocally state is that Crosby matters, and that’s because he made me want to look closer.
To understand him on a level that surpasses the way he’ll come across on film.
For someone who has built a career digging beneath layers, that kind of curiosity has never once been personal—until now. And I think it’s because for the first time, intimacy felt like trust, not battle. It felt like trust, and I know without a doubt that comes from the fact that Crosby had to first trust me to let me into his world.
I don’t yet know what it means, but I know pretending it’s casual would be the first lie.
I reach the rehab wing and the doors slide open as I approach. The smell shifts from coffee to antiseptic and rubber mats. It’s a place for work, not relaxation.
When I first entered this space, and even now, it feels honest to me. Bodies here are broken and repaired without ceremony. Pain is acknowledged, measured and ultimately managed.
The front portion is a huge therapy room, the perimeter lined with treatment tables and equipment laid out like an army of implements.
“Morning, Juno.”
I turn toward the voice and see Claire, one of the lead physical therapists, standing beside a treatment table. Her hands are working methodically along a player’s calf. He’s on his stomach, one arm dangling off the side, head turned away from me. I inch around the edge so I can see his face and find Halo Barnes with his eyes closed in that resigned, half-suffering way that tells me he’s done this more times than he’d like to admit.
“Morning,” I say, and his eyes pop open. “How bad?”
“It’s torture,” he groans as Claire digs into his muscle.
“Quit being a baby,” Claire says, and Halo shoots me a wink. “My patient here is the classic story of tightness turning into compensation. Hamstring’s been pulling, which is aggravating the lower back, but we caught it early.”
“That’s the optimistic version,” Halo grunts before Claire presses a thumb deliberately into the muscle.
He groans again. “Jesus, Claire… lighten up.”
I watch for a moment, noting that Claire works firm and precise, completely unhurried. There’s trust here. Familiarity. The kind that only comes from being handled at your worst and knowing the person doing it wants you functional.
“What’s the timeline?” I ask.
“Day to day,” she says. “If he listens.”
Halo snorts. “I always listen.”
Claire and I exchange a look.
“Sure you do,” I say.
He sighs dramatically and lets his head drop back down. “You here to film the glamorous side of pro sports again?”
“Eventually,” I say. “Evan’s meeting me in a bit. I wanted to walk through first, see what today looks like.”
Claire nods. “You’re clear to be in here. Let me know before the camera comes out.”