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)
Cherry’s face crumples with disappointment. “Oh… well, I have so much more to say. Maybe you can come to one of our gatherings sometime. Observe the dynamic. The real influence happens off camera.”
“Maybe,” I reply. “I’ll have to see if it will work naturally into the theme, which is still developing.”
She rises too. “I’m so glad we finally connected. Maybe we could get a drink sometime?”
Not in a million years. “Gosh… I’m so busy, but if I ever get a few free minutes…”
I let it hang out there implying I might call, but I never will.
As I walk away, I don’t look back—but I can feel her watching.
Many of my suspicions have been confirmed. Cherry doesn’t miss Crosby. She misses the audience she had when she was attached to him and she’s striving to get that back.
And that makes her far more dangerous than heartbreak ever could.
CHAPTER 22
Crosby
I’m stretched out on the couch with the remote in my hand, flipping through channels without really watching any of them. Sports highlight shows blur together. A rerun of some crime drama I’ve already seen twice. A cooking show I mute immediately.
None of it sticks but that’s kind of the point.
I don’t get days like this often—days where there’s nothing scheduled, nowhere I have to be, no one expecting me to show up focused and switched on. I worked out this morning, hard enough to keep the edge at bay, then came home and did the kind of insignificant projects that make a house feel lived in. Reorganized the garage. Tightened a loose cabinet hinge in the kitchen. Replaced a recessed light bulb that Birdie’s been after me to fix.
These quiet, contained and unremarkable moments are my version of peace.
My sister, on the other hand, would lose her mind.
Birdie took off early this morning, going on about hair and nails and “needing civilization,” which apparently does not include my house. She hates being cooped up, hates repetition, hates stillness. She gets enough of that in her job. It’s another reason why she doesn’t have a home of her own.
In typical Birdie fashion, she’ll move on eventually. She always does, and I expect her next stop will be to hang with our parents for a while.
I don’t begrudge her that. We’re wired differently.
I’m a homebody by necessity and preference. I like knowing where my things are. I like routine. I like coming back to the same space after road trips and flights and hotel rooms that all start to feel identical.
And tomorrow, I’ll be back in that rhythm.
We leave early for another West Coast swing—LA Demons, LA Dragons, then my former team, Winnipeg. Three cities, too many flights, and a beautiful documentarian catching it all on her camera.
The thought pulls a slow smile from me.
Juno will be there and she’ll be staying in my room, no doubt, because neither of us pretends otherwise anymore. I picture her stretched across the hotel bed with her laptop, bare feet crossed at the ankles, completely at ease in spaces that aren’t hers. The way she travels light, mentally and physically. The way she observes everything without making it obvious.
I should probably be thinking about hockey.
Instead, I’m thinking about the way she looks when she’s relaxed. The way she listens. The way last night still feels like it’s sitting under my skin, steady and present, not fading the way most things do.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, snapping me out of my memories, and I grin when I see a text from Juno. Can we talk? In person.
Nothing else. Just the words, and they sound ominous.
My thumb hovers over the screen. That question could mean anything—and with Juno, it usually means it matters.
Finally, I type back. Yeah. Come over. Birdie’s out running errands. Door’s unlocked.
On my way, she replies, and I set the phone down, staring at the TV screen, the quiet suddenly charged with anticipation. Whatever this conversation is, it’s not going to be small.
I roll off the couch and head into the kitchen. I make myself a protein shake to get my macros in, and Juno arrives twenty minutes later as I’m washing out my glass.
I hear her before I see her—the quiet click of the front door, then soft footsteps. When I look up from the counter, she’s standing inside the kitchen, shrugging out of her jacket before draping it over the back of one of the island stools. There’s a measured quality to her movements, like she’s lining things up before knocking them down.
I close the distance between us and slide a hand to her waist, tugging her gently against me. She comes easily but there’s a hesitation beneath it. I dip my head and kiss her, hoping to anchor her.
Her lips move against mine, warm and familiar, but she doesn’t melt into it the way she usually does. Her hands come up, rest at my chest, then slip away again.