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)
And none of that felt weird. It felt like we’d been holding hands for years.
When we got back to the hotel, he stripped me naked, worshipped my body with his fingers and mouth, and made me beg for mercy. When he gave it to me, it was earth-shattering, and we fell asleep in each other’s arms. If I were a believer in romance, I’d say I’m starring in my own novel, but I’ve never seen true existence of such a thing. Maybe I’m wrong.
“Thanks for saying that,” I say, bumping my hip against his. “I really like him.”
“Hey,” he adds lightly, “if I couldn’t handle one of my closest friends dating a professional athlete under a microscope, I picked the wrong career.”
Despite everything, I laugh.
On the ice, Crosby makes a solid glove save, snaps the puck to the corner, and barks at his defense. I can’t hear it, but I definitely feel it. The team responds, and for the next few minutes, they tighten and hold tough.
But it’s not enough.
The final buzzer sounds with the score unchanged, and the loss settles like a heavy fog. The Wildfire players skate off the ice with shoulders hunched, heads down.
We let them by and then follow them down the tunnel, Evan filming as instructed, me guiding with quiet gestures and murmured direction. The locker room is somber but controlled—no yelling, no dramatics. The heavy quiet of men replaying mistakes in their heads.
Crosby sits at his stall, pads still on, sweat-damp hair curling at the nape of his neck. He looks exhausted. Not physically—he’s built for that—but mentally, like the weight of the game is pressing from the inside out.
I want to give him a hug but that’s not practical.
I hesitate because even though I have unfettered access, there is still a line that could cross into intrusion. It’s even harder because this is Crosby, and I don’t want to make things worse.
On the flip side, I’m here to do a job, and Crosby’s mental frustrations are part of the story.
I nod to Evan to raise the camera and step off frame so I’m not in the shot. “Crosby,” I say gently. “Can I ask how you’re feeling right now?”
For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to shut me out. His eyes lift, guarded, jaw set. There’s a flicker there, a warning. I brace myself for the professional wall.
Then he exhales. “As a goalie?” he says. “Losing feels personal.”
I keep my voice steady. “How so?”
He shifts on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. “You can talk about team effort all you want, but when the puck hits the back of the net, that’s a hundred percent my fault. So how do I feel right now? I feel like I let everyone down. Coaches. Teammates. Fans.” A pause. “Myself.”
The locker room hums softly around us—skates being unlaced, tape peeled away—but it feels like we’re in a pocket of stillness.
“And how do you move forward from that?” I ask.
He lifts one shoulder. “You reset. You own what’s yours, and you don’t let it bleed into the next game.” His gaze meets mine briefly. “You can’t… not in this position.”
I nod, recognizing the gravity of his words. “Thank you,” I say sincerely. “I appreciate you talking with me.”
He gives a short nod, already retreating behind the mask of defeat.
Evan turns away but before I leave, I step closer to Crosby. Lowering my voice so only he can hear, I say, “I want to talk about this more when the camera’s off,” I murmur. “Juno, not the film. I’m a good sounding board and you should unload.”
He glances up, a corner of his mouth twitching. “You trying to handle me?”
“I’d never in a million years think to do that,” I say with a smile.
His lips tip, eyes with a tiny bit of sparkle. “Well… I’m not interested in talking once I get you back to the hotel.”
I laugh softly at the implication, shaking my head as I turn away, already anticipating what he might do to me.
Crosby’s voice stops me. “Juno.”
I turn back.
He smiles, inclining his head. “Thanks for the offer.”
And somehow, that feels bigger than the loss ever could.
CHAPTER 25
Crosby
The Winnipeg chill settles into me fast, a product of enough years here when I played for the Rebels that my body remembers before my brain. It’s fucking downright cold as we walk from the hotel to the restaurant, and the one that was chosen is chef’s kiss. The food scene here is surprisingly strong.
When one thinks of Winnipeg, one usually thinks of hockey. This city doesn’t like it—they live it. The fans know the game, respect the grind, and show up whether the team’s winning or not. Playing here was always special.
Still is.
There was a steadiness to this place that fit me once, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to missing that.