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)
“Apparently, she told him something I said—twisted it into another thing entirely. He thinks I can’t stand seeing her married.”
Juno exhales. “That’s idiotic.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “But it’s also a problem. She’s lying, and he believes her.”
Her gaze flicks past me, toward the room, already tracking dynamics. “Do you think you should talk to Coach Monahan? Or Oliver Kemp?”
“Not yet,” I say. “I told Miller exactly where I stand and that Cherry’s lying. Maybe that’ll sink in, but if it escalates, I’ll talk to Coach. I’m not letting this screw with the team.”
She nods, thoughtful. Not alarmed—but alert. “I think that’s a good plan.”
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “I hate that this is even a thing.”
She reaches for me then, fingers slipping into mine. “It’ll settle down,” she says. “You spoke your truth and that’s all you can do.”
I nod, though I’m not entirely convinced.
We step back into the party, her hand still in mine, but I’m rattled. I have the strangest sense that wheels have been set in motion, and I’m powerless to stop it.
CHAPTER 28
Juno
Crosby tosses his keys onto the counter and flips on the kitchen lights. “I feel like a snack.”
Laughing, I move to his refrigerator. “You’re always hungry.”
“Excuse me, I played a spectacular game and probably burned about two thousand calories. I need fuel.”
That is true. He was on fire in net against the Dallas Mustangs. It was a performance worthy of celebration, but we decided for a quiet late night at his house instead.
I peer inside at the contents and glance back at him. “How about I make you a roast beef sandwich?”
Crosby is standing there, palms pressed to the counter, staring at me in a way that makes my skin tingle. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, the chill from the fridge washing over me.
“Because I like you in my house, in my kitchen, raiding my fridge to make me a snack. I’ve never had that before.”
My smile softens to match the gooey feeling inside me. “I like making you snacks.”
“Then snacks it is,” he says, that gentle rumble of appreciation striking me in my core.
I start grabbing items out of the fridge—roast beef, mayo, lettuce and tomato. Crosby moves to the bread box and pulls out the sourdough.
We work side by side, building two sandwiches and replaying moments from the game.
“You were amazing tonight,” I say, licking a dab of mayo off my finger. “I bet the team is right now toasting your greatness.”
Crosby snorts. “I doubt that, but yeah… I was feeling laser-focused in the net. Nights like that, it almost feels easy.”
“We should probably be out celebrating,” I muse, not missing the action but feeling like maybe Crosby should be out there getting his due.
He bumps his hip against mine. “No way. A quiet night with you is way more to my liking. Besides, let’s take advantage of the fact Birdie isn’t here and we have the entire house to ourselves.”
Birdie went out with the team and Arch appointed himself guardian, promising to get her home safely. “Is there anything going on there?” I ask, cutting the sandwiches in half and on an angle. “With Birdie and Arch?”
Crosby barks out a laugh. “No. God, no. They’re like siblings. Loud, annoying siblings.”
“I think they’d be cute together,” I say, taking the plates while Crosby grabs bottled waters from the fridge.
“They’d be a horror together,” he maintains.
“Open up the romantic side of yourself, babe,” I say, setting the plates down and pulling my phone out of my pocket before I sit.
I unlock the screen, see that my charge is below fifteen percent, and set it up on one of the power cords on the counter. I’d ignored it all evening as Evan and I filmed the game up in the stands and interviewed fans.
I notice that I missed several calls from an unknown number, which usually means a spam call, but I take a closer look. They came in four times in a row, the last one leaving a voicemail.
My stomach tightens, a reflex I don’t question yet, and I decide to listen to the message. The sound comes out of the speaker and I turn up the volume.
“Juno… it’s me. It’s—” A shaky inhale. “It’s your mother.”
I freeze, my blood turning to ice. Crosby hears that, as evidenced by his murmured “What the actual fuck?” and then he’s behind me, hand on my shoulder.
“I don’t know if this number is right. I—I hope it is.” She’s crying, raw and blubbery. “I wanted to let you know that your father… he passed away last night. A heart attack.” My entire body jolts and I turn to face Crosby, who wraps his arms around me. The message continues. “I didn’t know who else to call and I don’t—I don’t know what to do without him. I think I need help and well… please call me.”