Chapter 3
Crosby
The locker room in the performance center is ridiculous, but I mean that in a good way. It’s not designed to overwhelm, but it doesn’t pretend to be modest either.
The room is massive with identical rows of stalls running parallel to each other.
But these aren’t ordinary cubbies. Each locker is a fully integrated station and at the base of each unit is a built-in recliner upholstered in the same mocha-brown and black color combo as in the team auditorium.
The seats are wide and structured to support large frames, and with the push of a remote button, they recline fully into a sleep pod, allowing players to rest between workouts and practices.
Subtle lighting beneath each seat provides low-level illumination along the floor, keeping the room visible without overhead glare.
To either side of the stalls are storage compartments and cubbies. One side includes a vertical closet space for suits and personal clothing. The other side holds open, ventilated shelves for skates, gloves and smaller gear, with integrated drying channels to handle damp equipment.
Above each locker, a wide digital screen runs horizontally and will display a photo of the player with their name on it.
I’ve been told it will eventually rotate player-specific information—number, stats, training metrics, recovery data and upcoming schedules.
When not actively in use, they cycle through team branding and visuals at low brightness.
The floor is covered with the same sumptuous carpet that runs through the building with the Wildfire crest embroidered into the center of each aisle.
I hang my bag in my stall and take a moment to breathe it in. Training camp always carries this strange duality of optimism layered over dread.
Possibility sitting right next to potential failure.
Everyone comes in believing this year will be different, and everyone knows not all of us will walk out of camp with the roles we expect.
I strip off my jacket, hang it neatly, then pull the team-issued training top from the folded stack on the shelf. It’s crisp, still creased, but that won’t last long. I set it aside because we won’t be hitting the ice until this afternoon.
Behind me, a familiar voice cuts through the quiet hum of movement.
“Well, I’ll be fucked,” Arch Hewitt says. “If this isn’t the nicest locker room I’ve ever set foot in. I feel like royalty.”
He drops his bag at the stall beside mine, and like that… we’ve claimed our territory. I expect these stalls will be officially assigned to us when the season starts.
“I’m not sure if we should play hockey here,” I say without looking at him, “or host wine tastings.”
Arch laughs and stretches his arms overhead, rolling his shoulders like he’s already loosening up for the day. “Why limit ourselves?”
Boss Calloway strides through. “Tell me you saw the lounge area. It’s like we’re royalty.”
“See?” Arch exclaims, pointing at me. “Hockey royalty.”
Boss snorts, shifting his bag from one arm to the other. “Then where’s my crown?”
“Check your stall,” Arch deadpans. “They’re fancy enough to house the Crown Jewels.”
I indeed saw the lounge area earlier and it’s bananas.
It sits immediately adjacent to the main locker rows, functioning as an extension of the space rather than a separate room.
The seating is arranged in conversational clusters rather than rows with oversized leather sectional sofas in the same mocha and black leather, which is an obvious theme, with matching ottomans large enough to serve as footrests or informal tables.
A large, wall-mounted, flat-screen television anchors the lounge, recessed into a dark frame.
It’s sized for group viewing—easily visible from every couch—and I imagine it will just as easily run sports coverage and film review as it would soap operas.
The lighting throughout the lounge is intentionally subdued…
recessed for soft illumination without glare and narrow strips of orange neon running along the baseboards to give it a contemporary look.
We’re being spoiled and I am here for it.
“Fucking royalty,” Boss murmurs before taking the stall next to Arch.
I love these early dynamics with my new teammates. Fueled by the excitement of the upcoming season, camaraderie is forming. It’s all banter and ease with no forced posturing yet.
Training camp isn’t about speeches or hype videos. It’s about systems, repetition and learning who shows up when no one’s cheering. It’s baseline testing, medical check-ins and drills designed to expose weaknesses before the season does it for you.
I quickly change into my workout gear, trading easy verbal jabs with Arch and Boss until Coach Monahan’s voice cuts through the room, authoritative without being loud. “All right, gentlemen. Gather up.”
Conversations taper and we all drift out of the aisles toward the large open area that divides the dressing area from the lounge. We form a loose semicircle as Coach posts up in the center of it. I take a spot near the front without thinking.
Monahan stands tall, an iPad in hand. He looks energized and focused, and I’m looking forward to his leadership. His reputation is that he can be trusted when things go sideways. He’s not the warmest and fuzziest of guys but can be analytical without being cold, demanding without being cruel.
“Welcome to training camp,” he says. “This is where the fun stops and the work starts.” A few low chuckles ripple through the group.
“You all know how this goes. Baseline testing this morning. Medical check-ins. Systems meeting. Then we hit the ice.” His gaze sweeps the room, measuring what he sees.
“There are no guarantees here. I don’t care what your contract says.
I don’t care what your résumé looks like.
Every drill matters. Every rep matters. You earn your ice time every single day. ”
I glance around, see some of the guys nodding while others swallow hard.
“And one more thing,” Monahan adds, nodding at someone off to his left. “Remember, the documentary film crew will be around. I don’t think I need to tell you to focus on the game, not on the cameras.”
I jolt because I’d completely forgotten about that and take in the two people standing there.
The man is tall with long brown hair and built like a linebacker.
He’s actually got his camera on his shoulder, balanced like it’s an extension of his body, and appears to be filming all of this.
Beside him stands a woman who I imagine might be some sort of assistant.
She’s petite and incredibly beautiful. She has sort of an artistic, hippie vibe going with a pair of cargo pants, a loose-flowing, cream-colored blouse and flip-flops.
She looks young—late twenties, maybe. Her hair is so dark, I’d consider it black, pulled into a sleek ponytail hanging down her back. Facial piercings catch the light when she moves, but it’s her eyes that make a man look twice.
Crystal blue, full of light.
She stands confident, like she doesn’t care who’s watching and clearly isn’t intimidated by the room full of men staring at her right now.
Some guys shift. Some straighten. A few grin like they’re already imagining highlight reels and endorsement deals.
“I’ll remind you this is part of a league initiative,” Monahan says, drawing my attention back to him. “Fully supported by Patrick Rowe. You’re expected to be professional. If you have concerns, bring them to me.”
Then he motions toward the cameraman and assistant. “Juno,” he says. “I’m going to turn this over to you now.”
Interesting name… Juno.
And then to my surprise, it’s the woman who steps forward. She strides confidently to the center of the room without hesitation, like she belongs here.
“Thank you, Coach, for giving me a few minutes.” Her voice is calm.
Steady. And I’m starting to think she’s more than an assistant.
“I’m Juno Paxton. I’m directing the documentary that will follow your team through its expansion season.
This is my cameraman, Evan Langdon. It will usually only be the two of us around.
” She pauses. “We’re here to capture reality.
That means practices, meetings, travel. Conversations, good days and bad days.
We shoot verité—meaning we don’t stage moments and we don’t interrupt them.
If you forget we’re here, we’re doing our job right. ”
Arch leans toward me, talking low out of the side of his mouth. “Is it me or is she smokin’ hot?
I don’t answer him. Don’t roll my eyes. Don’t react at all.
But I also don’t disagree.
The woman doesn’t appear to be nervous and not going to lie, a woman’s hot factor to me stems from her confidence.
Her gaze sweeps the room, cataloguing faces, reactions, energy. She’s not looking at us like a fan or even like a journalist hungry for sound bites. She’s looking the way I do when I’m reading a play—angles, tells, who’s bracing and who’s pretending not to.
When her eyes land on me, they linger without apology. She appraises me like she believes I matter and is filing that away for later.
I don’t look away, but I couldn’t if I wanted to. She’s fucking stunning and weirdly, I don’t mind her eyes on me. While I don’t want anything to do with that camera, it’s not a chore to stare back at her.
I don’t give her anything—no nod, no expression—but something tightens low in my belly all the same.
Physical awareness that’s sharp and a little uncomfortable.
Arch shifts beside me, clearly clocking it. “Huh,” he murmurs. “So that’s a yes.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, eyes still locked forward.
“Because we work with a lean crew,” she continues, nodding toward her cameraman, “we use lav mics for interviews and mounted audio as a backup. Unless we’re doing one-on-one interviews, we will try to take up as little footprint as possible so we’re not a distraction.
” That earns a few nods of appreciation.
“I’ll be scheduling the one-on-ones over the next few weeks.
Some of you I’ll talk to more than others.
That’s not personal but rather the way a story unfolds. ”
My shoulders settle, tension coiling tight beneath calm. I already know where this is going.
“If you don’t like the cameras,” she says evenly, “that’s fine. But ignoring us doesn’t make us disappear.” She flashes a beautifully wicked smile full of straight, white teeth. “It makes you more interesting.”
A ripple of low laughter moves through the room, uncertain, like guys aren’t sure whether they’re allowed to find her funny or if this is already a test.
I don’t join because none of this amuses me.
I’m past the hot documentarian distraction and focused on my loathing of the spotlight.
My posture stays neutral, weight evenly distributed, hands loose at my sides.
It’s an old habit because I learned early that reacting was another form of giving something away.
“I don’t force moments,” she continues. “But I do apply pressure for you to give me your all.”
She smiles again.
The kind of smile that belongs to someone who’s already decided how this is going to go and is waiting to see how much resistance she’ll meet along the way.
My pulse kicks into overdrive when her gaze lands directly on me once more. “And I’d like to start with you, Crosby.”
I feel the attention snap toward me like I’ve stepped into the crease during a shootout.
My jaw locks, muscle memory kicking in as my tongue presses to the roof of my mouth, holding back the instinctive response because I didn’t agree to give her even a second of my time.
Her eyes hold mine across space, steady and unblinking, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch.
I take a slow breath through my nose, grounding myself the way I always do—counting seconds, reminding myself exactly where I am.
Locker room.
Team.
Captain.
“Sorry, but I’m busy today,” I say, voice level, and chuckles break out across the group.
A delicately shaped eyebrow arches and I can tell she’s amused. “Soon, then.”
Coach clears his throat. “All right. That’s enough for now. Let’s get moving.”
The room breaks apart, noise rushing back in like a tide. Guys head toward their stations, conversations overlapping, energy ramping up.
Arch sidles up beside me. “Well,” he murmurs. “That was… direct.”
Boss appears, a grin on his face. “Fearless. I like her.”
“She’s hot, right?” Arch asks, apparently wanting another opinion.
“Smokin’,” Boss agrees, but I don’t respond.
We’ve got more important things to do and it’s time to focus on the business of hockey. I close my stall, pocket my cell phone, and engage the combo lock.
We’re going up one floor to the health center where we’ll be evaluated by primary and orthopedic doctors, including routine bloodwork. As we move toward the locker room exit, Miller passes so close our shoulders brush.
As he moves by me, he says, “Guess you’re not avoiding the limelight this time.”
It’s a caustic remark, meant to dig at me personally, and the only reason he’d take such a shot was because he wants to establish dominance. He’s threatened, which is bullshit.
He doesn’t have a damn thing I want.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response, instead turning to Arch as if Miller didn’t exist, and asking, “You want to grab some lunch later?”
“Yeah, man,” Arch drawls slowly, eyes cutting back and forth between me and Miller’s retreating form. “What the hell was that?”
“No fucking clue,” I reply. “If he wants to be a man-baby, so be it. I’m here to play hockey.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Juno standing five feet ahead talking to Evan. Her eyes meet mine, then cut away.
Did she hear that exchange? Because if she did, there’s no mistaking that as friendly banter. It could only be seen as bad blood.
But ultimately, none of that matters.
What matters is the ice.