Chapter 4
Juno
The regulation-sized practice rink inside the Wildfire Performance Center is full of action on this second day of training camp.
I don’t know what other rinks in the league look like, but this one’s impressive and so new, I can still smell the fresh paint and sealant.
The glass boards sparkle, not yet dulled by the countless pucks guaranteed to bounce off them.
Everything here is shiny and waiting to be tested, much like these players.
The stands are modest—three short rows of black molded seats bolted into steel risers along one side of the rink. They’re steep enough to give a clean view of the ice, meant for coaches, scouts and analysts who are observing. This isn’t a place for fans but rather evaluation.
Evan and I are in the third row at mid-ice. He’s got the camera rolling and when necessary, I give him direction. It’s often not necessary, as this is our fourth film together and he can practically read my mind.
An added benefit to Rowe’s unlimited funds is that he has mounted cameras everywhere.
Fixed units in the corners, end-zone cameras behind the nets, overhead tracking systems recording every stride, every pivot, every lapse in coverage.
The team uses them to break down film, to identify inefficiencies and patterns that only show up when you slow things to a crawl.
I was beyond pleased when I sent a request up the chain to have access to the footage, and it was approved.
Granted, I had to sign an agreement that the footage could only be used in the documentary—as if I’d sell the info to an opposing team. I’ve got Marta on standby to go through the daily feeds from the comfort of her home in Los Angeles, but I prefer to watch things unfold live first.
Real tells happen in real time.
Evan is in his “focused” zone, the camera on his right shoulder. People underestimate the strength it takes to hold that equipment steady, but Evan’s a powerhouse of a man. The only thing he takes more seriously than filming is working out.
“Start wide,” I murmur. “Get the full drill. Don’t chase yet.”
He adjusts without comment, lens sweeping across the ice as the players finish their warm-up laps, blades carving clean arcs into untouched ice. They’re dressed in alternating practice jerseys—forest green and white—helmets on, sticks taped in personal rituals that speak to superstition and habit.
Coach Monahan stands at the boards, whistle at his lips, clipboard tucked under one arm. He barks instructions as the drills shift into structure—edge work through cones, passing sequences that demand timing and trust, defensemen pivoting backward as centers cut through the neutral zone.
I’m proud of myself for knowing the mechanics of hockey, as it’s not a sport I’ve been following for long.
Rather, I had to study my ass off to get ready for this project.
I’ve spent the last three months in preparation studying hundreds of hours of game footage, including a deep dive into how announcers analyze a game.
I’ve plenty of books on the craft of hockey, and I’ve picked Evan’s brain relentlessly.
I’ve always enjoyed watching sports of all varieties, but I’ve never been an expert on any of them.
I can safely say, as I sit here right now, I’m pretty much an expert on hockey.
Which is why my attention keeps snagging on the defenseman in black—Locke Donovan.
He’s exactly what the file said he’d be.
Big. Ornery. All muscle and coiled restraint.
He was picked up in the expansion draft on potential but flagged for discipline issues.
He’s known around the league as a gamble no one’s quite figured out how to manage.
The man skates like he’s angry at the ice and when the whistle blows, he doesn’t decompress—he locks down.
No chatter. No smiles. No release.
I’ve seen this type before. Men who learned early that control is survival, and that losing it—even for a second—comes with consequences they don’t ever want to revisit.
He might be a very good story, but I’ll see how it plays out. He might not even make it through training camp.
I watch Locke as he explodes into the drill like he’s been waiting for permission to hit someone.
It’s a controlled scrimmage—half speed by design—but he closes the gap too fast, shoulder dropping as he drives an opposing forward cleanly but brutally into the boards. The impact cracks through the rink, sharp and hollow, loud enough that a few heads snap up.
The whistle shrieks and the forward pushes off the glass, clearly rattled. Locke doesn’t even bother to look at him, merely turning and skating back into position for the next drill.
The assistant coach, Van Turner, barks his annoyance. “Donovan… take it down about ten notches.”
Now that’s a man I can’t wait to interview. Turner happens to be the son of a serial killer and no one has as interesting a backstory as he does.
Locke doesn’t look at the coach, but he doesn’t argue either. There’s no back talk, no flaring up.
Just a single breath through his nose before he plants his skates and waits for the next rep like nothing happened.
“Want me to stay on him?” Evan asks.
I glance over at Crosby, who’s carefully watching the byplay between Locke and Coach Turner. I wonder if he’ll intervene.
“Track Hale,” I say softly.
Evan narrows his focus as a new drill starts.
Crosby is in the crease, rotating through reps with mechanical consistency. His movements are economical, almost understated, and I’ve yet to see him exhibit any frustration when a rebound gets away from him.
He simply resets, settles and waits for the next puck.
I think he’s a man who doesn’t let much rattle him, which is well-suited to his job as the protector of the net.
I’ve done my research on Crosby. Thorough research, the kind that starts with press releases and stat lines and then keeps going long after the easy information dries up.
He grew up in a hockey town where rinks outnumbered stoplights and was drafted young. He moved through the league steadily, earning his reputation as an elite goaltender not because he courted attention, but because he survived without it.
In the public spotlight, he’s an enigma. No social media. No personal brand. He doesn’t shy away from reporters and will talk about the game all day long, but he has no personal footprint in the digital world.
Which made Crosby… fascinating.
Apparently, he was engaged for a brief period to a woman named Cherry Brigham.
No clue if Cherry is her real first name, and I didn’t bother to research it much, but let’s say she looks like a “cherry.” All flaming red hair and huge breasts that are always on display, no matter what she’s wearing. She and Crosby made a striking couple.
Cherry’s Instagram is public and tells a compelling story of a woman who doesn’t do much other than put herself out there.
It’s all curated intimacy that blurs the line between authenticity and performance.
She’s posted red-carpet photos, vacation shots and photos of her out partying.
Crosby appeared often enough to establish them as a unit, but never comfortably.
In almost every single photo, Cherry made sure to show off a massive sparkler of an engagement ring.
But always, Crosby never seemed to be a real part of her story.
I remember one post in particular—not because it was scandalous, but because it revealed more information about Crosby.
He was stepping out of the bathroom, towel slung low around his waist, water still clinging to his skin. Cherry had caught him mid-moment and it was a clear ambush by the look on his face.
She posted it with the caption, Look at my boo. How is this hotness even real?
I had to force myself not to gag over that. For Crosby’s part, he didn’t look amused, but he didn’t look angry either. Just resigned… like he was a man tolerating exposure because it made her happy.
Objectively, he’s devastatingly attractive, and I studied that picture longer than was necessary.
Tall, wide at the shoulders, muscles in all the right places.
His dark hair is usually mussed, his hazel eyes unreadable even when he’s relaxed.
In still photos, he looks like someone who belongs at the center of attention, despite clearly having no desire to be there.
I couldn’t pinpoint one photo where he looked like he was having a good time, and I found that a little sad.
Cherry, on the other hand, clearly loves the spotlight. She blooms under it. Her posts are open and personal, sometimes uncomfortably so. The message I received after looking at only a handful of them was that she got her validation and worth by being with a professional athlete.
And as I scrolled forward, mapping out the course of their relationship, posts with Crosby suddenly stopped.
No announcement. No carefully worded statement. One day Crosby disappeared from her posts, although she didn’t go back and delete the old ones.
What followed was a string of girls’ nights and club photos, sequined dresses and champagne flutes held high. The engagement ring was gone. One post had a caption that gave an explanation to this new life she was showcasing. Wonderful to be single again.
Cherry never mentioned Crosby Hale again and that was three years ago.
On the ice, Coach Monahan blows his whistle, and the drill resets.
Defensemen rotate, wingers swap sides, the tempo shifts.
Evan captures it all, occasionally glancing toward me for confirmation.
I nod when he’s where I want him and my mind drifts back to the enigmatic Crosby Hale, because I found a nugget in Cherry’s timeline that sparked my documentarian interest.
A new man appeared. Familiar, if you’d studied hockey the way I had over the last few months.
Miller Parks.
He was picked up by Portland in the expansion draft, a second-line defenseman from the Vancouver Flash.
I couldn’t quite figure out from Cherry’s social media how they hooked up, dated, and eventually married, but I know she’s here in Portland with him.
She’s posted almost three times a day about her husband and his new team.
She did a video of their new home they bought, which is ballsy given he hasn’t made it through training camp yet, but from all indications… he’s going to make the team.
What’s fascinating in her posts is that Miller seems to enjoy the limelight as much as his wife. He hams for the camera, is overly solicitous to her, and I get it. She’s a drop-dead gorgeous bombshell of a woman and it appears he’s proud to have her on his arm.
And now here he is, skating drills in the same jersey as Crosby Hale, married to the woman who once documented Crosby’s private moments for public consumption.
Coincidences exist and this one has teeth. There’s obviously a story there, but I will be patient until it reveals itself.
Yesterday in the locker room, Miller made a comment about the spotlight in passing to Crosby, his tone steel-edged enough to cut if you knew how to listen. At the time, I cataloged it and moved on.
Today, after having done my research on Crosby, I now know there’s more to uncover.
And stories don’t hide forever. They wait for the right pressure to reveal themselves.
“Want me to stay on Hale?”
“Yeah,” I tell Evan quietly.
He adjusts the frame, lens following Crosby as another puck snaps toward the net and disappears into his glove. Crosby straightens, resets, calm as ever, as if nothing beyond the crease exists.
From where I sit, with the whole rink laid bare beneath me, I already know better.
The whistle sounds again, long and shrill, signaling the end of the drill.
“All right,” Monahan calls out. “Well done. You have a two-hour break, then we’ll pick up at three p.m.”
Players peel away from their positions, coasting toward the gate as the ice empties in stages. Coaches confer at the boards and equipment managers move with practiced efficiency.
I rise from my seat. “I’ll be back,” I say to Evan.
“I’ll be here,” he quips.
I take the stairs two at a time, stepping onto the rubber matting as Crosby Hale glides toward the tunnel, mask already lifted and sweat darkening the collar of his practice jersey. Up close, he’s more imposing than he looks through a lens.
“Crosby,” I call out, keeping my tone light, professional.
He doesn’t slow, but he does angle his head slightly, acknowledging that he’s heard me.
“You looked great out there,” I say as I fall into step beside him. “Your lateral movement through the crease was clean and efficient.”
That earns me a glance, surprise on his face that I can talk the talk, but then it shutters. He’s not impressed.
“I’d like to set up our first one-on-one interview,” I continue. “Nothing heavy… merely a baseline conversation.”
He doesn’t slow and in fact, picks up the pace. “I’m busy,” he says flatly. “Find someone else.”
I’m not surprised. I’ve been turned down by men with less reason to resist and far worse poker faces.
“When would work better?” I ask, hurrying to match his stride. “Tomorrow? Later this week?”
He exhales through his nose, impatience slipping through the cracks. “Going to be busy for many days to come.”
I stop walking and he keeps going.
“You can’t ignore me forever,” I call out to him, not as a threat, but a fact.
That’s when he turns, facing me fully. His eyes are hard and cool. He looks down at me—not dismissively, but like he’s weighing whether I’m worth the energy.
He is all discipline and distance, but there’s a brief hitch before he schools his expression. His gaze drops, quick and unguarded, tracking from my face to my boots and back again. Not lewd, but what might actually be appreciation.
Then it’s gone so fast I might have imagined it if I hadn’t spent my life studying microexpressions.
“What are you going to do?” he asks evenly. “Go tattle on me to Rowe?”
There’s no anger in it. Just challenge. “Do I need to?” I ask.
“Do your best,” he replies and then turns away, disappearing down the tunnel without another glance.
I stand there for a moment, the echo of his words settling in my chest.
I could force this. Rowe would absolutely back me.
But that’s not what I need.
I don’t need compliance. I need Crosby to be comfortable, and that’s going to take something else entirely.
As I turn back toward the stands, Evan watching me with raised brows, I know one thing for certain.
Crosby Hale isn’t avoiding the story.
He is the story.