Chapter 5
Crosby
By the time we’re done for the day, my legs are heavy—a sign that tells me the work was good.
More importantly, I think I exceeded the expectations I’d set for myself, which were hopefully higher than what the coaching staff was aiming for.
The building is quiet now as Arch and I head toward the exit, most of the guys already gone or scattered through the maze of hallways that make up the performance center.
“All things considered,” Arch says, slinging his bag higher on his shoulder, “that could’ve gone worse.”
I huff a breath that might pass for agreement. “Only because it’s day two.”
He grins. “Fair.”
“What are you going to do tonight?” I ask.
“Probably watch mindless TV all night. You?”
“More unpacking,” I mutter. I hate moving, but I hate being disorganized even more, and I’m determined to finish my kitchen so I can at least cook.
When I signed my contract with Portland, the first thing I did was go hunting for a new home.
It’s bigger than what I need, clocking in at over six thousand square feet, but the price tag of two and a half million was more than easy with what I make.
It was the neighborhood that sold me. Private, gated, huge lots so you feel secluded.
Arch, on the other hand, is currently staying in a hotel. While he’s been signed to the team in the expansion draft, he’s not immune to being waived down to the minors, depending on how he does in training camp. He’s waiting to secure permanent housing until the regular season starts.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come stay with me?” I offer again, for probably the tenth time.
“Are you going to make me help you unpack if I do?” he asks.
“Yeah, but—”
“No thanks. I’ll stay in my posh hotel and order room service and watch TV in my boxers.”
I snort. Can’t say as I blame him.
We push through the final set of doors, the evening air cool and refreshing after hours inside.
The parking lot is mostly empty, the sun dipping low enough to throw long shadows across the pavement.
My black F-150 sits where I left it this morning, parked near the edge of the lot.
I have a Porsche too but today felt like a truck day.
And leaning against the driver’s side door like she owns the damn thing is Juno Paxton.
Her arms are crossed over her chest, one ankle hooked casually atop the other, dark hair in waves over her shoulders. She’s not holding a camera, and Evan is nowhere to be seen.
Arch slows beside me, his mouth curling into an entertained grin. “Well,” he says, nodding in her direction, “looks like you’re in trouble with the teacher.”
I don’t stop walking.
Instead, I reach into my pocket and hit the alarm button on my key fob.
The truck erupts in a blast of noise—horn blaring, lights flashing—and Juno startles hard enough to push off the door with a yelp, hands flying out instinctively as she stumbles back a step.
Satisfaction fills me from head to toe, and I kill the alarm immediately, a smirk tugging at my mouth before I can stop it.
Arch lets out a bark of laughter. “Jesus, Hale. You’re an ass.”
I can’t help but chuckle.
Juno recovers quickly, shooting me a look that’s equal parts annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Funny guy,” she says dryly.
And the fact that she didn’t get pissed impresses me.
I stop a few feet in front of her, Arch hovering nearby. “What do you want?”
No pleasantries. No games. I’m tired, hungry and not in the mood to negotiate.
She spares a glance at Arch, then back to me. “I want your time.”
I shake my head once. “Not happening.”
“Come on, Hale,” she drawls, offering me a smile that I bet would make most men crumble. “I’m not the enemy here.”
I sigh, the sound pulled from somewhere deep in my chest. “I’m busy.”
“Tomorrow?” she presses. “Later this week?”
“Going to be busy forever.”
Arch shifts beside me, clearly enjoying this far more than he should. “I’m available,” he says cheerfully, raising his hand. “Right now, actually. We could grab a drink.”
Juno turns her attention to him, eyes lighting playfully. “I’ll get to you eventually,” she says with a wink.
Is she… flirting with him?
Arch places a hand over his heart, drawing my attention. “I’m deeply wounded.”
“We’ll explore that trauma later.” She looks back at me, focus snapping into place. “What’s your hesitation?”
She’s definitely not flirting with me as I take in her cool and assessing gaze.
I hesitate long enough to regret it. “Listen… I don’t like the camera. Surely you’ve clued into that by now. You’ve got plenty of other guys to pick apart, so why don’t you go harass them?”
Her expression softens—not pity, not triumph, just acknowledgment. “You’re going to have to get over that,” she says. “The camera’s going to be on you all year. I’m not going to stop asking for an interview, and eventually, you know Rowe will force you to do it.”
I glance away, jaw tightening. I know that’s exactly what’s going to happen, but I can put it off long enough that maybe she’ll get distracted by someone else. The idea of being watched—really watched—for months on end sits like grit under my skin.
Having her pretty eyes on me for a one-on-one interview… that’s too disconcerting to even acknowledge.
“Give me fifteen minutes,” she says, stepping closer, and I can smell her perfume. It’s a very subtle floral, which surprises me. She doesn’t seem the flowery type. “Give me a chance to convince you it won’t hurt if you participate.”
I look at her, really look this time. She’s insanely beautiful and that’s the first thing any guy with a pulse is going to notice, but I look past that. She’s steady, confident without being aggressive, and waiting for my answer without pushing further.
Yeah, it’s sexy.
“No,” I say.
And then I step around her, heading for my truck.
“I’m not going away,” she calls to my retreating form.
I don’t respond.
“I’ve got your back, Hale,” Arch says, amusement laced through his words. “Taking one for you.” Then I hear him address Juno. “Come on. I’ll buy you a beer and I’ll commiserate with you over what an ass Crosby is being.”
That makes me chuckle and I’m not concerned in the least that he’ll say anything about me that’s harmful. I’ve got nothing to hide when it comes down to it. I simply don’t want my life—plain and boring as it is—on display.
I unlock the door and climb inside without another glance, shutting it with a solid thud. As I pull out of the lot, I catch sight of them in the rearview mirror—Arch gesturing animatedly, Juno listening, smiling.
It shouldn’t bother me.
But it does.
?
By the time I turn onto my street, the sky is dark and moody.
No stars peek through the clouds that have been hovering all day, but the neighborhood streets are aglow from uplit mansions and old-fashioned gas lanterns lining the sidewalks.
My new house sits back from the road, tucked into its slope like it’s cocooning, which is probably why I picked it.
I’m a man who values privacy not only from the public eye, but from nosy neighbors as well.
Motion-sensor lights flick on automatically as I pull into the drive, washing over stucco and tile and the broad curve of the entry like the place is waking up for me.
I park outside the three-car garage as it’s filled with my Porsche and dozens of boxes still to unpack.
Inside, the quiet deepens, almost eerie since this house is still very much a stranger to me. It’s too big and empty, bordering on lonely, but I know that won’t last long. I’ll get all my belongings set up and eventually it will feel like a home.
Boxes line the walls in tidy stacks, contents labeled in thick black marker.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and a smile takes my mouth hostage, because my sister is my favorite person in the world. I swipe to accept as I head toward the kitchen.
“What’s up?” I say cheerily.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she replies, voice bright and familiar. “You actually picked up. I had an entire speech planned out for your voicemail.”
“I can hang up and you can call back for it if you want,” I quip as I open the fridge and stare into it as if the answer to all my problems might be hiding behind the condiments.
“How’s camp going?”
I pull out a package of turkey and a loaf of bread, setting them on the counter. “About how you’d expect. Early days. Everyone skating like their jobs depend on it.”
“Because they do,” she says. “You settling into the house?”
I glance around the kitchen—granite counters spotless, cabinets half-filled. “Define settling.”
She laughs. “That bad, huh?”
“I’m trying to make a sandwich, and I can’t find a knife.”
My sister snorts. “That is bad.”
“Tragic,” I mutter, opening another box and rummaging through bubble wrap until metal clinks against metal.
Victory.
“So, how’s work?” I ask, peeling back the plastic on the turkey.
I hear the sounds of her career in the background—low mechanical hum, voices echoing, metallic clanging. She’s on a platform in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico.
“Just got back in,” she says. “Visibility was crap. Cold enough that my fingers went numb even through the gloves.”
I close my eyes, already picturing it, my heart racing when she gives me details of her work.
She’s a commercial saturation diver, and it scares the shit out of me.
She’s one of only about three hundred and fifty people in the world who can do this work, supporting offshore oil, gas or infrastructure operations.
Instead of diving from the surface each day, Birdie lives in a pressurized chamber on the platform for weeks at a time, which allows her body to fully “saturate” with inert gases.
This allows her to work deep underwater without repeated decompression risks.
She gets paid an obscene amount of money to inspect subsea pipelines, valves and platforms—often in cold, dark, zero-visibility conditions.
It’s incredibly dangerous and I hate that she loves it so much, which means she’s never going to quit.
“How deep?” I ask automatically.
“Two hundred feet today,” she says casually.
I shake my head, spreading mustard too thick on one slice of bread. “You’re still insane.”
“Occupational hazard,” she replies. Then, after a beat, “You sound tense.”
“Well, yeah,” I say, knife hovering over my bread. “I’m afraid my sister might die because of her job. Wouldn’t you be tense too?”
“No,” she drawls. “That’s not it. It’s something else.”
Birdie’s thirteen months older and we’re as close as identical twins. She always knows when something’s wrong with me, just as I know it about her. I expect that if one day she does die down in the murky depths, I’ll feel it long before I ever get the call.
I exhale through my nose and lean back against the counter, the stone cool through my shirt. “They’re filming a documentary about the Portland Wildfire. You know I don’t like that shit. Can’t stand being the center of attention.”
“I know,” Birdie coos in empathy. “But hey—smile and stop lots of goals. How hard can it be?”
“That’s not how it works,” I snap, then rein it in. I don’t want to argue. I just don’t want to explain what she already knows.
“I know,” she says gently. “So, what else?”
“The filmmaker,” I continue, irritation creeping back in as I slice the sandwich in half and immediately lose interest in it. “She keeps pressing me for an interview. Won’t take no for an answer.”
Birdie hums, the sound thoughtful. “And?”
“And I don’t want to do it,” I say, pushing off the counter and pacing a few steps. “It’s as simple as that.” I scrub a hand over my face, words spilling before I can stop them. “And she’s so young. I mean—who gives a project like this to a nobody?”
“What’s her name?” Birdie asks.
“Juno Paxton.”
“Let me look her up,” she says, and then goes silent. I take a bite of my sandwich, chew and swallow.
“She’s got a Wikipedia page, so she’s not a nobody,” Birdie says. “Looks like she’s got lots of awards. Film festival wins. Critical acclaim.” She goes silent for a moment and then gasps. “Holy shit. She did a documentary called Sanctuary that scored both Golden Globe and Oscar nominations.”
“You’re kidding?” I ask, completely astonished by this information.
“Didn’t win,” she says distractedly, and I can tell she’s still reading. Then she whistles. “Crosby… you didn’t tell me she was a knockout.”
I grimace because she’s not wrong.
“She’s downright hot. Why don’t you charm her? I mean… you’re drop-dead gorgeous too. Flirt with her a little.”
“What the fuck, Birdie?” I exclaim, completely exasperated. “She’s filming me, not auditioning to have my babies.”
Birdie laughs wickedly and I know she’s poking the bear.
“Change the subject,” I grumble, staring out the tall kitchen windows at the darkening trees beyond the veranda.
She laughs softly. “I’m just saying—you might want to rethink dismissing her.”
“I don’t care how good or pretty she is,” I say, jaw tightening. “I don’t want cameras in my face. I want some peace.”
“Fair,” Birdie agrees. Then her tone shifts, lighter. “Speaking of peace—I’m wrapping up this job. Should be decompressed in about seven to ten days.”
Another dangerous component to her job. She’ll stay in the pressurized chamber when she’s done, the pressure being reduced a little each day until she is physiologically back to normal.
The goal is to let the inert gases leave her body without causing decompression sickness, joint or tissue injury… even neurological damage.
I hate her fucking job.
“You coming to visit?”
“I’m going to take a few months off,” she says. “Thought I’d check out your fancy new place.”
“You can help me unpack,” I say.
She laughs. “Wow. Hospitality at its finest.”
“I’ll buy groceries.”
“Tempting,” she says. “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way.”
“Sounds good.”
“And Crosby?” she adds before hanging up. “Try not to scare off the award-winning filmmaker before I get there.”
“Bite me, Birdie,” I say, before hanging up on her laugh.