Chapter 7
Crosby
Training camp has a way of blurring days together, but a few stand out.
The ones where your body responds the way it should, your instincts sharpen instead of dull, and you start to trust that the work is paying off.
Today is one of those days.
It’s day seven, and tomorrow we play our first preseason game in our new arena.
It’s been long enough that routine has set in and short enough that nothing feels settled yet.
The cameras have become background noise—present, unavoidable, mostly ignored.
I’ve stopped tracking where Evan is, stopped bracing every time Juno moves through a space.
Not because I’m comfortable with it, but because constant vigilance is exhausting.
Besides that… she’s been ignoring me.
We finish goalie drills late morning—me and the two other prospects rotating through high-repetition sequences with the goalie coach barking reminders about angles, depth, patience.
My legs burn in that satisfying way that tells me I didn’t coast. When we’re finally cut loose, sweat-soaked and starving, I take a quick shower and head to lunch with the rest of the guys.
This is another place where Rowe has outdone himself. All practice facilities I’ve been in have food services that range from buffet meals to personal nutritionists.
We have The Blue Line, which is set up like an actual restaurant. It’s as beautifully decorated as every other corner of this place with high ceilings, matte-black beams overhead, clean lines everywhere.
The centerpiece is the chef line that runs straight down the middle of the room.
A long open kitchen has stainless steel stations facing outward so you can watch no fewer than three chefs work their magic, grills throwing off heat and the smell of seared protein, flat tops working eggs and burgers, wok burners flashing briefly when someone tosses vegetables and rice.
Digital menu boards hang overhead, rotating through options—salmon, chicken, steak bowls, turkey burgers—nothing heavy, nothing sloppy.
Food meant to fuel you, not knock you out.
As was rumored, they offer unlimited to-go food for those of us who are too lazy to cook on any given night.
But what makes this place special is that it feels like a real dining room instead of a mess hall.
Round tables and long rectangles in dark wood, spaced generously so conversations don’t bleed into each other.
Heavy chairs that don’t scrape or wobble.
High-top counters along the chef line if you want to eat alone and keep it quick, outlets tucked underneath for phones and tablets.
Along one wall, banquette seating upholstered in neutral tones—easy to wipe down, comfortable enough that guys linger longer than they mean to.
TVs line the perimeter, running games or film breakdowns with the volume low enough to fade into background noise.
Staff moves through without hovering—removing plates, wiping tables, refilling drinks.
Hydration stations sit at both ends of the room with water, electrolytes, and protein shakes ready to grab.
It’s efficient without feeling rushed, social without being loud.
A place you come to refuel, reset and sit with your teammates long enough for real conversations to happen without anyone calling it a team meeting.
The food smells so delicious, it’s hard to believe it’s nutritious. I grab a tray, load it with grilled chicken, rice, roasted vegetables and a green smoothie I’m not convinced is meant to taste good, then scan the room.
Arch catches my eye and lifts his hand. He’s sitting with Boss Calloway and Remy Dunn, both in the middle of an animated conversation.
I head that way, set my tray down on their table, and slide into the open seat as Miller Parks approaches from the opposite side.
He reaches his hand out for his chair as my ass hits my own.
There’s a brief pause… a flicker of awareness as we stare at each other. Arch watches, but Remy and Boss are clueless as they keep talking.
“Take a seat, man,” I say with a nod.
He considers the offer, then sets his tray down, lowering into the chair. The other guys cut their eyes at Miller, lift their chins in welcome, but continue with their conversation. Arch cuts me a glance but I just lift a shoulder.
Free country and all. The guy can sit where he wants.
Boss keeps talking about the game tomorrow night. It’s a big fucking deal for this city. New hockey franchise, brand-new arena downtown, Detroit Cardinals coming to town. He’s practically vibrating with excitement.
“Can you imagine the energy?” he says. “First time in that building with fans? Place is going to lose its fucking mind.”
Remy nods. “I heard the lighting alone cost more than my first contract.”
Arch chuckles. “Worth it.”
I eat, listening and nodding when appropriate. Miller does the same. We don’t look at each other, and I’m not put out at all. Silence isn’t awkward when you’re comfortable inside it.
That’s when I see Juno.
She and Evan enter the dining hall together, his camera slung but not raised.
They move through the space easily, blending instead of cutting through.
Juno chats with one of the nutrition staff, then joins the line.
She’s been keeping her distance from me, and I don’t trust that she’s given up. But I’ve been observing her.
Earlier this morning, during drills, a rookie defenseman had slammed his stick against the boards after missing an assignment.
Evan shifted instinctively, camera tilting up, hungry for that emotional reaction.
Juno stopped him with a hand on his arm, a few low words that I couldn’t hear, but the camera lowered.
She watched as one of the coaches gave some words of encouragement to the rookie, but she never recorded it.
Later, a coach lit into a winger near the tunnel, voices raised, frustration spilling out. Juno turned away and physically repositioned herself so the camera couldn’t see.
And yesterday, Miller nearly collided with me coming off the ice, tension thick enough to taste. Evan hovered, waiting.
Juno didn’t chase it, but she could have. Any of those moments would’ve made compelling footage. Instead, she let them go, and it confused me. I know she’s here to get the best story possible, and I know those high-emotion, thick-with-tension moments are golden for someone like her.
But Juno leaned back, let those moments pass, and moved on.
“She’s cool as hell,” Remy says. “Did my one-on-one with her yesterday. Didn’t feel like an interview at all.”
I focus in on the conversation, instantly understanding they’re talking about Juno.
“Yeah?” Boss asks casually. “Where did you do it?”
“She went with me on a hike with my dog. She walked with me, asked questions, listened. No camera. She said that would come later.”
Boss grins. “I know that was no chore. She’s incredibly hot.”
“So hot,” Remy agrees. “The type of hot that—”
“Don’t go there,” I say, cutting in over the words. “Not cool, dude.”
Remy isn’t completely deterred. “I’m just saying what every guy here is thinking, my friend. It’s only a matter of time before someone asks her out.”
Arch likes to push buttons. “She’s single, I’m single. Maybe I’ll go for it.”
“Maybe I will,” Remy says.
“Bet she turns you both down,” I say, confident in the fact that Juno Paxton is all about professionalism.
She’s far more complex than I originally gave her credit for.
Arch made sure to let me know he was in her corner after their little one-on-one.
He’s been singing her praises ever since, and every time they pass each other in the hall, they fist-bump.
It irritates me, and the fact that it irritates me irritates me even more.
I take another bite, chew slowly, surprised by the tight pull in my chest. I don’t want the interview. I’ve made that clear. And yet, the idea that everyone else is sitting across from her—giving her access I’ve refused—feels hollow.
And the woman hasn’t pushed. Not once since the parking lot.
It should be a relief, but I find it confusing.
The doors open again and this time, there’s no mistaking the shift in the room.
My jaw tightens as I see Cherry sweep in like she’s entering a movie premiere. Designer dress hugging every curve. Hair glossy and styled. Makeup flawless.
She scans the room, aware every man’s eyes are on her, and spots Miller. She beelines toward our table, swaying her ass the way she always did to make sure she’d be noticed.
There was a time when I loved her and thought I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. I put up with that insatiable need she had to have eyes on her and I could’ve lived with that forever, really, but it was her need to bring me into the spotlight that ruined everything.
Cherry doesn’t notice me sitting at the table and that’s fine. Arch stiffens next to me when he spots her. And how could he not? She laughs loudly, wraps her arms around Miller’s shoulders, and settles onto his lap like it’s a throne.
Classic Cherry.
She pulls out her phone and angles it just right. “Give me a kiss, baby,” she coos, already recording.
Miller plants his lips on her cheek and she snaps a picture. Rather than acknowledge anyone else, rather than actually talk to her husband, she immediately goes into editing and posting mode.
I recognize the action with fingers flying over the phone, cropping, adding filters, posting to every platform imaginable.
When she’s done, her head lifts and she lets her gaze roam the table, beaming at all the guys sitting there. Her eyes land on me and I can tell by her expression she knew I was here all along. “Crosby,” she says brightly. “Good to see you.”
Wish I could say the same, but I use my inside voice for that thought. I meet her gaze without flinching. “Cherry.”
Her smile tightens as she waits for me to say more, but I don’t.
“I hope this isn’t awkward,” she says, sliding her hand across Miller’s chest. “You know, me being married to Miller.” She kisses his cheek again. “He’s my soulmate.”
The word hangs there, and she watches me intently. I know she’s looking for signs of hurt or even irritation. I was the one who ended our relationship and she did not take it well. I know she wants to believe that I made a mistake, but instead, I know I dodged a bullet.
I swallow, take a sip of my drink, and set it down. “Why would it bother me?” I ask calmly. “I ended things. You’re free to live your life however you want.” I glance at Miller, then back at her. “I truly wish you the best.”
Silence.
Arch coughs into his hand and Boss and Remy stare with their mouths open. They have no clue the history.
Cherry’s eyes narrow, irritation flashing. She shifts, clearly expecting more—anger, jealousy, anything she can feed off.
I give her nothing and keep eating.
Miller clears his throat. “Uh… babe? Let’s grab another table.”
She hesitates, then scoffs, sliding off his lap. “Fine.”
Boss lets out a low whistle after they take a table across the room. Arch snickers outright. “That,” he says, “was epic, dude.”
“What’s the story?” Remy asks, leaning over the table toward me. “I got the feeling she’d shank you in a dark alley given the chance.”
“Just history,” I mutter.
“She’s Crosby’s ex-fiancée,” Arch supplies, and I shoot daggers at him.
Both Remy and Boss turn Cherry’s way for a more examining look, then back to Arch, who keeps running his mouth.
“That was a few years ago, and Crosby broke it off with her. She’s a bit of a diva and well, we know our boy Crosby is not. ”
“And she married Miller?” Boss asks, eyebrows knitting inward. “How’d that happen?”
“No clue,” I say, setting my utensils on my cleaned-off plate. “Don’t care either.”
“But it doesn’t bother you?” Remy presses.
“Not in the slightest,” I say, my eyes cutting over to Miller and Cherry, where she’s taking more selfies. “In fact… I feel a little sorry for the guy.”
Arch snorts and I let my gaze drift the other way across the room.
To Juno.
She’s watching—not with curiosity or judgment, but with quiet awareness. When our gazes meet, she offers a small smile.
I wonder what she knows about the history I have with Cherry. It’s public knowledge and any documentarian worth their salt will have done their research.
Maybe that’s why I’m avoiding her. I don’t want to rehash that part of my life. It’s over and has nothing to do with who I am today.
I look away first, but I know one thing with absolute certainty now. Juno Paxton isn’t hunting moments.
She’s waiting for them.