Chapter 9
Juno
It’s late by the time I shut down my laptop and sling my bag over my shoulder.
Patrick was kind enough to give Evan and me an office to work out of in the coaches’ wing, and I’ve started a ritual of running through the footage at the end of each day, flagging moments that might matter later before sending it to Marta to catalog.
It makes for a long day, but it will keep us on schedule.
It also lets me keep work a little more separated from home—not that the apartment I’m renting downtown is home.
Nowhere is, really.
I haven’t been settled in one place for my entire adult life, but I do need to be able to disconnect from work so I don’t get burned out. I try to keep my job out of my personal space when I can.
Tonight, that means taking a long, hot bath with a crisp glass of white wine, then I’m going to binge-watch a few episodes of Game of Thrones for the third time.
The performance facility is quiet, and I glance at my watch as I head toward the lobby.
It’s almost seven and I’m surprised how deserted it seems. Often, people are here after hours, working late in the executive suite, or players doing a late workout.
I only pass one person on the way to the door, an equipment manager looking rushed and harried.
Jimmy, the night shift guard, looks up from his phone as I approach the lobby desk, already grinning. “Whoa, whoa—hold up, Spielberg.”
He sure is different from the surly day shift security guard whose name I know is Walter, only because of the tag on his shirt.
But Jimmy made sure to introduce himself to me my first night here and always has a smile when I approach.
He’s probably in his early forties and built like he played linebacker in high school and never fully stopped thinking of himself that way.
His uniform is regulation, but the personality underneath it absolutely is not.
“When are you going to put me on camera?” he asks. “I’m ready for my starring role, and I’ve been working on my serious face.”
He mugs it for me, and I can’t help but laugh.
“It’s a documentary, Jimmy. No one stars in it.”
Except maybe Crosby, but I’ve yet to talk to him. He’s like a wild animal who’s easily spooked, so I’m ignoring him for now.
“Tragic,” he says solemnly. “All this charisma, these good looks… wasted on a clipboard.”
“You’ll totally get on camera, my friend. Give me time.”
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You say that now. But one of these nights, I’m gonna catch something dramatic. A suspicious raccoon. A rogue Zamboni. Boom. Jimmy’s moment and you’ll have missed it.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I badge out. “I promise you this—I will get an interview from you. Be prepared to recount the raccoon story.”
“Looking forward to it,” he replies with a chuckle, pushing up from the desk. “I have to go back to my rounds. You have a good night, Juno. Drive safe.”
“You too, Jimmy.”
He taps the radio clipped to his shoulder and heads off down the corridor, boots echoing as he starts his patrol.
Once the front doors lock at six, he doesn’t stay planted behind the desk.
He walks the entire building—upper levels, training rooms, service hallways, outdoor perimeter.
He knows every corner of this place, every blind spot.
I step outside, the doors sealing shut behind me with a muted click, and the night air hits my face—cool, clean, a relief after hours under fluorescent lights.
The parking lot is mostly empty—only three cars remaining—but I’m not afraid. The lighting out here is ridiculously good and besides… I’ve got mace on my keychain, ready to deploy as needed. A good squirt to the face and a knee to the nuts is all the heat I need to pack.
Still, I scan the parking lot as I make my way to my little Volkswagen Passat. It’s white, nondescript and reliable. It’s served me well for going on six years now, thanks to me being a stickler for routine maintenance.
That’s when I see it.
The front passenger tire is completely flat. Rubber slumped against the asphalt like it had given up mid-fight.
“What the fuck?” I mutter to myself, bending to peer at it closer. While there’s a lamppost ten feet away, I turn on my phone’s light and inspect the tread.
And there it is… a big honkin’ nail.
I blow a lock of hair out of my face, a huff of frustration. Evan left an hour ago at my insistence. I could call him but he’s a good half hour away, also preferring to stay downtown.
I unlock my car, toss my bag into the passenger seat, and try to process the situation. I could go get Jimmy, but no telling where he is in the building.
Or I could change the damn thing myself. I’ve never done it before, but it can’t be that hard. They have YouTube videos on everything, and besides, I’ve seen it done a few times.
Determined to be self-sufficient and only allowing myself to ask Jimmy for help if I can’t get it done, I pop the trunk. I manage to find the jack and confirm the spare tire looks to be in good shape.
There are also handy little instructions on the bottom of the jack.
Bonus.
I walk toward the tire, turning the jack over in my hands, trying to understand which side goes on the ground. The metal is cold, heavier than I expected.
I rotate it once. Twice. Hold it up, then lower it again.
Right. Okay. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.
I hear the sound of the lobby doors whooshing open and I turn that way, expecting to see Jimmy coming out. I imagine he saw me through the glass and took stock of how hopelessly pathetic I am.
My smile slides right off my face when I see Crosby walking out the door. My pulse stutters, not from fear or surprise, but rather awareness. The kind that tightens low and immediate.
I take a moment to watch him as he hasn’t seen me. The man is sinfully gorgeous with dark hair and beautiful hazel eyes. He’s powerfully built but moves with catlike grace.
I look around the parking lot, but I don’t see his truck. The one with the very, very loud horn. His gear bag is slung over one shoulder, posture loose in the aftermath of what I’m guessing was a solo workout.
I turn my attention back to the jack in my hand, peering at the instructions on the label to see if they make more sense. I hear Crosby’s steps, steadily eating up the space across the parking lot, but then they slow. I risk a glance over and find him staring at me in surprise.
I turn back to the jack, finally seeing how it sits and trying to figure out exactly where I should put it under the car. His footsteps start up again but the sound fades, meaning he’s walking away.
Oh, well… I guess chivalry is dead.
“You’ve got this, Juno,” I reassure myself. I’ll figure it out and if not, there’s always Jimmy. And if not Jimmy, I’ll call my roadside service.
Easy peasy.
But then I hear footsteps again, and I pop up from my squat, because I don’t know who that could be. My mace is on the front passenger seat, not doing me a damn bit of good standing out here by myself.
But I’m shocked to see it’s Crosby coming my way. He drops his bag on the pavement. “You’ll want the jack under the frame,” he says, like he’s picking up a conversation already in progress. “Not the panel.”
“Good to know,” I say with a relieved laugh, but then frown. “What does that mean… frame?”
The corner of Crosby’s mouth lifts and he crouches beside the wheel without ceremony, reaching for the jack. Our fingers brush as the tool changes hands and both of us freeze, his green-gold eyes boring into mine.
The contact is brief, accidental—and far too loud in my nervous system. I’ve been touched by strangers in far worse circumstances without flinching, so I’m not sure why this one is so electrified.
Finally, he says, “You were turning it the wrong way.”
“I suspected as much,” I drawl with my arms spread wide. “But I was hoping confidence might carry me through.”
He actually chuckles, shaking his head. “Good thing I came along before you really got rolling.”
I glance around the lot. “I thought you drove a truck. You know… black, really loud horn.”
Crosby glances at me, eyes crinkling. “I do. But I also drive a Porsche.” He nods over to a silver, low-slung sports car.
“It’s cute,” I say.
His eyes flare and his mouth sags slightly as if I said the most idiotic thing. “It’s a Taycan GTS. All electric. Over five hundred horsepower. Fast enough that it deserves more respect than ‘cute.’”
I snicker as I incline my head. “My apologies.”
Crosby mumbles under his breath about the sleek lines of his car and I watch as he kneels beside the tire, already efficient, already focused. Jacket off. Sleeves pushed up. Hands steady as he slots the jack into place.
My gaze tracks the movement—forearms flexing as he works, strength controlled rather than showy—and it pulls a memory loose that I’d filed away too neatly.
The arena locker room last night.
Crosby stripping off his jersey, skin flushed from effort, muscles relaxed but still defined. I’d looked—longer than professionalism allowed—and he’d caught me. A flicker of his eyes meeting mine before I forced myself to look away, pulse spiking as if I’d been the one exposed.
If I were doing a documentary on the hottest hockey players in the league, he’d absolutely be in the main role. The kind of raw beauty that doesn’t ask for attention but somehow commands it anyway.
“You know,” I say, watching him work, “this isn’t even my worst car experience.”
He doesn’t look up. “That’s reassuring.”
“I once broke down in rural Utah. Middle of nowhere. No service. No traffic. Just red dirt and a vulture circling overhead.”
That earns me a glance, curious despite himself. “What happened?”
“I opened the hood, stood there for twenty minutes pretending I knew what I was doing,” I admit. “I think I jiggled a hose or two.”
He huffs—a quiet sound, almost a laugh—and pumps the jack. “And?”