Chapter 11
Crosby
Vegas never really sleeps, but it does quiet down if you know where to sit.
I’d texted Juno earlier. Hotel bar, downstairs. If you’re up for it.
Most of the guys peeled off into Vegas the moment we dropped our bags, ready to hit the casinos.
Arch tried to get me to come out with him and Boss and I was almost tempted but decided I’d knock out this talk with Juno.
Because as much as I’m starting to see she’s kind of a cool woman, I would like to get her off my scent so I can concentrate on hockey.
The hotel bar is tucked far enough from the casino floor that I barely register the slots singing like wind chimes gone feral. In here, the lighting is low, amber pooling over dark wood and leather. The kind of place meant for conversations that don’t need to be shouted.
I claim a seat at the bar and order a beer. I’m not much of a drinker but I do like sipping on a good local IPA.
We flew in from Alaska less than four hours ago after we beat the Blizzard in a shutout. Everything went my way. It was the kind of game where I was in the zone and nothing felt frantic… one of those nights in the crease where my body answered before my brain caught up.
Tomorrow night, we’ll go up against the Vegas Spades, but I’m not dressing. It’s time for the coaches to evaluate the other two goalies and see who will get the backup nod for the season.
Juno steps into the bar, eyes scanning the dim interior. She’s wearing a black top that dips low enough to be distracting and for a split second, my attention snags on the pale line of cleavage she’s advertising.
Her hair is loose tonight, glossy waves that I bet feel like silk, and little makeup other than some shiny lipstick. She looks less like a filmmaker and more like a woman who knows exactly who she is when the camera is off.
Juno spots me a beat later and heads my way. When she stops beside my stool, she gives me a genuine smile. “Thanks for the invite,” she says, voice warm, unguarded. “I figured you might appreciate the quieter end of Vegas.”
“You figured right,” I reply, pulling out the stool beside me for her to sit on.
The bartender approaches and Juno orders a beer, which doesn’t surprise me. She doesn’t seem like the fine wine type and too controlled for liquor. We’re silent as he pours it, placing it before her on a coaster, and I motion for him to put on my tab.
“Thanks for the beer.” She takes a long sip. “Haven’t seen you since the win last night. I crashed hard on the plane trip here. Congrats on the shutout.”
I shrug. “Defense did their job.”
She doesn’t argue, nodding as she turns her glass once on the bar. “You’re ready to talk, huh?”
I meet her gaze. It’s steady and unwavering. “Sure, but shouldn’t we wait for Evan?”
She shakes her head. “Just you and me tonight, big guy. We’re getting to know each other a bit. Besides, Evan can’t resist the lure of a craps table.”
“A pre-interview interview,” I chuckle.
“Nothing as formal as that. I want to help put you at ease. You are, after all, a bit uptight about this sort of thing.”
“Not uptight,” I correct her. “Cautious. And do you do pre-interview interviews with everyone?”
She picks up her pint glass and winks. “Only the uptight ones.”
“Cautious,” I reiterate.
Juno studies me like she’s deciding how to approach a skittish animal. “You don’t like talking about yourself,” she says.
“Thought that was pretty obvious,” I drawl, considering my own glass but not picking it up.
She nods, accepting that without offense.
Then she does something unexpected. “Maybe it’ll help if I go first,” she says. “I often find you have to give a little to get some.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”
Juno smirks. “It’s not like we’re curious kids getting a peek down each other’s pants behind the schoolhouse.”
A bark of laughter pops out of me, and I shake my head, amused. But… since she’s offering, I pick up my glass to take a sip. “Okay… show me yours.”
Juno turns her stool toward me and leans her elbow on the bar. “I grew up in a religious cult,” she says calmly. “Very conservative. Very controlled. I was promised to the head pastor that he would take me as his wife on my fourteenth birthday.”
I suck in air, so shocked by what she said that I inhale the ale straight into my windpipe. A coughing fit starts that doesn’t stop for a full three minutes. Only after some pounding on my back by Juno and a glass of water from the bartender do I get control of my breath.
I test out the words, rasping. “Promised…?”
She nods. “He was sixty-two years old and already had four wives.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mumble. I don’t hide the reaction. Couldn’t if I tried. “What happened?”
“On my last night as a thirteen-year-old,” she continues, “I escaped the compound where I was living with my parents. I made my way to the nearest town and police station, told them my story, and they helped me.”
My throat tightens. “Your parents were okay with…?”
“They were told they’d have eternal glory if they gave me to him,” she says, so matter-of-factly it’s almost hard to believe this could be real.
But I completely trust what she’s saying. “What happened to the pastor? Your family?”
“Police swarmed the compound, gathered up all the kids, and there was a huge investigation. The pastor was arrested, along with a few of the other elders, for child abuse and sexual assault. The church collapsed. The end.”
My eyes narrow on her. “The end. That easy?”
“No,” she says with a soft smile. “Not that easy, but I was one of the lucky ones. I got out before I could get hurt. That’s why I ran, because I wouldn’t have been able to say the same the very next day when I turned fourteen and was then wed to him.”
“Unfuckingbelievable,” I breathe out, suddenly feeling the need for a stronger substance than beer. “And after? What happened to you?”
“My parents’ rights were severed, not that it mattered.
They never forgave me for bringing down the church, so they didn’t want me back after.
I went into foster care, which can be a shit show, but I was very fortunate.
I landed with a really sweet older couple in Ohio.
They had no children of their own and loved fostering kids.
While they didn’t adopt me, they let me stay with them until I graduated high school. ”
“I don’t even know what to say.” My brain races, a million questions pinging the inside of my skull, but I don’t ask a single one. Instead, I say, “You’re quite impressive.”
She smiles brightly. “Thank you. So are you.”
The compliment pleases me because she’s not pandering to me. I shift on the barstool, rolling my shoulders once, as if that might shake the awareness creeping in.
It doesn’t.
A realization clicks into place. “This”—I gesture vaguely between us—“you don’t do this for everyone.”
I don’t know why I say it out loud. Maybe because I need to hear the answer. Maybe because part of me already knows it and doesn’t quite trust it.
“Have a drink with someone to get to know them?” she asks with a wink. “Do it all the time.”
Her tone is easy, almost dismissive, but her eyes stay on mine.
I roll my eyes, more reflex than annoyance. “No. Talk about your past.”
She doesn’t flinch. Merely lifts one shoulder in a small, unapologetic shrug. “It’s public knowledge. I don’t hide it. You could have found this information if you’d googled me.”
I study her face, looking for the crack that exposes her regret. There’s none. Only pure ownership, and despite myself, a surge of respect for her washes through me. “Yeah, but you chose to share it with me. Tonight.”
“To bridge trust.” Juno stares at me for a long moment. “You hate the spotlight, and I don’t think that’s about humility. I think you’ve learned that visibility comes at a cost, and that’s why you avoid it.”
My spine straightens before I can stop it, every instinct on alert. That’s not a casual observation. That’s a diagnosis, and it’s uncomfortably accurate.
My pulse spikes. “Someone did their homework.”
Juno doesn’t smile at that, nor does she make excuses or apologize. “Your ex-fiancée’s social media told the story. I didn’t have to dig deep.”
There it is.
She didn’t say the name but didn’t need to.
As much as Juno and her purpose for being here irritated me, it oddly doesn’t bother me that she dug into my past. Like hers, it’s public knowledge, and there’s nothing to hide.
Not quite like hers, it’s over. The end.
“I’m not interested in the drama,” she says. “That’s not my work. In fact, it’s noise, and that’s beneath me.”
Her voice drops on that last word, almost disdainful. She holds my gaze, unwavering, like she’s giving me the space to decide whether I believe her. “I think I understand what you value and why you’re careful.”
And that’s the thing.
She isn’t asking me to confirm it.
She isn’t asking for anything at all.
She’s simply letting me know she sees me—and for the first time since this documentary began, I don’t feel exposed by that.
I feel… understood.
I take a pull of my beer. “Cherry loves attention,” I say after a beat. “And I knew that about her from the start. I guess when you’re in love and committing to another person, you overlook those things. But I eventually learned that I didn’t want to live under the microscope.”
The words come out evenly, almost rehearsed—not because I’ve practiced them, but because I’ve thought them a thousand times in quieter moments.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. Juno’s voice is soft, not pitying. She doesn’t interrupt the space between us with overblown sympathy.
“Don’t be,” I reply with a shrug. “When I ended it, it was more relief than anything.”
I didn’t realize how true that still is until I say it out loud. Relief—like stepping out of a room that had been too bright, too loud, too crowded for too long.
“Were you angry when it ended?”