Chapter 12
Crosby
The last box in my kitchen is labeled MISC—DO NOT OPEN IF ANGRY, a well-aimed warning that I should heed.
Inside is my grandmother’s tea service that was handed to me from my mother when she and my father downsized their home so they could “travel the world” after they retired.
It didn’t go to Birdie because Birdie doesn’t have a house, only a suitcase she lives out of, so I was the recipient of a tea service I’ll never use.
I carefully slit the tape with my box cutter and eyeball a glass-door cabinet where they would admittedly look pretty upon display.
I gently pull out each piece, remove the bubble wrap, and set it on the counter.
From there, I’ll transfer them to a cabinet.
If I break one, my mom will skin me alive, even though she handed them over to me for safekeeping.
Birdie sits on the floor, cross-legged, surrounded by crumpled packing paper and a half-empty Chinese takeout container.
We’ve often been mistaken for twins because we look so much alike.
She has the Hale dark hair and the hazel eyes we inherited from our father, although hers lean more green than gold.
“You sure that should go there?” she asks, eyes cutting between the delicate china and the cupboard.
“Positive,” I say, leaning against the counter. “Unless you finally want to settle down, quit that ludicrous job of yours and buy a house where you can keep the teapot.”
She snorts. “Pass. I like my nomadic life very much, thank you.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. As much as I hate her work, I do enjoy that she can visit me for weeks at a time, meaning we spend far more time together than we’d be afforded if we both had normal jobs.
She’s been here a little less than three hours, and I put her right to work helping me unpack.
Birdie has never owned a home, and she’s barely rented an apartment.
Between saturation jobs, she floats around either crashing with friends scattered across coastlines and continents or visiting either me or our parents.
She lives lightly, leaving no permanent imprint anywhere except on the people who know and love her.
Birdie rises from the floor, stretching her arms overhead with a low groan, vertebrae popping audibly.
She rolls her shoulders once, then lets her gaze roam the kitchen, taking inventory of a job well done.
Cabinets closed. Counters clear. No boxes left except the one I’m still handling like a bomb that needs defusing.
“Look at you,” she says, satisfaction curling her mouth as she scoops up the last of the trash and drops it into the bin. “You’re officially domesticated.”
“Don’t spread that around,” I grumble. “Ruins my reputation.”
She bumps my hip with hers as she passes, playful but in a familiar way only Birdie manages. “So, tell me how training camp went.”
I slide open a cabinet. “Let’s say I’m glad it’s a wrap.”
“And you survived.” A statement of fact because she knows. I’ve been through enough camps that survival is assumed, especially with a solid contract and a starter’s net behind my name.
Nearly ten years in the league and it never gets easier. Camp always winds you tight, even when your spot’s secure and even when you know where you stand. It’s weeks of everything turned up to eleven—lungs burning, muscles screaming, bodies colliding.
Then come the cuts and starters are announced. That leads to quiet goodbyes in hallways and parking lots, men trying to hold it together as their lives shift sideways.
And tomorrow the season starts. We have the home opener against the New York Vipers. The first real test… the first game that counts.
“What about Arch?” she asks.
“He’s golden. Going to be our third-line center.”
The words feel good to say. I would have been more than bummed had he not made it.
“Sweet. Can’t wait to congratulate him and also collect that fifty bucks he owes me.”
I glance over at her, brow furrowing as I reach for a stack of delicate saucers, testing their balance before committing. “For what?”
She leans back against the counter, arms crossing like she’s savoring this. “Last time I visited you in Winnipeg, that party you had—Beezo’s birthday.”
“Yeah,” I say, the memory hazy. Teammates. Noise. Someone inevitably shirtless.
“He bet me fifty dollars he could hold his breath longer than me.”
I pause mid-stack, a short, incredulous laugh slipping out before I can stop it. “What an idiot,” I chuckle, setting the saucers carefully onto the bottom shelf. “Why would you even dare to bet a saturation diver such a thing?”
“Easiest money I’ve ever made,” she says smugly, grabbing a bottle of water. “Tell me what’s going on with the documentary.”
I bobble one of the cups as I pull it out of the box, hating that the mention of that infernal film brings about thoughts of one distracting documentarian.
I save the china, but it doesn’t escape Birdie’s notice that her question physically affected me. I risk a glance her way, find her eyes narrowed on me. “Dish,” she demands.
“Dish?” I intone upward, innocently pretending I don’t understand what she’s asking. “Not sure what you mean.”
“I know you like to think me feeble-minded by virtue of my decision to dive—”
“Put your life in danger,” I clarify.
She ignores me, pushing me out of the way and taking the teacup from my hands. She takes over filling the cupboard and I gladly relinquish the responsibility. “But don’t think I don’t notice that me mentioning that film rattled you.”
I step back and reach for a towel, wipe my hands even though they’re clean. My mind drifts—not helpful in any meaningful way.
Five days since Vegas.
Since our drink in the bar.
Since the conversation that rewired something I hadn’t realized was loose inside me. Juno has somehow become a woman I am no longer trying to avoid, but rather someone with whom I look forward to future interactions.
Of course, Juno’s been a ghost since we got back. There are no cameras, no casual run-ins. She and Evan have been nowhere to be seen and it’s been noticeable.
I asked Arch about it yesterday, trying—and failing—to sound indifferent. He told me she’d flown to Los Angeles for meetings on another project and that she’d be back before the Vipers game.
Christ, it irritated me more than it should have that Arch knew where she was and I didn’t. I thought we’d made a connection in the bar that night, but maybe not.
When I don’t rise to Birdie’s bait, she comes at it another way. “Is it the film that bothers you or the filmmaker?”
I don’t want Birdie to know any of this internal turmoil, so I go on the offensive. Leaning back against the counter, I cross my arms over my chest and hook an ankle over the other. “Neither bothers me. I’ve invited her here to the house to film me for my one-on-one interview.”
Birdie’s eyebrows shoot up as she looks back over her shoulder at me. “Really?”
“Yup.”
“Here, in your house?” she asks skeptically.
“Which is why I need you to hurry up and finish getting me unpacked.”
She ignores that and grins, a sparkle in her eye. “Interesting.”
I sigh. “Don’t.”
“I’m merely saying,” she continues, far too pleased, “you haven’t invited anyone into your personal space since—what—Cherry?”
“That’s not true,” I blurt.
“Name one.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
She smirks. “Exactly.”
“This is business, Birdie. She’s filming a documentary and she’s catching a lot of the players in their personal environments.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she hums, clearly not believing me.
And then Birdie does the unthinkable. Rather than press me about whatever is going on with me and Juno, she goes silent.
It’s a deadly tactic she’s employed throughout our shared life, because she has steadily been the one I could tell anything to.
All my secrets, all my dreams, and all my angst. When my feelings for Cherry changed and I wanted out, Birdie was my sounding board.
If not for her, I probably would’ve suffered with that turmoil for a lot longer than I did.
Her silence eats me up quickly, making me want to blurt out my deepest secrets. “She’s… not what I expected,” I finally say.
There’s no ah-ha moment where Birdie spins on me, victoriously claiming she knew there was more than I claimed. Instead, she plays me like a fiddle, slowly turning my way. She’s the model of cool indifference, guaranteed to make me spill my guts.
She tilts her head curiously. “Meaning?”
I consider what sets Juno apart from other women so I can answer my sister truthfully. “She’s intense but she knows when not to push.” I hesitate, then add, “She grew up in a cult.”
Birdie goes still. “The hell?”
I nod. “I figured you saw that when you googled her.”
“No. I only read the first few lines about her awards.”
“Yeah, one of those religious institutions where men have more than one wife and they’re barely teenagers.”
“Eww,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “That’s fucking evil.”
“Agreed. Apparently, Juno was set to marry the pastor on her fourteenth birthday and escaped the night before. Went to the police and the entire church collapsed when they were investigated. It’s why she does what she does now… makes documentaries.”
Birdie studies me, approval in her gaze. I expect her to ask for more details, but she surprises me. “And that doesn’t scare you off?”
A dry laugh escapes, the sound scraping out of my throat before I can stop it. “You’d think it would, right? My aversion to the spotlight, but oddly… it doesn’t. I talked to her in Vegas for a bit and she’s not a sensationalist. I know that for a fact.”
It took me a hot minute to reconcile that Juno’s entire job revolves around attention—framing it, shaping it, asking people to step into it.
But what I came away with after our drink in Vegas was that she’s a truth-teller.
I think she’s the type of person who refuses to aim the light anywhere it doesn’t belong.
Birdie’s smile is soft when it comes, stripped of teasing for once. “You admire her.”
I don’t deflect. “Yeah… I do.”
She grins wider, the mischief sliding right back into place. “Also, she’s hot?”
I shoot her a deadly look. “Buzzard,” I warn, the nickname I call her when she’s getting bullish.
She laughs, victorious. “That’s a yes.”
I scrub a hand over my face, thumb dragging along my jaw like friction might erase the image already burned in. The way Juno looks like she belongs anywhere she stands. “She’s… compelling.”
The word feels safer than beautiful. Smarter than attractive.
Still not a lie.
Birdie throws her head back, laughter bouncing off the cabinets. “Oh my God, you’re doomed.”
“Stop.” The protest comes automatically, but there’s no heat behind it.
“You like her,” she says confidently.
I shake my head, even as something inside me shifts. “I didn’t say that.”
Birdie’s eyes flick to mine, unblinking, absolutely certain. “You didn’t have to.” She pushes off the counter and takes a long sip of her water like she’s already decided how this story ends. “You should ask her out.”
I scoff, the sound brittle and defensive. “That’s not how this works.”
She arches a brow over the rim of her bottle. “Why not?”
“Because she’s here to do a job.”
And because I don’t want to complicate a situation that already feels dangerous. I don’t want to cross a line I can’t uncross.
“And you’re allowed to be human at the same time,” Birdie counters. “Wild concept, I know.”
Before I can respond—before I can build another wall or find another excuse—my phone buzzes on the counter.
I glance down.
And for reasons I don’t let myself examine too closely, my pulse jumps when I see her name.
Juno. You owe me an interview. When do I get that invite to your house?
A weight lifts off my chest.
“Who is it?” Birdie asks, already smiling like she knows.
I look up, caught. Exposed. “It’s her,” I admit.
Birdie pumps a fist. “YES!”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling too as I text back. Consider yourself invited but remember, it comes with the promise of unpacking numerous boxes.