Chapter 13 #2
Late in the first period, the Vipers press hard through the neutral zone, and I track Grizz McAvoy, their star winger.
Not because of his size or the way he attacks the play, but because I’ve seen him everywhere in my research.
Highlights, suspensions and substantial fines as punishment for his behavior.
He’s a big personality—loud, volatile and always skating at the edge of control.
He barrels into the Wildfire zone like he’s daring someone to meet him head-on.
He crashes the crease, but Crosby stays locked in, tracks the puck through a blistering wrist shot from McAvoy.
He snatches it clean and the whistle blows.
The home crowd erupts as McAvoy peels away with a glare, jawing at Crosby over his shoulder.
Crosby remains calm and turns his back on McAvoy, taking a lazy squirt of water from his bottle on the top of the net.
I can’t help but grin because not engaging with someone who thrives on engagement can be infuriating. It can also rattle someone into making stupid mistakes, and this is where Crosby’s experience will matter to this team.
Eventually, we meander back inside, and the filming flows easily. I can tell the guests who don’t mind if I ask them questions because they make direct eye contact when they see me and Evan coming. Laughter and conversation comes naturally and nothing feels staged.
That’s when I notice her.
She’s standing alone near the bar, posture relaxed but alert, hands folded loosely in front of her. Beautiful without trying—dark hair pulled back, eyes keen and observant. I recognize her immediately.
Simone Turner, wife of the assistant coach, Van Turner.
I recognize her because she came up in my research on Van.
The woman comes from deep hockey roots as both her brothers play for the Carolina Cold Fury.
There was more than the usual biographical information one might find on immediate family members, mostly because Van has a singularly compelling personal story.
His father was a convicted serial killer who died in prison and wrote a tell-all memoir that was published after he passed.
It brought Van’s name back front and center, and Simone has been more than a vocal supporter and partner to her husband. She’s almost a protector.
At any rate, she’s now a member of the Wildfire family, and I approach slowly. The movement catches her attention, eyes flicking from me to Evan, whose camera is off, then back to me.
“Hi,” I say with a smile, sticking out my hand. “I’m Juno Paxton. This is Evan Langdon.”
I’m conscious of how I’m presenting myself—open, unthreatening, relaxed—but there’s also that quiet assessment running in the background, the one that never fully shuts off when I meet someone connected to a subject.
Simone doesn’t hesitate. She takes my hand easily, grip warm, confident. “I heard you were going to be here tonight. Van told me all about the documentary.”
That could go a dozen ways, and I brace for exactly half a beat. “Nothing scary, I hope.” I then touch the back of the barstool as a silent request to join her.
I don’t assume space—I never do—but I also don’t shrink. It’s a balance you learn when your job is built on proximity.
Simone nods at the stool. “Please, have a seat. Can I offer you two a drink?”
“Not for me,” I say with a laugh. “No one wants me interviewing after I’ve been emboldened by liquor.”
Simone laughs and Evan sets his camera down on the stool next to me. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to use the restroom and grab a bite to eat. Want anything?”
The smell of food drifting through the suite reminds me I’ve been running on adrenaline and coffee since this afternoon. I’m famished. “Can you bring me a plate of anything, really?”
“Got ya covered.” Evan’s gaze goes to Simone. “Would you like me to bring you anything?”
Simone waves him off. “No, thank you, but that’s very sweet.”
Evan moves off, already scanning the buffet like it’s a tactical operation, and the space between Simone and me naturally closes by a fraction.
“Are we on or off the record?” Simone asks.
“Off,” I say, throwing my thumb back at Evan’s retreating form. “There goes my cameraman.”
“In that case,” she drawls, leaning in toward me. “Are you and Evan…?”
The question catches me off guard, and my eyebrows lift in surprise. “Together?” I let out a snort of a laugh. “God, no. We’d kill each other. He’s more like an annoying brother, although he’s very good at what he does, so I have to put up with it.”
Her smile widens, amused but relieved.
“My bad,” Simone replies breezily. “Now, tell me all about the documentary so far. I think it’s wonderful.”
And just like that, we slip into easy conversation—the kind that doesn’t feel like work, even though part of my brain is still cataloging tone and body language.
We talk easily. About the documentary, about settling in, about how her parents are in town watching their six-month-old tonight so she could come out.
There’s no guardedness in her, no sense of being measured or wary. Maybe it’s because this is all off the record, but she talks like someone who’s already secure in her life.
“What do you think of Portland?” I ask her.
“I’ve always been a fan of the Pacific Northwest. I love it here,” she says. “It helps that my brother Malik recently moved to Seattle.”
“Are you two close?”
Simone nods. “Close to all my brothers, but a little bit more with Malik if you’re forcing me to say that off the record. He was working in Pittsburgh when Van was with the Titans, so we hung out a lot. I think he thinks we followed him across the country, and maybe we did.”
There’s affection there, layered with humor.
“And what does he do?” I ask.
“He works for a company called Jameson Force Security. They have offices in Vegas and Pittsburgh, and they wanted to open one in Seattle, so Malik is running it.”
“Is that like installing security systems?”
Simone chuckles. “Yes, they can do that and I highly recommend them, but they do everything you can imagine that has to do with security. Executive protection, kidnapping recoveries, witness extractions, and intelligence work.”
“Wow. Pretty high speed.”
“Yeah, everyone who works there has military or law enforcement background, mostly special ops types.”
I’m filing it away—not for the documentary, not for tonight—but because it tells me about the circles she moves in. Competence. Intensity. People who understand risk.
Simone’s eyes dart to the left and I follow her line of sight in time to see Evan heading our way, two plates of food balanced with practiced ease. He sets one down before me. “Prime rib, milady.”
“Looks fantastic,” I reply, genuinely pleased, especially at the little dollop of horseradish he put on the side.
Simone rises from her stool, smoothing her hand down the side of her dress as she stands. “I’m going to step out onto the balcony and watch a bit of the game. Not the same with Van not on the ice, but I don’t mind staring at my husband on the bench.”
I laugh, deciding I very much like this woman. “It was a pleasure talking to you.”
“We should do lunch sometime,” she says.
“I’d love that.”
And I mean it. Not because I’m looking to network or consider it an obligation, but as the rare, uncomplicated spark that might exist entirely outside my work.
Wanting something outside the frame has never ended well for me.
I find myself wanting it anyway.