Chapter 14
Crosby
If I’d known a documentary interview would involve dirty dishes, empty wineglasses, and Juno barefoot in my kitchen like she owned the place, I might’ve let her in faster.
But here we are as she stands at my sink, sleeves pushed up, rinsing plates handed to her by my sister, Birdie, who’s washing them. After dinner, Evan went to set up for the interview, and Juno jumped into action to clean the kitchen, Which, as a good host, I tried to protest.
But she waved me off.
Actually, she sort of glared and took over like this is a house she’s lived in her whole life.
Juno and Birdie are currently trying to outdo each other as the toughest female in the world. I’m hanging at the kitchen island, enjoying this way too much.
“I once had to eat dinner sitting on a concrete dock at two in the morning because the boat captain forgot to secure the galley,” Birdie says casually, scrubbing a plate like this is perfectly normal conversation. “Cold beans straight out of a can. No utensils. Gravity and a lot of slurping.”
Juno pauses mid silverware stack. “Honestly, I’ve heard worse.”
Birdie snorts. “I think not. A seal kept staring at me like I owed him money.”
Juno cackles—a sound that isn’t as off-putting as one would think—and bumps Birdie with her hip. “Now that is classic. You win.”
“Of course I win,” Birdie says, chin lifted like she’s royalty. “I’m made of awesome.”
I rub a hand over my face, groaning audibly. “Why are you like this?”
My sister glances over her shoulder, entirely unrepentant. “Because my job is objectively cooler than yours.”
Juno watches the interplay with an amused glitter in her eye. She doesn’t have siblings and part of me wonders if she’s sad not to have that experience. Of course, if she spent a week with Birdie, she might think otherwise.
“That’s debatable,” I mutter. “I don’t see a documentary film crew showing up at your doorstep for an interview.”
“Well, they should.” She hands Juno a plate. “When was the last time your work involved controlled explosions or a decompression chamber the size of a coffin?”
Juno’s mouth curves. “I must hear more about your job, but it sounds like it should be done over beers and nachos.”
“Agreed,” Birdie says with a resounding nod, and then waves her dish towel at me. “See? She listens. That’s why I like her.”
I glance between them—my sister so over the top and Juno calmly restoring order to my kitchen—and I cannot believe how relaxed I am. I haven’t thought about the interview all night, even while we sat around my dining room table and swapped stories.
“Okay,” Juno says lightly, glancing at her watch. “We can do this whenever you’re ready. No rush.”
I push up from my stool, noting that I don’t feel a single ounce of angst over having the camera lens on me. Somehow, Juno has managed to take me from outright denial and skepticism to a sort of eager curiosity to see her in action. “No time like the present,” I say.
Birdie’s eyes flick between me and Juno with open amusement, perceptive in that way that’s always made me feel twelve years old again.
“You nervous, goalie?” Juno asks lightly.
“No,” I answer too quickly.
She lifts one brow. Beautifully arched, full of skepticism. “Sure.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve faced down breakaways in overtime more fearsome than you. I think I can handle a conversation.”
Birdie snorts. “You freeze ordering coffee if the barista asks a follow-up question.”
“That was one time,” I grumble.
Juno’s mouth quirks as she neatly drapes the damp towel on a hook by the sink. “Let’s go see if Evan has everything set up.”
Birdie pushes off the counter and grins, already heading in that direction. “This is going to be so good.”
“You’re not invited,” I say sternly, knowing she will ignore me and absolutely watch every minute of this.
She waves me off. “Relax. I’ll behave.” Then, louder, to Juno, “Mostly.”
Juno laughs softly and the sound does something unexpected. It settles me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
I lead them down the short hallway, past the guest room Birdie’s claimed for her stay, and angle toward the back of the house. The space opens up through wide glass doors, the interior giving way to the covered patio beyond.
Outside, the pool glows a soft blue against the dark.
Submerged lights create rippling reflections across stone and wood.
The entire yard glows with uplighting under all the formal landscaping.
Beyond that, the backyard stretches out into dark woods that separate me from my neighbors.
It feels private and contained, like the world ends beyond the pool.
“You need anything else?” I ask Evan, who is adjusting a light on a narrow stand off to the side. It has a flat square panel no bigger than a laptop screen and when he switches it on, it throws a soft, even wash across the patio. His camera is already set up on a sturdy tripod.
“I’m going to put you in that chair,” he says, pointing to one he angled beside the outdoor fireplace, in which there is a fire going. “It creates a nice mood, don’t you think?”
“Should I get my smoking jacket and pipe?” I ask as I settle into the chair.
Evan snorts. “You do you, man.”
Juno perches on the edge of the armchair opposite me that Evan must have arranged, a notebook closed on her lap, posture relaxed but attentive.
Birdie drops onto one of the couches set perpendicular to me, but as soon as her butt hits the cushion, she pops back up again. “Wait… hold on.” She crosses over to me quickly and brushes a lock of hair off my forehead. “There, that’s better.”
“Go away,” I gripe, thankful she didn’t wipe a smudge off my face with a spit-licked thumb.
She returns to the small couch, crossing her legs and settling in like she’s found front-row seats to the best entertainment she’s had all week. Evan clips a mic on me and adjusts it before moving to the camera.
“Before we start,” Juno says, calm and unhurried, “I should tell you how I do this.”
I wait, hands loose on my thighs, shoulders relaxed even though I’m aware of the camera now in a way I wasn’t a second ago.
“I don’t work chronologically,” she continues. “We’ll bounce around. Hockey. Life. Whatever comes up. It tends to keep things loose, so it doesn’t feel like a checklist.”
While that sounds a little erratic, I’m sure she knows what she’s doing. I think she’s proven that in this industry. Even sitting here right now, about to be put under a microscope, it feels less like an interrogation and more like a conversation that happens to be recorded.
“It won’t be a back-and-forth dialogue so much as me providing you with a topic in a way that will induce you to talk naturally. So, if you see moments of silence from me, it’s usually me wanting more from you, and I’m waiting for it. We’ll make it look good in the editing process.”
“Okay,” I respond, not sure how to make words appear that might not be there, but I’ll try.
“If I have to prod you with a question, it would honestly help me if you can sort of restate the question in your answer. Make it clear what I was asking. Make sense?”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“And lastly, if you need a break,” she adds, “we stop. If you want to stop entirely, we stop. No explanations required.” Her gaze holds mine, steady but not demanding. “And if I ask a question you don’t want to answer, say so. I’ll move on.”
“Really?” I ask, not able to hide the tiny bit of skepticism in my tone.
“Really,” she assures me. “Refusing a question never makes it into the documentary. Not as silence, not as implication. It doesn’t exist.”
My chest eases at that. Not relief exactly, but more like trust being carefully set in place.
I glance at Birdie, who gives me an exaggerated thumbs-up.
“Do you give that guarantee to everyone?” I ask.
Juno’s mouth curves slightly. “I do.”
Weirdly, I don’t like that answer, but I can’t say why. Instead, I nod.
“Ready?” she asks.
I take a breath, the pool lights reflecting faintly off the glass in the patio doors behind her.
“Yeah,” I say.
The camera clicks on and the awareness hits instantly. There’s a low-grade tightening between my shoulders, like a harness pulling snug.
Juno begins easy. “How did you get into hockey?”
The question is simple and harmless. The kind I’ve answered a hundred times in sound bites and media scrums.
I almost laugh.
Instead, I lean back into the chair and stare at a spot on the far wall for a second, collecting my thoughts.
When I’m ready, I turn to her, but a thought strikes me. “Do I look at you or the camera?”
“Good question,” she says with a smile. “Look at me. The camera is slightly off-angle, but is getting most of the front view.”
I nod, take another breath. “Okay… how I got into hockey. That was my dad. He grew up on it and taught me.” Juno nods once, waiting.
“Early mornings,” I continue. “Frozen ponds. He’d lace my skates with fingers so numb he could barely feel the laces, and I’d complain the whole time like I had any idea what cold actually was. ”
A corner of her mouth lifts, but she doesn’t interrupt. In fact, I get that slightly expectant look, meaning she wants more.
“It was a lot of hard work. Practices both before and after school. Weekends always traveling and playing.” I shrug. “Birthdays missed. Sleepovers skipped. Hockey kind of took over everything.”
“Did you ever resent it?” she asks.
I think about that for a beat and remember her request to restate the question in my answer. “I never resented all that hard work. It never felt forced. I loved hockey as much as my dad did.”
Juno watches me intently—listening, but not steering me anywhere.
“It felt less like a choice and more like gravity,” I say. “Like this thing I kept getting pulled back to no matter what else was going on, and all I know was at the end of the day, no matter how exhausted I was, I was where I was supposed to be.”
She nods, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “And you were good,” she says, not a question.