Chapter 14 #2
“I got better,” I correct. “Because I didn’t want to be anywhere else, a lot of time it didn’t feel like work.”
Silence settles between us, but it isn’t awkward. I wonder if an ordinary conversation with her, off camera, unrelated to the documentary, would be like that. I suspect it would.
“Let’s pivot… what does a typical day look like now?” Juno asks. “Take me inside the day of a professional hockey goalie.”
I exhale through my nose, a short breath that’s half amusement, half resignation.
“I’m a guy who thrives on structure, so I operate on a schedule.
I set deadlines and goals for myself because otherwise, I’ll procrastinate.
” Juno tilts her head, encouraging but not pushing.
“I’m usually up before the sun and I’ll go for a run on non-game days.
After that, it’s breakfast. My body works better when it’s fueled. ”
I take her through days we have practice versus days we’re off and how vastly different they look.
With a short prompt from her, she has me contrasting that to game days and travel, effortlessly pulling out of me a rich accounting that if I tried to convey on my own would’ve sounded completely uninspiring.
“I’ve noticed you guys spend a lot of time at the performance center working out. That facility is incredible. How essential is that component?”
I shift forward, resting my forearms on my knees without realizing it, like talking about routine pulls me into it physically.
“Patrick Rowe built what will now become the standard for training facilities. There’s not a single detail he overlooked and honestly, it feels a little like we’re being pampered.
But you’re never going to hear me complain, and I’ll spend as much time there as I would anywhere else.
Obviously, strength and stamina are key to my job and add on flexibility for goalie work.
Everything centers around not how good you look in a mirror but rather how well you function in the game. ”
Juno scribbles a note, then looks back up. “So, no vanity lifts?”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Goalies don’t get to be vain for long. The ice humbles you pretty fast.” That earns me a smile. “Recovery is like a religion. Sleep. Nutrition. Stretching. Cold tubs I hate but still do. Repetition until it’s boring. Then repetition some more.”
“Sounds lonely,” she says, not unkindly.
I consider that but I’ve never labeled it that way. “Not lonely,” I say. “Definitely grounding. When everything else gets loud—fans, media, expectations—routine is the one thing that stays honest.”
I catch the way she’s watching me now. As if she’s slipped out of interview mode and is present in this space with simple understanding. “And when you’re not training?” she asks, checking her notebook. “What does Crosby Hale do to entertain himself?”
I shrug, because so much of my life is centered around my job. “I keep it quiet. Cook. Read. Try not to wreck my sleep schedule.” A beat. “I like knowing what to expect from tomorrow.”
I don’t say why—but she seems to hear it anyway.
Juno nods, pen pausing. “Control.”
“Yeah… I like control. I don’t like leaving things to chance.”
“You don’t sound bored,” she says.
“I’m not,” I reply. “I’d be lost without it.” That’s probably more honest than I intended.
She asks about pressure next—about being a starter, about expectations, about what it’s like to carry a team’s confidence on your shoulders. I explain it the only way I know how. “Pressure is noise to me. Routine is the opposite of that, so it’s silence.”
She pauses to make notes, pen moving fast. “What about the spotlight?” she asks. “How do you navigate that?”
I hesitate because I hate the fucking spotlight and she knows it. But can I say that? Is she angling for me to talk about Cherry? She didn’t come right out with it, but Juno’s discovered that’s my Achilles’ heel, so to speak.
Birdie shifts on the couch, already sensing where this might go.
“I don’t navigate the spotlight,” I finally say. “I avoid it.”
“Why?”
I meet Juno’s eyes. They’re steady but more so, patient, waiting to see which way I’ll go.
“Because attention changes things,” I say. “People. Relationships. It turns moments into commodities. I like my life small.”
I hope Juno took from that what I intended. I don’t intend to expand on that.
To my relief, she pivots again. “What do you do when the season ends?”
That’s an easy one and I lean back in my chair. “Obviously, I have to keep up on conditioning, but I try to stay away from the ice completely. I focus on relaxation as much as possible and I travel.”
Juno waits but I can see the question in her gaze. Where do you go? What do you like to do?
“I go every year out to Wyoming. It’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been.
Do a lot of hiking and fly-fishing. Rent a place in the middle of nowhere, spotty cell service and no agenda.
” My body relaxes, imagining myself knee-deep in cold rushing water, angling for that perfect moment a trout breaks the surface to take the fly I’ve offered.
“I’ll spend weeks there. Mornings on the river, standing still long enough that the world forgets you exist.” Juno’s pen slows and her head lifts, eyes locked on me.
I glance down at my hands, flex my fingers.
“Out there, I’m not a goalie. Not a name.
I’m merely a guy trying not to spook the trout. ”
She smiles. “It sounds amazing. You don’t mind the solitude?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s the opposite.” I search for the right word. “It’s relief.” I look back at her then. “There’s a difference between being alone and feeling lonely. Wyoming’s the first place that ever taught me that.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
And in the quiet that settles between us, I realize I’ve given her part of myself I don’t usually offer anyone.
“And Portland?” she asks. “What does this place represent for you?”
I glance around my house without thinking. “A reset,” I say. “A team being built instead of maintained. Patrick Rowe is an owner who truly cares. It’s exhilarating, to be honest.”
Birdie snorts. It’s loud and unapologetic, and I’m not sure what she finds so funny.
I turn my head slowly and glare. “Do you mind?”
She snickers. “You sound like a press release.”
Juno’s eyes light up, cutting between us.
“Go away,” I say blandly, making a shooing motion with my hand. “You’re impeding on my stardom.”
Birdie chortles, but Juno’s eyes light up. “Actually,” she says, turning in her chair. “Birdie, would you come sit with him?”
I blink and sit up straighter. “Wait! What?”
Birdie’s already standing. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
“No, wait a minute—”
“Evan… get her a mic,” Juno instructs, jumping up and repositioning her vacated chair next to mine. Birdie plops down into it.
My sister leans into me, bats her eyelashes, and smooths her hair. “How do I look?”
“Annoying as ever,” I say drolly.
Evan adjusts without missing a beat, clipping a mic onto Birdie’s collar, and Juno moves to stand beside him. He shifts the angle and reframes the shot.
“Behave,” I hiss under my breath to my sister.
“Not a chance,” she whispers back.
“Tell me,” Juno says to Birdie, “what do people get wrong about your brother?”
I jolt, because… that’s a pretty deep fucking question and I brace for what my sister might say.
Birdie doesn’t even think. “They think he’s cold.” I open my mouth to protest, but she keeps going. “But he’s the furthest thing from it. He doesn’t waste emotion. When it’s necessary, it’s deep and true. If you’re in his circle, you’re in for life.”
Juno glances at me briefly, a warm gleam in her eyes, then back to Birdie. “What’s he like off the ice? Give us the tea.”
Birdie laughs. “Annoyingly responsible. Loyal to a fault. Terrible at asking for what he wants.”
I scowl. “That’s not true.”
She pats my shoulder. “You’re proving my point.”
Juno smiles at us with what looks like pride. Like she wanted that sibling banter she’d been observing all night and we’re handing it up on a silver platter.
The interview continues like that—less polished, more real. And weirdly… fun. Birdie tells stories I’d forgotten. Juno listens like they matter. And somehow, the camera disappears.
When Juno finally declares us finished and the camera clicks off, it feels like the entire patio exhales.
“That was really good,” Juno says softly. “It was a great start.”
“Start?” I ask, unclipping my mic and handing it to Evan. “We need to do this again?”
Juno laughs, folding her notebook closed. “You do realize I’m here for an entire season, right? I’m sure I’ll find more things to ask you. But I won’t bother you anytime soon.”
The relief I feel isn’t that I won’t be back in front of the camera right away but rather the reminder that Juno is here to stay. At least for the season, and fuck if I know why that appeals so much. But I guess I’m going to have to admit… I like the woman. And not only as an ethical documentarian.
I like her in ways that are probably not cool to like her, given the nature of her job.
Birdie beams. “Well, I’m available anytime. I accept Venmo and snacks.”
Juno slips her notebook into her bag and Evan grabs his equipment. “I’m going to go put this in the car.”
Birdie somehow disappears and only Juno and I are left on the back patio. The porch light casts her face in soft gold. She looks both parts tired and happy, beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with effort.
“Thanks for trusting me,” she says.
I nod. “You made it easy.”
She smiles, and for a second, I think she might say something else. I can see she wants to, and part of me thinks it has nothing to do with the documentary.
Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.
“Well, I should get going,” Juno says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
I’d really like her to stay—maybe for a glass of wine—but it would be weird asking her that. It would be weirder with my sister here and Evan out by the car.
The timing is terrible.
Instead, I motion toward the door and walk her all the way out to the driveway. Evan’s already behind the wheel and gives me a wave.
I hold the door open as Juno slides into the passenger seat. “See you tomorrow,” she says.
“See you tomorrow.”