Chapter 19
Juno
The lobby of the performance facility smells of fresh coffee wafting through from The Blue Line restaurant, and had I not had two cups already this morning, I’d head that way for another.
Walter looks up as I approach the desk, his expression already sliding into bored suspicion. The man is night and day from Jimmy on night shift and acts like he doesn’t recognize me every morning.
I slide my badge to him and he eyeballs it like it personally offended him before picking it up.
He studies it intently, eyes cutting back and forth from my laminated picture to my face.
“Morning,” I say, friendly by default, but he only grunts in return.
I’m bound and determined to get more than that, so I wait, hands folded loosely in front of me, letting the silence stretch without filling it. I’ve learned that people who guard doors often expect either compliance or confrontation. Offering neither tends to disarm them.
“You’re early,” he says finally.
“I know,” I reply. “Filming in the medical and rehab unit and want to get a lay of the land before we start. Evan should be here in about thirty minutes.”
“Evan?” he asks, pretending ignorance, even though he’s waved him through every day and checked his credentials countless times. He slides the badge back across the counter, still unsmiling. “You know you can’t film players without consent.”
“I won’t,” I say. “They’re all aware. Paperwork’s been handled.”
Another pause. A flicker of annoyance maybe, before he nods and waves me through.
I thank him anyway. “Have a great day, Walter.”
It’s a habit I picked up young… courtesy as armor. He gives me another grunt and I take that as a win.
I bypass the elevator and head toward the west staircase, the quickest way to the medical and rehab unit. As I climb, I glance through the wall of windows that overlooks the main ice rink, glistening and ready for use.
While I’ve toured the medical area once already, I want to reacquaint myself with the space, get a vivid idea in my mind of how I want to shape today’s narrative.
Buildings tell a story of their own. I’ve always trusted places like this more than homes or churches or anywhere people claim sanctuary without accountability. Facilities like this have rules and processes. They are held in place by oversight.
Familiar faces nod at me in passing—trainers, assistants, a couple of players wrapped in compression sleeves with earbuds in. I know them all, not only by name, but by personality now. I’ve been with the team for almost six weeks and I’ve had some manner of interaction with everyone.
Along the way, I’ve built trust.
The thought of Crosby slips in without warning—not as an image, but as a sensation, steady and warm.
Last night happened because there’s trust.
I don’t replay the sex we had, which was beyond amazing. That part was uncomplicated, and physical compatibility rarely surprises me anymore.
What lingers is the conversation we had during and after. The hours of it and the way it unfolded without effort. The way silence didn’t feel like a gap to be bridged.
Crosby’s unlike any man I’ve ever been intimate with and I have spent a lot of time unpacking why that is. I think to get there, I had to consider the type of woman I am and how I’ve dealt with past relationships.
Dating, for me, has always been transactional in the cleanest sense of the word. Mutually beneficial and clearly defined.
In my adult sexual life, I’ve very much enjoyed my past relationships…
if you could even label them that. But whatever you call it, I always enjoyed sex due to the power dynamics.
I was drawn to the way desire can exist without expectation.
I’ve never told a man I loved him, and no one has ever said it to me.
Not because I was afraid to say the words, but because I never felt them. Love has always looked like surrender to me. When your parents barter you to a pedophile posing as a servant of God, you have a hard time letting anyone in.
Instead, I learned early that affection came with conditions and that safety came from self-reliance. By fourteen, I was taking care of myself and understood that attachment was a liability unless you controlled the terms.
So I did, and I built a life where no one stayed long enough to matter.
Until last night.
The one thing I can unequivocally state is that Crosby matters, and that’s because he made me want to look closer.
To understand him on a level that surpasses the way he’ll come across on film.
For someone who has built a career digging beneath layers, that kind of curiosity has never once been personal—until now.
And I think it’s because for the first time, intimacy felt like trust, not battle.
It felt like trust, and I know without a doubt that comes from the fact that Crosby had to first trust me to let me into his world.
I don’t yet know what it means, but I know pretending it’s casual would be the first lie.
I reach the rehab wing and the doors slide open as I approach. The smell shifts from coffee to antiseptic and rubber mats. It’s a place for work, not relaxation.
When I first entered this space, and even now, it feels honest to me. Bodies here are broken and repaired without ceremony. Pain is acknowledged, measured and ultimately managed.
The front portion is a huge therapy room, the perimeter lined with treatment tables and equipment laid out like an army of implements.
“Morning, Juno.”
I turn toward the voice and see Claire, one of the lead physical therapists, standing beside a treatment table.
Her hands are working methodically along a player’s calf.
He’s on his stomach, one arm dangling off the side, head turned away from me.
I inch around the edge so I can see his face and find Halo Barnes with his eyes closed in that resigned, half-suffering way that tells me he’s done this more times than he’d like to admit.
“Morning,” I say, and his eyes pop open. “How bad?”
“It’s torture,” he groans as Claire digs into his muscle.
“Quit being a baby,” Claire says, and Halo shoots me a wink. “My patient here is the classic story of tightness turning into compensation. Hamstring’s been pulling, which is aggravating the lower back, but we caught it early.”
“That’s the optimistic version,” Halo grunts before Claire presses a thumb deliberately into the muscle.
He groans again. “Jesus, Claire… lighten up.”
I watch for a moment, noting that Claire works firm and precise, completely unhurried. There’s trust here. Familiarity. The kind that only comes from being handled at your worst and knowing the person doing it wants you functional.
“What’s the timeline?” I ask.
“Day to day,” she says. “If he listens.”
Halo snorts. “I always listen.”
Claire and I exchange a look.
“Sure you do,” I say.
He sighs dramatically and lets his head drop back down. “You here to film the glamorous side of pro sports again?”
“Eventually,” I say. “Evan’s meeting me in a bit. I wanted to walk through first, see what today looks like.”
Claire nods. “You’re clear to be in here. Let me know before the camera comes out.”
I glance back at Halo. “You okay being on film for part of it? Nothing invasive.”
He considers it for a beat, then shrugs. “Yeah. Might as well show people this part. Everyone thinks we ice it and move on.”
“Perfect,” I say. “We’ll keep it minimal and I expect to get your authentic self.”
He cracks one eye open. “What does that mean?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder. “You tell me. Is the real Halo someone who bitches and moans every time Claire touches him, or are you hamming it up to be funny?”
Halo grimaces. “That’s harsh.”
“Just sayin’,” I reply with a laugh, holding out my arms. “I’ll be back.”
I finish my circuit after that, nodding to another therapist, exchanging a few words with a player stretched out in compression sleeves who jokes that he’s tired of being filmed in various states of disrepair.
“Occupational hazard,” I tell him, glancing at my watch. Still ten minutes before Evan gets here, and I decide that maybe another cup of coffee won’t hurt things.
I exit the medical wing and take the steps down to the lower floor quickly, knowing the line might be long when I get there. I pull out my phone as I hit the bottom step, shoot a quick text off to Evan. Grabbing us coffees. Meet you upstairs.
As I’m shoving my phone into my back pocket, I run into and bounce off what feels like a brick wall. I have the flash of hard muscles and a clean, soapy scent before lifting my eyes to find myself staring into hazel eyes surrounded by thick, sooty lashes.
Crosby.
His hands are on my shoulders to steady me, his eyes alight with humor. “As much as I like your body up against mine, that’s a good way to get hurt.”
I flush head to toe, the simple mention of our bodies touching bringing back a flood of naked memories.
I glance around, no one within earshot, and feel safe enough to reply, “Maybe I meant to run into you like that. Sure way to get your hands on me.”
His fingers squeeze slightly, reactionary, and he chuckles. “I like the way you think, Ms. Paxton.” He leans in and murmurs, “And the way you feel.”
His gaze focuses beyond me and drops his hands, which means someone is coming. He nods at the staircase I came down. “Medical wing today?”
“Yeah… Evan should be here soon. You?”
“Got a session with Michaels.”
That’s the goalie coach, and as if this facility isn’t impressive enough, one of the really cool touches is a goalie lane.
It sits off to the side of the main rinks, almost hidden unless you know to look for it.
Not a full sheet of ice—a narrow strip long enough for shots and wide enough for movement with a regulation goal.
A puck machine is set up at the far end, programmable, cycling through shots at different speeds and angles.
Cameras are mounted everywhere—behind the net, along the boards, overhead.
All of it feeds into a monitor on the wall, the footage looping in real time, every movement broken down and every delay captured.
“How often do you hit the goalie lane?” I ask.
“Every day that I can,” he replies. “You should come watch sometime.”
“I will.” Not only because it will be great for the film, but because I find myself wanting to watch him more and more.
Last night, I connected with this man on a level that had nothing to do with control or attraction or power exchange.
Trust is a bridge for sure, which is absurd when you think about it.
I dig beneath layers for a living. I dismantle narratives.
I expose systems that rely on secrecy and silence to maintain power.
But with Crosby, the curiosity isn’t defensive. It’s genuine, and that unsettles me more than any red flag ever has.
Was I curious because I’m a filmmaker? Or because I crossed a line last night I swore I never would? The answer is inconveniently both.
Evan’s voice echoes. “You beat me in,” he calls out, and Crosby and I both turn his way.
“Early bird,” I reply.
Evan joins us, lifts his chin to Crosby. “What’s up, man?”
“Saying hello to your boss,” he replies, and then his eyes come to mine. “Catch you later?”
If by later he means at my place, naked and in bed, I’m all over that. I think that’s what he means, and I nod. “Absolutely.”
When Crosby’s gone, Evan shoots right into work mode, clearly not picking up any vibes between us. “Do a walk-through already?”
“Yeah. We’re good to set up.”
He slings his bag down and raises an eyebrow. “You’re in a good mood.”
“I’m always in a good mood,” I counter.
He snorts. “Sure.”