Chapter 22
Crosby
I’m stretched out on the couch with the remote in my hand, flipping through channels without really watching any of them. Sports highlight shows blur together. A rerun of some crime drama I’ve already seen twice. A cooking show I mute immediately.
None of it sticks but that’s kind of the point.
I don’t get days like this often—days where there’s nothing scheduled, nowhere I have to be, no one expecting me to show up focused and switched on.
I worked out this morning, hard enough to keep the edge at bay, then came home and did the kind of insignificant projects that make a house feel lived in.
Reorganized the garage. Tightened a loose cabinet hinge in the kitchen.
Replaced a recessed light bulb that Birdie’s been after me to fix.
These quiet, contained and unremarkable moments are my version of peace.
My sister, on the other hand, would lose her mind.
Birdie took off early this morning, going on about hair and nails and “needing civilization,” which apparently does not include my house. She hates being cooped up, hates repetition, hates stillness. She gets enough of that in her job. It’s another reason why she doesn’t have a home of her own.
In typical Birdie fashion, she’ll move on eventually. She always does, and I expect her next stop will be to hang with our parents for a while.
I don’t begrudge her that. We’re wired differently.
I’m a homebody by necessity and preference. I like knowing where my things are. I like routine. I like coming back to the same space after road trips and flights and hotel rooms that all start to feel identical.
And tomorrow, I’ll be back in that rhythm.
We leave early for another West Coast swing—LA Demons, LA Dragons, then my former team, Winnipeg. Three cities, too many flights, and a beautiful documentarian catching it all on her camera.
The thought pulls a slow smile from me.
Juno will be there and she’ll be staying in my room, no doubt, because neither of us pretends otherwise anymore.
I picture her stretched across the hotel bed with her laptop, bare feet crossed at the ankles, completely at ease in spaces that aren’t hers.
The way she travels light, mentally and physically.
The way she observes everything without making it obvious.
I should probably be thinking about hockey.
Instead, I’m thinking about the way she looks when she’s relaxed. The way she listens. The way last night still feels like it’s sitting under my skin, steady and present, not fading the way most things do.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, snapping me out of my memories, and I grin when I see a text from Juno. Can we talk? In person.
Nothing else. Just the words, and they sound ominous.
My thumb hovers over the screen. That question could mean anything—and with Juno, it usually means it matters.
Finally, I type back. Yeah. Come over. Birdie’s out running errands. Door’s unlocked.
On my way, she replies, and I set the phone down, staring at the TV screen, the quiet suddenly charged with anticipation. Whatever this conversation is, it’s not going to be small.
I roll off the couch and head into the kitchen. I make myself a protein shake to get my macros in, and Juno arrives twenty minutes later as I’m washing out my glass.
I hear her before I see her—the quiet click of the front door, then soft footsteps.
When I look up from the counter, she’s standing inside the kitchen, shrugging out of her jacket before draping it over the back of one of the island stools.
There’s a measured quality to her movements, like she’s lining things up before knocking them down.
I close the distance between us and slide a hand to her waist, tugging her gently against me. She comes easily but there’s a hesitation beneath it. I dip my head and kiss her, hoping to anchor her.
Her lips move against mine, warm and familiar, but she doesn’t melt into it the way she usually does. Her hands come up, rest at my chest, then slip away again.
I pull back enough to really look at her, my hands still at her waist, thumbs resting at the familiar curve of her hips. “Okay,” I murmur. “What’s wrong?”
Her gaze drops, landing on my collarbone instead of my eyes, like it’s easier to focus on there than to look me in the eyes. She takes a beat before she looks up at me again. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“Because you’re here in my house in the middle of a workday.”
That faint smile appears, quick and fleeting, a reflex more than an emotion, but vanishes like it was never meant to stay. She shifts her weight slightly and I feel my body brace without me consciously deciding to.
“Fair enough. I had a meeting with Patrick today.”
The way she says it changes the air. It feels weighted, like whatever she’s getting ready to say has consequences.
I nod once, keeping my expression blank even as my mind starts running through possibilities. My hand stays warm at her waist as I prepare for whatever comes next.
“And Cherry,” she adds, like it’s an afterthought.
That name surprises me, a familiar annoyance resurfacing. My brows lift slightly before I can stop them. “Really?”
“I ran into her in Patrick’s office. Apparently, she’s heading up some Wildfire social committee. Wives. Partners. Events. Visibility.”
I can picture it instantly. The posture, her smile, the way she’d frame it like a gift. A small snort escapes me before I bother filtering it. “You don’t have to paint the picture. I got it.”
Juno watches my reaction closely, just observing my reaction. “She wanted to meet and I agreed. She thought it might be ‘interesting for the documentary.’”
“Let me guess,” I say with a quiet laugh, already knowing the answer. “She was delightful.”
“Vapid,” Juno replies.
That makes me smile—real this time, and Juno joins me in the moment of levity.
But then she hesitates, a softness slipping into her expression. “And… telling untruths. She said some things about you that were wrong.”
I don’t ask what. I don’t need to. Cherry’s version of me has never mattered, and it still doesn’t. “Did it bother you?”
Her answer comes immediately, firm and unambiguous. “No. But it told me exactly who she is.”
I tilt my head slightly, curious despite myself. “Which is?”
“A woman who mistakes attention for intimacy.”
I’m not surprised Juno got to the truth of that woman as quickly as she did. “You’re not wrong.”
And as I say it, I realize this isn’t the part of the conversation that brought her here.
It’s the runway.
She studies me for a beat, then shakes her head. “Honestly, it was more amusing than anything. I wanted you to know.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. And I do. There’s no heat in my chest, no irritation. Cherry feels like a ghost from a life that doesn’t belong to me anymore.
“And,” she says, looking a little sheepish, “I was also a bit curious as to the type of woman that you were with, so I might have been poking at that too.”
That would probably piss off any other guy, but I find it endearing because that means Juno is invested in whatever we have. While we haven’t labeled it, I like her way more than I should and I’m digging the fact she’s wondering about the type of man I am in a relationship.
“Just so you know,” I say, pulling her in a little closer. “Cherry is not the type of woman I’m attracted to. I’m more into the artistic, smart woman who wants to expose injustices and who does that thing with her tongue that drives me wild.”
Juno laughs and smacks my chest, but then the smile shutters. She shifts her weight. “There’s… more.”
That tone. That’s the one.
I straighten slightly. “Okay.”
“I told Patrick,” she says. “About us.”
There it is.
I blink once.
Then twice.
“Wow,” I murmur, trying to envision how that went down. “I was definitely not expecting that.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, the apology tumbling out like she’s been holding it in since the moment it happened.
Her hands lift, then fall, fingers threading together briefly before separating again.
“We were having a regular meeting, then he started talking about how much he trusted me and that my work reflected honesty, responsibility, credibility, and the guilt that I was having a relationship with one of the subjects of my film hit me hard, and I couldn’t not tell him, you know? ”
She exhales at the end, shoulders dipping, eyes searching my face. Like she’s expecting judgment or disappointment or some version of anger and she’s already rehearsed her defense against it.
Instead, I chuckle.
Not because it’s funny—but because it’s so her.
“That’s quite a mouthful,” I say, shaking my head. “Now I know how to get you to fess up… start questioning your integrity. Noted.”
The tension breaks enough to let her blink in surprise. Her brows knit together, her body still coiled like she’s not sure the floor is solid yet.
She looks startled. “You’re not… mad?”
“Mad?” I repeat, genuinely confused by the question. I step closer, gently grasping her at the hips again. “No. It was the right thing to do.” I scrub a hand over my face, the smile still there, softer now. “Guess that makes it official.”
Her head tilts, curiosity cutting through the last of her unease. “Official?”
“Yeah… like, we’re official. If the head honcho knows, I guess it doesn’t matter who knows. Although I don’t think we should flaunt it.”
Her gaze drifts for a moment, unfocused, thoughtful. I can practically see the wheels turning, recalibrating timelines and implications and ethical frameworks. This is how her mind works—always mapping consequences before emotion.
“I hadn’t thought about that,” she says, her eyes hazed over in contemplation.
“Well, it’s food for thought now.” I reach up and tug gently on her hair, enough to pull her attention back to me, back into the room. “Did Patrick freak out?”
She shakes her head, the tension easing out of her shoulders. “Not even a little. He asked if it would interfere with the film.”
“And?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “I told him the truth. That I don’t think it will, but I can’t promise you won’t be part of the narrative.”
That last line settles between us, quiet and honest.
And instead of feeling exposed, I feel the opposite.
Trusted.
That gives me pause.
I don’t love the spotlight. Never have. I don’t need people speculating about my life, my choices, my relationships. But I look at Juno—open and unflinching—and the usual resistance doesn’t hit the same way.
“As long as it’s not salacious,” I say slowly. “And as long as it’s honest.”
“It would never be anything else,” she says.
I nod. “I trust you.”
Juno holds my gaze, an unspoken message passing between us that feels… important.
Then I step closer.
“Come here,” I murmur.
She does.
The kiss starts gently, but it doesn’t stay that way. Her hands slide into my shirt and mine find her ass, pulling her closer until she’s flush against me. The kitchen suddenly feels very small and I calculate how many steps we need to take to reach my bedroom.
We’re smiling against each other’s mouths when the front door opens. “Okay, I swear,” Birdie’s voice calls out, “if I forgot the—”
She stops dead in the doorway.
Juno freezes but I don’t, lazily turning my head toward my sister.
Her eyes flick from me to Juno to the unmistakable way my hands are still on her hips.
Then she grins. “Sorry to interrupt. Don’t mind me.”
Juno groans softly and leans her forehead into my chest. “Busted.”
I chuckle. “Not really.”
She lifts her head, eyebrows pinched together.
“You’re not the only one who got guilted into spilling the truth. I told Birdie about us.”
“Oh,” Juno murmurs, taking in the fact that two people now know that we’re seeing each other. She nibbles on her lower lip, and I wait to see how she’ll process my sister being in on the truth.
She looks up at me, then her eyes slide to Birdie. “Since you know everything,” Juno drawls, sliding her hands up my chest to clasp behind my neck, “then you won’t mind if I kiss your brother, will you?”
Birdie wrinkles her nose. “Ew… gross. I’m out of here.”
She pushes past us down the hall to her room and Juno and I share a very brief laugh before our mouths find each other again.