Chapter 23
Juno
Los Angeles was good to me once—bright, busy, full of momentum—and I’d learned how to live inside it.
I spent four years here for college, moving from a small Midwest town after high school.
When I arrived for the first time, my expectations were crushed because I’d expected everything to be beautiful and glamorous like on TV, and in reality… it was another big city with smog.
Still, I really enjoyed my time here, minus the traffic.
I’m standing barefoot on plush hotel carpet, the balcony door cracked open enough to let in the faint hum of traffic and the warmer-than-Portland air.
The team arrived a few hours ago for this extended road trip, and we have the day to ourselves.
My hair is curled loosely, makeup nearly finished except for mascara, which I keep forgetting to apply because my attention is fixated on the door.
Waiting.
Crosby, who has been in a team meeting, texted a little bit ago that he was on his way and he’s due to arrive any moment.
I smooth a hand down the soft black dress I changed into after my shower—simple, unfussy, the kind of thing that can shift from afternoon wandering to a nice dinner without effort. I don’t usually overthink what I wear around him, but tonight… I want to look like myself.
And I want to look pretty because this is sort of our first date.
My phone pings and I nab it off the dresser. It’s a text from Evan. We’re heading to West Hollywood. You sure you don’t want to come?
I stare at the message longer than necessary before replying. Next time. Have fun.
Which isn’t a lie. Evan’s out with friends we went to UCLA with—people I see every time work brings me back here. People who feel like they’re from another lifetime ago, but I love them all the same. But I didn’t want them tonight.
Tonight, I want Crosby.
There’s a firm knock at the door and warmth unfurls low in my belly. I set the phone down and half walk, half jog to the door.
When I open it, he fills the space larger than life. He’s dressed in jeans and a gray lightweight sweater. His eyes start at my head and slowly meander all the way down to my bare toes before rising again. The look on his face shifts.
“Wow,” he murmurs as he steps in. “I very much like you in a dress. You look beautiful.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks. Apparently, I’ve been around the wrong type of men before because no one has ever talked to me with such reverence. It completely discombobulates me. “Hi… you look beautiful too.”
I wince over the stupidity of that and Crosby chuckles, cupping my face to kiss me. It should be impossible, but it already feels so very familiar, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything but still promises plenty.
“You ready for a fun-filled afternoon and evening?” he asks, forehead resting against mine.
“That depends,” I say. “Is this a trick question?”
He grins. “We’ll start easy. Late lunch in Santa Monica with a walk along the pier. Maybe a little people-watching. Then I’ve got us a reservation at Nobu Malibu. I figured we earned it.”
“That sounds amazing. I need two minutes and I’ll be ready.”
“Take your time,” he says, picking up my bottle of perfume from the dresser and sniffing it.
Within a minute, I’ve got the mascara applied and a pair of comfy flats since we’ll be walking a fair bit.
“What’s Evan up to today?” Crosby asks as I grab my purse and a light jacket from the chair by the window.
“He’s meeting with some friends of ours in West Hollywood.”
“You have friends here?” he asks, turning for the door.
I laugh softly, because I forget sometimes how much of my life predates him. “Yeah. I went to UCLA.”
He turns back to me fully, brows lifting. “How did I not know that? This feels like a major oversight.”
I step closer and pat him on the chest, right over his heart, the contact easy and familiar. “Now you know.”
“What did you major in?”
“Film and media studies,” I say. “Same as Evan. That’s where we met.”
His expression shifts and I wonder if he’s picturing me in that life, surrounded by people who knew me before everything else.
Crosby hesitates, like he’s not sure he should offer this, and says, “Do you want to go see them? Your friends, I mean—because I’m fine if that’s what you want to do.”
The way he says it matters. Just an opening, left there for me to step into if I want.
“Maybe on another trip,” I say, stepping closer again, my fingers brushing his arm. “I’d rather spend the time with you.”
And I mean it—not as a dismissal of who I was here once, but as a quiet acknowledgment of where I am now.
Crosby’s eyes spark, then go soft. “What if you can have the best of both worlds? Let’s go meet up with your friends… you get to see them and hang with me at the same time. Unless that’s weird.”
My breath catches—not because it’s awkward, but because it’s generous. “Not weird at all, but only if you really want to,” I say carefully. “I don’t want to impose my world on you and honestly, we’re a bunch of artsy types that will probably drive you crazy.”
His mouth curves. “You’ve already met Birdie. Seems only fair I see a bit of your life from a different angle.”
This is what real couples do. They learn about each other’s lives through shared experiences. The fact it is appealing to me should be setting off all kinds of alarm bells, but I tune them out. “Let’s do it.”
?
We step into Laurel Hardware, and it’s exactly how I remember it—open, calm and quietly busy. High ceilings, lots of wood and greenery, the kind of place where people settle in instead of hovering. The noise level stays low, more conversation than music, glasses clinking but not echoing.
The room is broken up into sections instead of one big dining space, which makes it easy to scan without being obvious. A long bar runs along one side, already half full. Toward the back, larger tables are all filled.
I spot Evan first on the outdoor patio, gathered with the others around a low fire table surrounded by couches and chairs.
The flames are on but barely noticeable in the daylight, more atmosphere than warmth.
The air is mild, that easy late-October temperature that doesn’t ask anything of you.
Evan is half-leaning forward as he talks, one hand moving the way it always does when he’s telling a story.
The rest of the group is settled in around him, relaxed, familiar faces.
Seeing them all together feels like no time has passed at all.
“There she is!” Evan calls when he sees us advancing.
I’d texted him that Crosby was in tow so there’s no surprise. I had also told Evan about us yesterday after I left Crosby’s house, figuring he was the one person who needed to know now that the cat was out of the bag.
I break away from Crosby long enough to hug everyone in turn, simultaneously making introductions.
“This is Mara,” I say, gesturing to a woman with high cheekbones and a sleek bob, dressed like she stepped out of a fashion editorial. “She’s a stylist to the stars.” I then turn to Caleb, giving him a hug. “And this is Caleb who’s one of the best documentary editors in the business.”
Crosby shakes his hand as Caleb waves off the praise. “Juno is the documentary royalty in this crowd.”
I turn to the petite brunette with oversized glasses, and we engage in a long hug. “And this is Nina, my roommate my last year here. She’s a script supervisor.”
“And I’m Leo,” my last friend says, already grinning at Crosby. “Lifelong LA Demons fan, but I’m honestly going to fan-crush on you. You’re one of the league’s best goalies.”
Crosby chuckles. “Nice to meet you, Leo.”
Crosby and I scoot in on a couch with Nina and order drinks. The conversation takes off with all curiosity aimed at Crosby. He gets peppered with a hundred questions about hockey, about road trips, about Winnipeg.
Leo is visibly trying not to go fan-stupid on him and failing spectacularly. He leans forward in his chair, eyes pinned on Crosby. “I still can’t believe the Titans pulled it off last year. I mean, that run? Ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Crosby says, easy. “They caught fire at the right time. Depth showed up when it mattered.”
Leo nods eagerly. “Exactly. People kept talking about the stars, but it was the second and third lines doing just as much damage. And their goaltending—” He stops himself, glances at Crosby. “No offense.”
Crosby grins. “None taken. I’m a fan of good goaltending too and Kace Elliot is incredible.”
I watch Leo relax a little more with every exchange, the nerves melting as soon as Crosby talks shop instead of deflecting it. Crosby’s body language is open—shoulders loose, like this is simply another conversation he’s happy to be having.
Leo tilts his head, considering Crosby for a second. “Okay, I’ve been sitting on this question.”
Crosby smirks. “That usually means it’s either really good or really dumb.”
“Little of both,” Leo admits. “Who’s the best winger in the league right now? Or,” he amends quickly, “the one you hate going up against the most.”
Crosby doesn’t answer right away. He rolls his shoulders once, thinking, then lets out a short breath.
“Grizz McAvoy,” he says. “New York Vipers.”
Leo’s eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious,” Crosby says. “He’s strong on the puck, doesn’t panic, and he’s patient in a way that’s annoying as hell. You think you’ve got the angle, and then—” He snaps his fingers. “He’s already changed lanes.”
Leo nods hard. “Yeah. He waits goalies out.”
“Exactly,” Crosby says. “Makes you move first. And once you do, he’s got hands good enough to punish you for it.”
I watch Leo light up, the fan in him barely contained again. “So he’s not hype.”
Crosby shakes his head. “Nope. He earns every inch of ice. Guys like that keep you honest.”
There’s no bitterness in his tone, only respect. It’s one of the things I’m starting to notice about him. He doesn’t tear other players down to build himself up. He talks about the game like someone who loves it.
Leo grins. “That’s the answer I was hoping for.”
Crosby chuckles. “I’m sure he’d be thrilled to hear that.”
I smile to myself, watching Crosby lean back, relaxed, completely at ease with my friends.
I catch myself smiling, not because of the hockey talk—but because of how natural this looks. Crosby isn’t guarded or closed off. He’s engaged, listening, joking. He fits into the group without trying, like he’s been here all along.
It’s because he’s a genuine, down-to-earth guy, and that’s frankly hot as hell.
“And hey,” Leo adds, sheepish again, “if you ever want an unbiased fan opinion—”
Crosby cuts in smoothly. “You’ll give it anyway.”
Leo laughs, fully busted. “Absolutely.”
Crosby laughs with him and takes a sip of his drink before glancing around the table with an easy smile. “Okay,” he says. “Enough about hockey.” That gets everyone’s attention and his gaze turns to me. “I want to know more about Juno.”
My stomach drops. “Oh no.”
Mara’s face lights up. “Oh yes.”
I shake my head. “This is a terrible idea.”
Crosby looks amused, eagerly awaiting whatever version of me they’re about to hand over. “What’s she like when the cameras are off?”
Caleb doesn’t hesitate. “Relentless.”
I reach across the table and try to slap him, missing by a few inches. “Hey—”
“She once convinced a professor to let her reshoot an entire final project,” he continues, undeterred, “after the deadline, after grades were posted, because she decided the story deserved better.”
“That was a valid artistic choice,” I argue. “And the original cut was rushed.”
“She walked into his office with a notebook, a revised outline, and a shot list,” Mara adds. “He didn’t even argue. He sighed and asked when she wanted the equipment.”
Crosby laughs, eyes warm as they flick to me. “That is not shocking to me in the slightest.”
“And she got an A,” Caleb finishes. “Obviously.”
Leo leans forward. “That’s not even the most unhinged thing she’s done. When I tell you she’s a perfectionist in her work, I am not underselling it.”
I groan. “Please don’t—”
Leo cuts me off with a stern look. “You once spent forty-eight straight hours in the editing lab because you refused to cut a scene that was technically unnecessary but emotionally important,” Leo says.
“You had to go through the entire project to cut out other stuff to allow for it. You slept under the desk and ate Ritz crackers.”
“It was a good scene,” I insist. “And I showered.”
“Once,” Mara says.
Crosby’s shoulders are shaking now, laughter quiet but real.
“She also does this thing,” Mara says, turning to him, “where she pretends she’s flexible, but she’s not. At all.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “I compromise.”
“You negotiate,” Caleb corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“Oh, this is good information.” Crosby tilts his head, studying me. “So you’re stubborn.”
I shrug. “I prefer committed.”
He smiles at that, thoughtfulness settling into his expression. “Makes sense.”
Leo grins. “She’s also the reason half of us finished our senior projects. Wouldn’t let anyone quit. Would show up with coffee and sit there while you kept working.”
I go quiet for a second, caught off guard by that one.
Crosby notices and his gaze stays on me, steady and soft, like he’s filing this information away.
Mara lifts her glass. “She’s exhausting,” she says fondly. “But she makes everything better.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t argue.
Crosby raises his drink in a heartfelt toast. “I like that.”
“And for the record,” Leo adds, unable to resist one last jab, “she absolutely hates being the center of attention.”
Crosby chuckles. “Noted.”
I shoot him a look. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Am I?” he asks, smiling. “Because it kind of feels like I’m just getting to know you.”