Chapter 24
Juno
By the end of a losing game on the road, the weight shifts. Not onto the ice but onto the team trying to hold its ground while the crowd surges against them.
We’re down by one, and I’m standing behind Evan in the visiting tunnel right at the boards. I have a headset pressed over my ears, eyes trained on the ice while the LA crowd buzzes with the anticipation of a win.
The Demons sense blood.
Every Wildfire clearance is met with boos.
Every save Crosby makes is acknowledged, grudgingly, like they’re irritated he’s still in the way.
Crosby isn’t having his best night. That’s the truth, and I don’t flinch from it, like I know he wouldn’t.
He’s let in two goals he’d want back—one a rebound he couldn’t control, the other a deflection that slipped through traffic and past him before he could reset. Neither egregious, but for a goalie like Crosby Hale, almost getting the save doesn’t count.
Evan adjusts his angle, tracking the puck as it cycles high in the zone. “You okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I say automatically, even though my chest tightens when Crosby drops into the butterfly again, glove snapping out a second too late.
A goal horn blares and the red light shines because the Demons have scored again. The arena explodes and Evan exhales through his teeth. “Oof.”
I don’t look away from the ice, my eyes pinned on Crosby, who stays down a beat too long.
When he pushes up to his skates, he brings his stick down against the post—one quick crack of frustration that cuts through the noise.
My heart twists when he lifts his mask and drags the back of his glove across his face, sweat and irritation wiped away in the same motion.
His jaw works once before he snaps the mask back into place.
His focus is reasserted—but tighter now, and the clock keeps moving.
“You know,” Evan says, lowering the camera and turning his head my way, “you two look good together.”
I blink. “That was random.”
He shrugs, eyes cutting to the ice and back to me. “I’ve been around you long enough to know when something’s different, and he’s different.”
I swallow, not expecting this conversation here, now, with the crowd roaring and Crosby under siege.
But Evan opened the door, and now I’m curious. “But… like… don’t you think it’s weird? I mean, I’m doing a documentary, and he’s a subject.”
Evan laughs. “Yeah, that’s a story in and of itself, but for what it’s worth, I like how happy you look around him. Last night, you looked like you two belonged together.”
It felt like we belonged together, too.
We hung out with my friends, trading stories and laughs.
Crosby, Evan, Nina and I went to a late dinner, and we talked about everything from cheesy movies to nuclear proliferation.
Crosby put his arm across the back of my chair at times, fingers brushing my shoulder.
When we parted ways to head back to the hotel, he held my hand across the parking lot.
And none of that felt weird. It felt like we’d been holding hands for years.
When we got back to the hotel, he stripped me naked, worshipped my body with his fingers and mouth, and made me beg for mercy.
When he gave it to me, it was earth-shattering, and we fell asleep in each other’s arms. If I were a believer in romance, I’d say I’m starring in my own novel, but I’ve never seen true existence of such a thing. Maybe I’m wrong.
“Thanks for saying that,” I say, bumping my hip against his. “I really like him.”
“Hey,” he adds lightly, “if I couldn’t handle one of my closest friends dating a professional athlete under a microscope, I picked the wrong career.”
Despite everything, I laugh.
On the ice, Crosby makes a solid glove save, snaps the puck to the corner, and barks at his defense. I can’t hear it, but I definitely feel it. The team responds, and for the next few minutes, they tighten and hold tough.
But it’s not enough.
The final buzzer sounds with the score unchanged, and the loss settles like a heavy fog. The Wildfire players skate off the ice with shoulders hunched, heads down.
We let them by and then follow them down the tunnel, Evan filming as instructed, me guiding with quiet gestures and murmured direction. The locker room is somber but controlled—no yelling, no dramatics. The heavy quiet of men replaying mistakes in their heads.
Crosby sits at his stall, pads still on, sweat-damp hair curling at the nape of his neck. He looks exhausted. Not physically—he’s built for that—but mentally, like the weight of the game is pressing from the inside out.
I want to give him a hug but that’s not practical.
I hesitate because even though I have unfettered access, there is still a line that could cross into intrusion. It’s even harder because this is Crosby, and I don’t want to make things worse.
On the flip side, I’m here to do a job, and Crosby’s mental frustrations are part of the story.
I nod to Evan to raise the camera and step off frame so I’m not in the shot. “Crosby,” I say gently. “Can I ask how you’re feeling right now?”
For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to shut me out. His eyes lift, guarded, jaw set. There’s a flicker there, a warning. I brace myself for the professional wall.
Then he exhales. “As a goalie?” he says. “Losing feels personal.”
I keep my voice steady. “How so?”
He shifts on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. “You can talk about team effort all you want, but when the puck hits the back of the net, that’s a hundred percent my fault. So how do I feel right now? I feel like I let everyone down. Coaches. Teammates. Fans.” A pause. “Myself.”
The locker room hums softly around us—skates being unlaced, tape peeled away—but it feels like we’re in a pocket of stillness.
“And how do you move forward from that?” I ask.
He lifts one shoulder. “You reset. You own what’s yours, and you don’t let it bleed into the next game.” His gaze meets mine briefly. “You can’t… not in this position.”
I nod, recognizing the gravity of his words. “Thank you,” I say sincerely. “I appreciate you talking with me.”
He gives a short nod, already retreating behind the mask of defeat.
Evan turns away but before I leave, I step closer to Crosby. Lowering my voice so only he can hear, I say, “I want to talk about this more when the camera’s off,” I murmur. “Juno, not the film. I’m a good sounding board and you should unload.”
He glances up, a corner of his mouth twitching. “You trying to handle me?”
“I’d never in a million years think to do that,” I say with a smile.
His lips tip, eyes with a tiny bit of sparkle. “Well… I’m not interested in talking once I get you back to the hotel.”
I laugh softly at the implication, shaking my head as I turn away, already anticipating what he might do to me.
Crosby’s voice stops me. “Juno.”
I turn back.
He smiles, inclining his head. “Thanks for the offer.”
And somehow, that feels bigger than the loss ever could.