Chapter 26
Juno
Crosby pushes the cart through the grocery store to catch up to me.
I left him behind to get the items we intend to grill while I head to the bread aisle for buns.
To any casual observer, we look like the model of blissful domesticity.
Joking, sneaking a kiss, a lingering touch while we do the mundane task of buying food.
And I have to admit… I’ve never been drawn to this part of relationships before. The ordinary life moments, shared errands, the quiet implication of permanence. I’ve always avoided it, afraid it would feel like walls closing in around me.
But standing here with Crosby, it doesn’t feel like I’m losing anything. Rather, it feels easy, as if I’m choosing what’s good for me. That choice unsettles me a bit, but that’s far outweighed by the certainty that I don’t want to walk away from it.
I glance back at him and he looks at ease. Both hands on the handle, thumbs drumming a beat playing in his head. His shoulders are relaxed and he navigates the aisles with quiet confidence, nodding with a smile when people do a double take, never breaking stride.
This is the version of him people don’t often see. Not the goalie in the crease, not the man behind the mask. Simply a guy picking up groceries on a day off.
The team plane left Winnipeg last night after a hard-fought win. Crosby was spectacular in the net, having brushed off the loss against the Demons. It took no convincing from him to get me to come to his house when we landed, which was closer to the airport than my place.
We were exhausted and both of us fell into bed, sound asleep when our heads hit the pillows, and I swear it felt like only a few hours later Crosby was nudging me awake. “Come on… let’s go grocery shopping.”
And here we are.
“This is not enough food,” I say, peering into the cart as it rattles to a stop beside me.
He looks down, then back at me. “It’s plenty.”
“We’ve got enough ground beef for maybe four burgers,” I point out, “and two vegetables.”
“One vegetable,” he corrects mildly. “The peppers don’t count.”
“They absolutely count.”
“They’re garnish.”
I step in front of the cart, arms crossing. “You invited people over and we have an obligation to feed them properly.”
Crosby grins down at me and I get the distinct feeling he wants to tap his finger on the end of my nose because he thinks I’m cute.
“I invited Arch and Evan,” he says easily. “They’re hardly ‘people.’”
“That still doesn’t explain why you think two ears of corn is sufficient.”
He studies me for a moment, mouth twitching like he’s holding back a smile. Then he lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay. Show me what you’d add.”
“Follow me,” I instruct.
I lead him around the store, grabbing more hamburger and corn, a container of salad greens, buns that look artisanal, and a few bags of chips. When I pick up a bottle of sauce with a label promising regret as evidenced by the five-chili-pepper scale on the side, his eyebrow lifts.
“Trust me,” I say.
“I do,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
We turn the corner into the dairy aisle, and that’s when a small voice pipes up behind us.
“Mom. Mom. Mooommmm!”
We both turn to see a boy, maybe about eight years old, clutching a tiny hockey stick like it’s an extension of his arm. His eyes are wide, reverent and locked on Crosby. His other hand is pulling hard on his mom’s hoodie, trying to get her attention.
“What?” she says impatiently, looking down at him, then following his wide-eyed gaze to Crosby. His mother freezes, jaw sagging as she obviously recognizes the Wildfire goalie.
“Mom,” the little boy says again, tugging on her hoodie, even though he has her attention. “It’s Crosby Hale.”
“So I see,” she says, and then looks to Crosby with questioning eyes, as if to request permission to interact with him.
I could have told her such a request was unnecessary because the one thing that has probably touched me the most about getting to know this man is his soft spot for children. He never rushes interactions with them, taking extra time to really talk to them on their level.
Crosby crouches without hesitation, dropping until he’s eye level with the kid. “Hey, buddy.”
The boy beams. “Wow… I can’t believe you’re grocery shopping.”
“I am,” Crosby says, smiling like it’s a shared secret. “You helping your mom?”
“Yeah,” he says, glancing up at her and then reconsidering. “No, not really. I didn’t want to come, but now I’m glad I did.”
Crosby laughs and then nods at the stick in the kid’s hand. “You play?”
The boy’s head bobs up and down. “My dad taught me. I play defense.”
“Good choice,” Crosby says solemnly. “Goalies need defense.”
The kid nods like he’s been knighted.
I stand back, watching the exchange unfold. Crosby talks to him like what he has to say is important, like he’s just a kid who loves the game. When Crosby stands again, he gestures to me.
“This is Juno.”
Not my girlfriend.
Not the filmmaker.
Only my name.
I smile at the boy. “Nice to meet you. Would you and your mom like a picture with Crosby?”
Both mom and kid are ecstatic, both lamenting his dad isn’t there to see this. I take several photos with the mom’s camera, and she asks for an autograph, digging around in her purse for a pen and paper.
After they move off, I slip my hand into the crook of Crosby’s arm as we push the cart down the international foods aisle. “You’re good with kids. You want them?”
“Sure,” he says. “One day. You?”
“I think so,” I murmur. “I mean… I think I’d be a good mom. I’m not one of those people who believes my past trauma has ruined me. If anything, I feel like I know exactly how not to be.”
Crosby stops so suddenly, my arm dislodges from his. I turn to him with my eyebrows raised.
“That right there,” he says.
I’m confused. “That right there, what?”
“That’s why I like you so much. You’re so confident and slightly rational, and honestly, Ms. Paxton… it’s really hot.”
I dip into a tiny curtsy, inclining my head. “Why thank you, Mr. Hale. That’s very kind of you.”
He leans into me, hand to the back of my neck, and pulls me to him for a soft kiss. “You definitely were not on my radar when I came to the Portland Wildfire.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I was expecting ice time and interviews. Not grocery stores and… you.”
?
Fall is settling in without fanfare. Crosby’s yard looks like a fairy tale after the lights come on—deck heaters glowing softly, the stained wood still warm underfoot, the last of the sunset slipping behind the trees.
A long sectional sits cushioned in neutral tones, low tables already dotted with drinks, and at the center of it all is Crosby at the massive stainless steel grill, lid open, flames hissing as he works.
Arch and Evan flank the grill like self-appointed experts, beers in hand, offering a steady stream of unsolicited advice as Crosby flips burgers with calm precision.
Arch gestures broadly, convinced the secret is timing, while Evan insists it’s all about the heat, both of them talking over each other as if Crosby hasn’t been doing this his entire adult life.
A few steps away, Birdie and I claim one end of the U-shaped couch, legs tucked beneath us, glasses of white wine catching the glow from the heaters.
She leans toward me, amusement flickering across her face as we watch the three of them argue over char marks like it’s an art form.
“Ten to one says they burn the burgers,” Birdie murmurs, lips brushing the rim of her glass, “and they all point fingers at each other.”
“Nah.” I shake my head, eyes still on Crosby. He’s unfazed by the running commentary. “Your brother will come through.”
Birdie doesn’t answer right away and when I turn my head, she’s watching me with quiet intent, head tilted, like she’s already found the answer and wants to see if I’ll say it out loud.
“What?” I ask.
“You really like my brother,” she says.
Not teasing. Stating a fact and waiting to see what I do with it.
The question behind it presses in gently but insistently, like she’s shining a light into the corners of a room I don’t usually let anyone see.
I could deflect.
Make a joke.
Downplay it to make it safer and smaller, but I don’t.
“I do,” I say simply.
Birdie takes a slow sip of her wine, eyes never leaving my face. “Why?”
I glance back at the grill, at Crosby laughing now as Evan throws his hands up in mock surrender. The way he is with people isn’t an effort for him at all.
It’s instinct.
I draw in a breath, surprised by how quickly the answer comes.
“Because he doesn’t try to take up all the air,” I say, turning my attention back to Birdie.
“Do you know what I mean? He doesn’t need to be louder or bigger than the room.
He shows up exactly as he is, and that’s very impressive given that he’s kind of a big deal. ”
Birdie’s expression softens a fraction. “That gets you in the feels, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. He makes me feel steady,” I continue, the words tumbling out now that I’ve started. “Not like I’m being anchored or managed—but like I can stand next to him and still be myself.” I pause. This part is harder to admit. “And I trust him,” I add, “which I don’t do easily. He earns it.”
Birdie watches me for a long moment, then smiles, knowing. “He’s definitely smitten with you.”
Her words send a strange flutter through my chest. I glance down at my wine, swirling it once.
“That’s actually…” I trail off, then shake my head slightly. “That’s kind of what’s been messing with me.”
Birdie shifts on the cushion, turning her body more fully toward me. “What do you mean?”
“When I first took this job,” I say, choosing each word with care, “my loyalty was focused on only one thing—the documentary. In my life, my work has always come first.” I let out a quiet breath. “It’s how I’ve always operated, and it’s the thing I don’t compromise.”
“And now?” she prompts.