Chapter 28
Juno
Crosby tosses his keys onto the counter and flips on the kitchen lights. “I feel like a snack.”
Laughing, I move to his refrigerator. “You’re always hungry.”
“Excuse me, I played a spectacular game and probably burned about two thousand calories. I need fuel.”
That is true. He was on fire in net against the Dallas Mustangs. It was a performance worthy of celebration, but we decided for a quiet late night at his house instead.
I peer inside at the contents and glance back at him. “How about I make you a roast beef sandwich?”
Crosby is standing there, palms pressed to the counter, staring at me in a way that makes my skin tingle. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, the chill from the fridge washing over me.
“Because I like you in my house, in my kitchen, raiding my fridge to make me a snack. I’ve never had that before.”
My smile softens to match the gooey feeling inside me. “I like making you snacks.”
“Then snacks it is,” he says, that gentle rumble of appreciation striking me in my core.
I start grabbing items out of the fridge—roast beef, mayo, lettuce and tomato. Crosby moves to the bread box and pulls out the sourdough.
We work side by side, building two sandwiches and replaying moments from the game.
“You were amazing tonight,” I say, licking a dab of mayo off my finger. “I bet the team is right now toasting your greatness.”
Crosby snorts. “I doubt that, but yeah… I was feeling laser-focused in the net. Nights like that, it almost feels easy.”
“We should probably be out celebrating,” I muse, not missing the action but feeling like maybe Crosby should be out there getting his due.
He bumps his hip against mine. “No way. A quiet night with you is way more to my liking. Besides, let’s take advantage of the fact Birdie isn’t here and we have the entire house to ourselves.”
Birdie went out with the team and Arch appointed himself guardian, promising to get her home safely. “Is there anything going on there?” I ask, cutting the sandwiches in half and on an angle. “With Birdie and Arch?”
Crosby barks out a laugh. “No. God, no. They’re like siblings. Loud, annoying siblings.”
“I think they’d be cute together,” I say, taking the plates while Crosby grabs bottled waters from the fridge.
“They’d be a horror together,” he maintains.
“Open up the romantic side of yourself, babe,” I say, setting the plates down and pulling my phone out of my pocket before I sit.
I unlock the screen, see that my charge is below fifteen percent, and set it up on one of the power cords on the counter. I’d ignored it all evening as Evan and I filmed the game up in the stands and interviewed fans.
I notice that I missed several calls from an unknown number, which usually means a spam call, but I take a closer look. They came in four times in a row, the last one leaving a voicemail.
My stomach tightens, a reflex I don’t question yet, and I decide to listen to the message. The sound comes out of the speaker and I turn up the volume.
“Juno… it’s me. It’s—” A shaky inhale. “It’s your mother.”
I freeze, my blood turning to ice. Crosby hears that, as evidenced by his murmured “What the actual fuck?” and then he’s behind me, hand on my shoulder.
“I don’t know if this number is right. I—I hope it is.
” She’s crying, raw and blubbery. “I wanted to let you know that your father… he passed away last night. A heart attack.” My entire body jolts and I turn to face Crosby, who wraps his arms around me.
The message continues. “I didn’t know who else to call and I don’t—I don’t know what to do without him.
I think I need help and well… please call me. ”
The message ends and the silence feels deafening. The room stays the same but nothing inside me does. My body feels wrong—too heavy, too light, like gravity hasn’t decided what it wants from me.
I haven’t heard her voice in almost fourteen years.
My last communications with her were all done through the social worker assigned to my case.
My mother never called me, never asked to see me.
Instead, they passed along messages of disappointment in my actions, requests I change my story, and ultimately, a goodbye when they relinquished custody.
That was in the form of a handwritten note.
“This is for the best,” she had written.
For a long time, I ached to hear from her. While I wasn’t overly close to my father, I had thought my mother loved me. We had a bond, but later I learned that was only as good as how obedient I was. Once I decided to be my own person, she didn’t want me anymore.
It took me until I was sixteen before I stopped wondering about my parents. It wasn’t a conscious decision to ban them from my thoughts, but more like the way you stop touching a hot surface after it burns you enough times.
Alive or dead, it hadn’t mattered. They were gone either way, and I moved on.
And now my mother is calling me, because she’s lost and wants comfort?
“Juno,” Crosby asks gently, hands moving to my shoulders, “are you okay?”
Am I okay? I mean… I found out my dad’s dead from the woman who abandoned me, and… am I okay?
I snap and rip free from his hold. “No!” I shout, the word ripping out of my chest. “No, I’m not okay.”
Crosby takes a small step back and I appreciate that space. His expression is empathetic, his unwavering gaze telling me that he’s there to catch me when I’m ready.
I pace angry steps across the kitchen, through the living room, back again. My hands shake and I don’t try to stop them.
“She doesn’t get to call me,” I say, my voice rising as I point accusingly at the phone.
“She doesn’t get to cry to me like I’m some emergency contact she forgot to update.
They gave me away. They didn’t even bother to sit down face-to-face and tell me.
No, they wrote a note, reducing me to paperwork. ”
Crosby doesn’t interrupt. He watches, eyes steady and gentle.
“They never once reached out. No birthdays. No holidays. No letters. Nothing.” My laugh is harsh and ugly. “I didn’t even know if they were alive and I didn’t care. I trained myself not to.”
I drag a hand through my hair, pacing again. “And now she wants me because she’s alone? Because she doesn’t know what to do without him? What about when I didn’t know what to do without parents?”
My chest aches, breath coming too fast.
“They didn’t love me,” I say, the words tumbling out. “Not really. Because if they did—if they loved me even a little—they wouldn’t have done that.”
“I know,” Crosby says, and those two words of affirmation have me crumbling.
The anger subsides and I’m hit with a monstrous wave of grief.
My knees buckle without warning, but Crosby is lightning fast, there to catch me and sweep me into his arms. He moves to the couch, cradles me in his lap as a sob tears out of me, violent and unrestrained.
I try to shut it off, clamping down on my emotions, but I feel like I’m strangling. Crosby’s hand is at my back, and his words come out in soothing breaths of calm. “Let it go, Juno. Don’t you dare try to hold that in when I’ve got you.”
My control breaks like it’s made of spun glass, but I know I’d never let that happen if it weren’t for Crosby’s strong body holding me. I cry—soundless at first, then breaking, gasping.
I clutch at his shirt, fingers curling tight as I finally let it go. “I wasn’t worth staying for,” I choke. “I wasn’t worth fighting for.”
“No,” he says firmly, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other pressing me close. “That’s not true.”
I shake my head against his chest. “It is.”
He holds me tighter, his voice low but unwavering. “Parents don’t do that. Not healthy ones. Not ones who are wired right. They were broken, Juno. And that has nothing—nothing—to do with you.”
I sob harder at that, the truth of it cracking me open.
“They failed you,” he continues. “That’s on them. You don’t owe your mother a single thing. Not a call. Not comfort. Not forgiveness.”
His thumb brushes slow circles against my arm. “And if one day you decide you want to talk to her—on your terms—you can. But only if it serves you. Whatever you choose, I’m here.”
His words resonate, so resoundingly, I manage a deep breath. I pull back enough to look at him, my face wet and wrecked, my chest still heaving.
“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” he adds quietly. “You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to make it make sense.”
I nod, clinging to him again, letting his presence anchor me while the storm passes through. And while my head is all kinds of fucked up over how to handle this with my mother, there’s one thing that has never been clearer to me.
Whatever this is between me and Crosby—it’s the most real thing I’ve ever had in my life.