Chapter 29
Crosby
I’m moving on autopilot through the chef’s line, tray in hand, eyes flicking between the digital menu boards and the clock mounted above the pasta station. I’ve got about ten minutes before I have to be back upstairs to review film footage with Coach Michaels.
Definitely enough time to eat, but not enough time to linger.
I stack my plate with grilled salmon, quinoa and roasted brussels sprouts, even though I don’t particularly care for the tiny little cabbages. Too bitter, but I also know they’re good for me, and I do eat for nutrition, not pleasure, when I’m training.
I note a handful of players scattered in small clusters, some still in training gear, others already showered and dressed. TVs along the walls cycle through clips from last night’s games, the sound low enough that conversation stays intact.
I claim a high-top near the corner, hook a foot around the stool, and set my tray down. Fork in hand, phone out, I skim a sports news site while I eat.
I’m barely lifting my third bite when a familiar and grating voice cuts through the noise. “Well. This is unexpected.”
I freeze, my fork hovering before my mouth when I see Cherry standing there.
I have thankfully not seen her since the Halloween party, and I’d hoped things had blown over.
We’ve had two home games since then and things seem to be okay with Miller, at least to the extent that we happily ignore each other.
My irritation at her sparks hot because this woman is out-and-out lying to her husband to cause trouble and stir drama. She’s standing too close, expression bright, like she’s stumbled across an old friend instead of cornering someone who clearly doesn’t have time for this.
“Grabbing a late lunch?” she asks sweetly.
I’m not in the mood for her games. I’m beyond trying to have polite conversation with her the way I have in the past. This deceitful busybody crossed a line that I can’t forgive.
“What do you want, Cherry?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
Her brows lift, mock surprise. “Straight to business, huh?”
I don’t respond, setting my fork down on my plate so I’m not tempted to stab myself in the eye to end this misery.
She shifts her weight, resting her elbow on the edge of the table. The posture is casual, but I see pure calculation in her eyes.
“I wanted to talk to you about Miller,” she says. “He seems to be upset about an interaction you two had at the Halloween party. He loves how tight this team is, and well… I don’t want that to be ruined.”
I don’t buy for a fucking second that Miller didn’t tell her all about our conversation. My pulse kicks up a notch as I understand she’s trying to bait me. I should get up and walk away, but I need to stop her antics right now.
I rest my hands on my thighs, forcing them to remain flat and not curl into fists of frustration. I lean toward her, keeping my voice low. “If you’re so worried about it, Cherry, I suggest you stop making up lies about me to your husband. If there’s strife between us, it’s all your doing.”
She brings her hand to her chest and manages to sound innocent. “Why would you think I would do that?” She shakes her head, lips pursed in mild confusion. “You must have misunderstood him.”
“I didn’t misunderstand anything,” I say, irritation bleeding into my tone despite my effort to keep it contained. “He told me you said that I was acting out because I wanted you back.”
Cherry tilts her head, studying me like this is all very interesting. “I never said that.”
“You’re lying. I might not know Miller well enough to know his capacity to be devious, but I know yours.”
Her expression cools enough to register. “That’s a strong accusation.”
“Then explain it,” I snap. “Because I’ve never said or done anything that would make you—or him—think I want anything to do with you.”
She exhales slowly, gaze drifting past me for a beat before returning. “Crosby… I think you’re being defensive.”
There’s no stopping the surge, my blood pressure amping up like my head’s about to explode.
“I think,” she continues calmly, “that there’s a lot between us that never got resolved. I think you still have deep feelings for me.”
I stare at her. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
She shrugs like it’s obvious. “History doesn’t disappear because you decide it’s inconvenient.”
I feel heat crawl up the back of my neck. “We don’t have history. We dated. It didn’t work. I ended it.”
“You walked away,” she corrects. “That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when someone refuses to hear no,” I say, my voice tight now. “Which you clearly still can’t.”
Cherry’s eyes narrow, not because she’s hurt. She’s plotting.
“I think,” she says, “that maybe you hate seeing me happy. That you want what you can’t have, and it’s definitely affecting your behavior around me.”
A crack splinters through me, not loudly, but clean and decisive. “You are delusional,” I hiss, my temper flaring hotter than ever. “And this—this right here—is exactly why I broke it off. You rewrite reality to suit whatever version of the story makes you feel relevant.”
Cherry doesn’t even have the grace to look ashamed, her lips pursing into a satisfied smirk. “I know you don’t mean that.”
“Jesus Christ,” I bark and note a couple of heads turn our way. “You are certifiably crazy.”
Cherry reaches a hand out, a sympathetic smile on her face. “You don’t—”
I jerk backward, not wanting her to touch me and trigger the last of my control.
My voice rises unbidden, and I can’t swallow it down because getting my point across to this woman only seems possible with loud words.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I yell, standing up from my seat.
“I haven’t thought about you in months. I don’t want you.
I don’t miss you. And I sure as hell don’t care who you married. ”
Somewhere in my head, I register that the chatter in the restaurant has stopped and things are very quiet. A quick glance assures me that all eyes are on us now.
And yet, I can’t seem to stop. I’m so fucking furious at her, I want there to be no misunderstanding of my position, and well… if the entire team knows about it, oh well.
“You lied to your husband,” I continue, anger coating every word. “You put words in my mouth, stirred up bullshit, and now you’re standing here acting like I owe you? You need to get a fucking grip, Cherry.”
My last word—her name—comes out rough, and I’m left almost breathless. I suck in a lungful of oxygen, feel the tightness in the room. I’ll have some explaining to do for sure.
A little more in control now that I’ve purged, I lower my voice so only she can hear. “Do you understand now?”
Cherry’s mouth curves into a slow, satisfied smirk. “Oh… I understand perfectly,” she purrs, and then looks past my shoulder.
I have a pit in my stomach as I follow her gaze and see Juno standing a few yards away, Evan beside her, camera lifted and steady.
Filming.
Cherry’s voice is soft when she speaks again. “I know how much you hate the spotlight.” My attention turns back to her but she’s stepping away, already disengaging, already done. “Looks like you’re right in the center of it now.”
And then she turns and sashays off, leaving me standing there—with half a meal untouched, my meeting forgotten, and the sickening realization that every word I said was exactly what she wanted.
And Juno filmed it all.
For a second, it feels like I’ve been punched square in the chest. It’s not that Juno’s here. It’s not even that people are watching.
It’s that she made a choice to have that camera rolling and caught every bit of it.
Another wave of anger strikes, and I walk straight toward Juno. “Can I talk to you?” I say tightly. “Outside.”
Juno puts her hand on Evan’s forearm, giving it a slight push of pressure, and he lowers the camera. The fact she let him film me coming at her hits me harder than anything Cherry said.
I pivot and walk out of The Blue Line, knowing Juno will follow. I vaguely hear conversations restarting, knowing this will sweep through the Wildfire team within minutes.
I don’t slow down, walking straight through the lobby and out the double doors into the parking lot.
My heart is pounding so hard it’s almost painful as I turn on Juno, who is indeed right behind me. “I can’t believe you filmed that,” I snarl.
Her brows knit together, defensive but honest. “Crosby… it just happened. Instinct.”
“Instinct,” I repeat flatly. “To pull out a camera and film my personal life.”
“That’s my job,” she says.
“Your job is to report on things that matter, not trivial drama stirred up by”—I hesitate, pointing back at the building—“a crazy woman. You know she’s full of shit and yet you gave her credibility.”
“Yes,” she says, keeping her voice level and soft, because she knows she’s dealing with a feral animal right now. “It is my job to report on things that matter, and this could develop into an issue that affects the team dynamics.”
A cold realization settles in my chest, heavy and immovable. “So, you like the drama,” I say. The words come out harsh and accusing, but I don’t take them back.
Her eyes flash. “No. Not drama. Context.”
“Context for what?” I demand. “My relationship with Cherry? Because that’s not a story.”
“It’s not about you and Cherry,” she says with frustration. “It’s about you and Miller. About how this could affect the team. Your position. I don’t always know what the story is when I’m filming—I discover it later.”
I stare at her, trying to reconcile the woman in front of me with the one who curled into my side last night.
“You didn’t have to film,” I say. “You could have chosen me. My privacy.”
She steps closer, voice softening. “It happened fast and it doesn’t mean that I’ll use it. You know I’ll take your feelings into account, and we can absolutely talk about this. We don’t have to decide anything right now, but I swear, Crosby, I really was moving on instinct.”
Instinct? What a fucking joke. “Yeah… well, your instinct sucks, because if it was any good… if it was trustworthy… it should have been to protect me, not exploit me.”
The word cuts through the air, and Juno jerks backward as if I’d actually slapped her. “That’s harsh.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll find a way to deal with it.” A bitter laugh scrapes out of my chest. “You’re no different from Cherry,” I say, the words tasting like ash. “Always choosing the story.”
The impact is a direct hit. I see it in her face—the fracture, the hurt.
I blow out a stale breath. “I can’t talk about this anymore. I’m late to a meeting with Michaels.”
I step past her, returning to the noise and the lights and the people who suddenly feel easier to deal with than this.
I don’t look back.
She doesn’t say anything else.
And I’m not sure if I’m glad of that or not. I only know… things are different between us now, and the trust has been broken.