Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
My shoulders settle, tension coiling tight beneath calm. I already know where this is going.
“If you don’t like the cameras,” she says evenly, “that’s fine. But ignoring us doesn’t make us disappear.” She flashes a beautifully wicked smile full of straight, white teeth. “It makes you more interesting.”
A ripple of low laughter moves through the room, uncertain, like guys aren’t sure whether they’re allowed to find her funny or if this is already a test.
I don’t join because none of this amuses me. I’m past the hot documentarian distraction and focused on my loathing of the spotlight. My posture stays neutral, weight evenly distributed, hands loose at my sides. It’s an old habit because I learned early that reacting was another form of giving something away.
“I don’t force moments,” she continues. “But I do apply pressure for you to give me your all.”
She smiles again.
The kind of smile that belongs to someone who’s already decided how this is going to go and is waiting to see how much resistance she’ll meet along the way.
My pulse kicks into overdrive when her gaze lands directly on me once more. “And I’d like to start with you, Crosby.”
I feel the attention snap toward me like I’ve stepped into the crease during a shootout.
My jaw locks, muscle memory kicking in as my tongue presses to the roof of my mouth, holding back the instinctive response because I didn’t agree to give her even a second of my time.
Her eyes hold mine across space, steady and unblinking, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch.
I take a slow breath through my nose, grounding myself the way I always do—counting seconds, reminding myself exactly where I am.
Locker room.
Team.
Captain.
“Sorry, but I’m busy today,” I say, voice level, and chuckles break out across the group.
A delicately shaped eyebrow arches and I can tell she’s amused. “Soon, then.”
Coach clears his throat. “All right. That’s enough for now. Let’s get moving.”
The room breaks apart, noise rushing back in like a tide. Guys head toward their stations, conversations overlapping, energy ramping up.
Arch sidles up beside me. “Well,” he murmurs. “That was… direct.”
Boss appears, a grin on his face. “Fearless. I like her.”
“She’s hot, right?” Arch asks, apparently wanting another opinion.
“Smokin’,” Boss agrees, but I don’t respond.
We’ve got more important things to do and it’s time to focus on the business of hockey. I close my stall, pocket my cell phone, and engage the combo lock.
We’re going up one floor to the health center where we’ll be evaluated by primary and orthopedic doctors, including routine bloodwork. As we move toward the locker room exit, Miller passes so close our shoulders brush.
As he moves by me, he says, “Guess you’re not avoiding the limelight this time.”
It’s a caustic remark, meant to dig at me personally, and the only reason he’d take such a shot was because he wants to establish dominance. He’s threatened, which is bullshit.
He doesn’t have a damn thing I want.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response, instead turning to Arch as if Miller didn’t exist, and asking, “You want to grab some lunch later?”
“Yeah, man,” Arch drawls slowly, eyes cutting back and forth between me and Miller’s retreating form. “What the hell was that?”
“No fucking clue,” I reply. “If he wants to be a man-baby, so be it. I’m here to play hockey.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Juno standing five feet ahead talking to Evan. Her eyes meet mine, then cut away.
Did she hear that exchange? Because if she did, there’s no mistaking that as friendly banter. It could only be seen as bad blood.
But ultimately, none of that matters.
What matters is the ice.
CHAPTER 4
Juno
The regulation-sized practice rink inside the Wildfire Performance Center is full of action on this second day of training camp. I don’t know what other rinks in the league look like, but this one’s impressive and so new, I can still smell the fresh paint and sealant. The glass boards sparkle, not yet dulled by the countless pucks guaranteed to bounce off them. Everything here is shiny and waiting to be tested, much like these players.
The stands are modest—three short rows of black molded seats bolted into steel risers along one side of the rink. They’re steep enough to give a clean view of the ice, meant for coaches, scouts and analysts who are observing. This isn’t a place for fans but rather evaluation.
Evan and I are in the third row at mid-ice. He’s got the camera rolling and when necessary, I give him direction. It’s often not necessary, as this is our fourth film together and he can practically read my mind.
An added benefit to Rowe’s unlimited funds is that he has mounted cameras everywhere. Fixed units in the corners, end-zone cameras behind the nets, overhead tracking systems recording every stride, every pivot, every lapse in coverage. The team uses them to break down film, to identify inefficiencies and patterns that only show up when you slow things to a crawl. I was beyond pleased when I sent a request up the chain to have access to the footage, and it was approved.