Chapter 9 Collette
COLLETTE
The corridor outside the locker room is cold and smells of concrete, sweat, and that brand of industrial cleaner that every arena in the country uses.
I find a corner, press my back against the cinderblock wall, and try to breathe.
The wall is freezing through my shirt. I don’t care.
I’ve been holding it together for hours.
Since Issy told me about Harper. Since I lied to Felix’s face with a smile.
Since I watched my brother hit the ice and not move.
I’ve been the sister who had it together, the one who stayed behind, the one who sent everyone else to the hospital while she waited alone in an empty suite.
I’m so tired of being strong. As fresh tears start to fall down my cheeks, I angrily swipe them away.
The guys come off the ice after winning the game, and I tuck myself further into the corner, pulling my sleeves over my hands, making myself small, not wanting anyone to see me like this.
Most of them pass by without noticing. They’re high on the win, loud, slapping each other’s pads, talking shit.
The sound of skate blades on rubber mats and sticks clattering against walls fills the tunnel.
Then Fish walks past, still in his gear with his helmet in his hands, his hair damp with sweat.
Those blue eyes scan the corridor and land on me like he knew exactly where to look.
He stops, takes me in, the red eyes, the arms wrapped around myself.
The mascara I know is probably halfway down my cheeks.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong.
Doesn’t give me a motivational speech. He just walks over, drops his helmet on the ground, and wraps his arms around me.
And I break.
I cry into his chest like I haven’t cried all night.
He smells like sweat and exertion, and underneath that, faintly, his cologne.
He’s still in his pads, and I’m getting mascara all over his jersey, but I don’t care and it seems neither does he.
Because with everyone else, I had to be the sister who had it together.
But Fish isn’t my family, he isn’t expecting me to be anything.
And something about that, about the fact that he’s not Pierre, who needs me to be steady, or Felix, who needs me to be brave, or Mom, who needs me to be strong, something about the absence of expectation makes it safe to fall apart.
His hand comes up to the back of my head, and he just holds me.
Doesn’t shush me. Doesn’t tell me it’s going to be okay.
Doesn’t pull some motivational crap out of his ass.
Just lets me ruin his jersey until I run out of whatever was keeping me upright.
I pull back and wipe my face with the heels of my hands. “Ew, you stink.”
He laughs, this deep, surprised sound that bounces off the concrete. “Yeah, well, I just played a hockey game. I scored, by the way.”
“Did you?” I sniffle. Everything after Felix hit the ice is a blur. I couldn’t tell you the final score if my life depended on it. “Congrats.”
“Also got two assists, in case you were wondering.”
He’s trying to make you laugh, which is sweet of him.
“I’ll make a graphic. ‘Fish scores and has two assists, while his teammates’ sister ugly cries on him in a corridor.’”
“Viral content right there.” He grins, but it’s gentle, not the one he gives the cameras, this feels like a real one.
“Hey.” His voice drops. “Felix is tough. He’s going to be fine.
And Pierre did what any brother would do.
” I nod because if I speak, I’ll start crying again, and I’ve already put this man through enough tonight.
“I’ll check in on you later, okay? The boys will come to the hospital once they’re done. ”
“Okay.” My voice is barely there.
He gives my shoulder a squeeze, and his hand lingers for half a second longer than it should before he picks up his helmet and heads toward the locker room.
I watch him go, this giant man in full hockey gear walking away from me down a fluorescent corridor, and I don’t know why, but I feel a fraction less alone than I did five minutes ago.
Pierre comes out not long after, in his suit, jaw set, eyes hard, knuckles bruised from the fight. He sees me, and his face crumbles just enough for me to know he’s barely holding on.
“Let’s go see our brother,” I say, linking my arm through his.
He doesn’t speak, just nods, and we walk out together.
The hospital waiting room is chaotic. But all I can concentrate on are the beige walls and the buzzing fluorescent lights that make everyone look sick.
The smell of antiseptic and bad coffee wafts through the waiting room.
Mom is with Felix, only family is allowed in.
Issy is fielding calls, and pacing back and forth in front of the vending machine.
Marcus is in the corner on his phone, probably trying to keep the media at bay.
Harper arrives looking destroyed, her mascara streaked.
She’s wearing Felix’s jersey like she ran out of her apartment the second she could, and the moment she sees Issy, she bursts into tears.
They hold each other, and something about watching that makes my throat close over.
Pierre goes straight to Issy the moment Harper lets her go, and I watch her wrap her arms around him and whisper something in his ear that makes his shoulders drop, he has his person.
I want to find my person. I’ll be thirty next year, and honestly, I think that internal ticking clock is getting louder.
Tears well, and my throat closes over as something aches deep inside me, something I don’t want to name because naming it will mean admitting it exists.
I stand up abruptly. “I’m going to grab coffee. Anyone want anything?”
A chorus of orders comes back at me, and I’m grateful for the task because it gives me a reason to move, to walk, to be useful instead of sitting there watching everyone else be loved.
“I’ll help,” Fish says from behind me.
I jump and spin around, the boys have arrived.
Emmett, Sully, Bouch, Nelly, and Evan file in quietly, still in their post-game clothes.
Fish is back in his navy suit, but he’s missing the jacket.
The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up and exposing the tanned skin of his forearms as he leans against the doorframe like a six-foot-two reminder that the universe has a sense of humor.
“You came,” I say, and I hate how surprised I sound.
“Told you I would.” No grin. No wink. Just steady blue eyes looking at me like he means it. Nobody looks up from their grief or worry to wonder why the team’s left wing is helping Pierre’s sister carry coffees, and I’m grateful for that too.
We walk out of the waiting room together.
The corridor is long, white, and fluorescent, and smells like floor polish.
I hate hospitals. We turn the corner toward the cafeteria, and my eyes burn again.
No, keep it together. You already cried on this man once tonight.
He doesn’t deserve a repeat performance.
“Hey,” Fish says quietly, his hand touching my arm, just lightly, just his fingertips on my sleeve.
And that’s all it takes.
I stop walking, press my hands over my face, and cry. Again. In a hospital corridor, in front of a man who should be out celebrating a win with his teammates. This is so embarrassing.
He pulls me into another hug. “You’ve got to stop doing this to me, St. Pierre. I’ve used up all my emotional intelligence for the month.”
I laugh through the tears. An ugly, snotty, broken laugh that echoes off the linoleum. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says, and I can feel the rumble of his voice against my cheek because my face is pressed into his chest again. This time he smells like soap and clean cotton and something warm underneath that’s just him.
“I keep crying on you.” I hiccup.
“I can handle it.” His hand cups my face, those big, calloused hands that can shoot a puck at ninety miles an hour, and his thumbs wipe my tears away like they’re made of something fragile.
“You’ve been so strong in there. I could see you struggling to keep it together. I just ... I wanted to help.”
The confession surprises me. It’s so unexpected from him, from Justin Crawford, the walking highlight reel, the guy with the revolving door of women, with the cocky grin and the reputation that precedes him into every room.
This isn’t that version of him. This is the version that shows up at hospitals, holds crying women in corridors, and doesn’t make it about himself.
Don’t fall for it. I’m not falling for anything.
I’m crying on a colleague. A colleague whose heartbeat you can feel against your cheek. Shut up.
“I’m fine,” I say, pulling back.
He doesn’t believe me. “You’re not fine, and that’s okay.”
I don’t have a comeback for that. I don’t have a sarcastic deflection or a smart remark or any of the things I usually throw up when someone gets too close. My walls are down, and I don’t have the energy to rebuild them tonight. “Thank you,” I tell him. And I mean it in a way that scares me.
“That’s what friends are for,” he says simply, without weight, without agenda, and somehow that makes it land harder than anything else he could have said. Because he means it, he truly means it, and I don’t know what to do with a man who means the things he says.
We get the coffees from the cafeteria, which is deserted except for one nurse eating a sad-looking sandwich, and carry them back.
I hand them out like I’m serving a dinner party instead of standing in a hospital waiting room to find out if my brother’s brain is bleeding.
Fish finds a seat near the boys who are talking quietly.
Pierre reaches over and squeezes my hand without looking at me.
Issy has her head on his shoulder. Harper is in the chair next to Issy, her knee bouncing.
The doctor comes out eventually and tells us Felix has a severe concussion, two weeks’ recovery, but he’s going to be fine.
Harper goes in first because he’s asking for her, and the relief that washes through the room is physical.
Mom starts crying again, but happy tears this time.
Marcus lets out a breath I think he’s been holding since the third period.
I lean back in my plastic chair, close my eyes, and breathe for what feels like the first time in hours.
My phone buzzes.
Fish: Glad he’s okay. Get some sleep tonight.
I look across the waiting room, and he’s already looking at me.
His blue eyes shine under the fluorescent light, the white shirt pulled tightly across his muscles, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles because he’s too tall for hospital chairs.
I give him a nod. He gives me the smallest smile.
And I think, for the first time since I moved to this city, that maybe friendship with a hockey player isn’t the worst thing in the world.