Chapter 13 Fish #2
Dinner is at a steakhouse two blocks from the hotel.
We have a long table with the whole team.
It’s loud and chaotic, everyone talking over each other.
The place smells of charred meat, expensive wine, and the kind of testosterone that only exists when twenty-something professional athletes are trying to out-order each other.
I sit at my end, and I’m quiet. Nelly notices and doesn’t say anything.
Bouch keeps the conversation going around me without making it obvious, which I appreciate.
I eat my steak, laugh at the right moments, and perform the version of myself that everyone expects.
Collette is at the far end with the girls.
She doesn’t look at me once, not once. And I know because I checked.
Most of the guys have filtered out when Pierre slides into the seat next to me. Felix takes the other side, and my stomach tightens, here it comes. The do not touch our fucking sister lecture, the same one they said on day one when she arrived.
“We saw the stuff online today,” Pierre says.
His voice is calm, relaxed even, but those hazel eyes are doing something else entirely.
Pierre St. Pierre doesn’t do anything without knowing exactly what he’s doing, and right now, he’s sitting close enough that I can smell his cologne and feel the weight of every word he’s choosing carefully.
“Fishette,” he says, almost amused. “Creative.”
“We’re not …” I start.
“We know.” Pierre looks at me steadily. “Collette made that very clear. There’s no way in the world she would date you.”
Oof. I keep my face neutral, but that lands like a puck to the sternum.
Not that I want to date Collette. Obviously.
But hearing it phrased like that, like the idea is laughable, like I’m not even in the realm of possibility, that does something to a man’s ego that I’ll have to deal with later. Alone. Possibly with whiskey.
“You’re colleagues,” Pierre continues. “You have great on-camera chemistry, which is what her job entails.”
I nod. There’s not much else to say when a man who could end your career and your face in the same evening is being reasonable.
“So don’t worry. We’re not coming after you.” He claps me on the shoulder, and his hand stays there for exactly one second too long. Just enough for me to feel the but that’s coming. “We know you haven’t asked for this, just like Collette hasn’t. She’s doing her job, and you’re doing yours.”
“Those fan edits are pretty convincing, though,” Felix adds from my other side, and those hazel eyes narrow on me with something his brother missed. Felix sees things. Felix is the quiet observer of the St. Pierre family, and right now, he’s observing me like he’s reading a scouting report.
“I was just having fun, you know me,” I tell them both, leaning back, casual, easy, the Fish everyone expects.
“We do,” Pierre says, and there it is. Two words that sound like acceptance but feel like a warning. We know exactly who you are. “Collette hasn’t had it easy, packing up her life in South Dakota to come with me to New York because of my drama. I appreciate you being a friend to her.”
“She’s a cool person.”
“She is,” Felix says, and there’s pride there, real pride.
Pierre stands. “Don’t fuck it up.” Fuck what up?
“Rest up, see ya tomorrow,” Felix adds, following his brother.
I sit there, staring at my empty plate for a long moment. What just happened? You got the blessing and the warning in the same conversation.
“Are you okay?” Evan materializes beside me, like he was summoned by my internal crisis.
“I think so.”
“Drink?”
“Yeah. I think I need one.”
The rooftop bar is cold and mostly empty, the kind of place that’s probably packed on weekends, but on a Tuesday night in Pittsburgh, it’s just us and a bartender who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
We choose a table in a dark corner with a view of the city skyline, which is fine, I guess, if you’re not from New York, and order a couple of beers.
“Saw Pierre and Felix chatting with you. Everything okay?” Evan asks.
“They were just checking in about the viral stuff.”
Evan raises his brow. “You’re still alive, so that’s good, no?”
“Yeah. They were surprisingly cool about it.” Evan doesn’t look convinced. “Probably helped that Collette told them there was no way in hell she would ever date me. That sealed the deal.”
The beers arrive, and we both reach for them at the same time. I take a long pull and let it settle.
“You sound upset about that,” Evan says.
“Hearing a woman say she would never ever date you is an ego killer.”
“Are you saying you want to date Collette St. Pierre?”
“No,” I answer too quickly, and we both know it. “I don’t want to date anyone.”
“You just fuck.” He says it flat and factual, like he’s reading a weather report.
“Like you can talk. This mysterious Russian thing you’ve got going on gets just as many women, if not more than me.”
“True.” He chuckles darkly. I flip him off. “I’m also not as loud.”
“I’m not loud,” I counter, but it’s a weak argument.
“You are the loudest person I know.” He takes a sip. “In every way.”
I peel the label off my beer bottle, working at it with my thumbnail. The city glitters below us, and I can hear traffic and sirens and all the noise that cities make at night that’s supposed to make you feel alive, but sometimes just makes you feel small.
“There was a girl,” I say. “Back home in Maine.”
Evan doesn’t react, doesn’t lean in, just waits. That’s the thing about Evan, he never rushes you. He just creates this space, and you fill it whether you mean to or not.
“I grew up in this small town, where everyone knew everyone. My friends have been the same ones since kindergarten. Her name was Caitlin. We started dating junior year of high school.” I take another pull of beer. “When I was eighteen, I thought I was going to marry her. I know how that sounds …”
“It doesn’t sound like anything.” He nods for me to continue.
“She followed me to college. I thought that meant something, that she picked me. Turns out she picked a football player, the starting quarterback for our college team.” I almost laugh because at this distance it’s almost funny.
Almost. “Two months into college, one of my teammates told me they saw them together at a frat party. She told me I wasn’t good enough anymore, that she wanted more. ”
Evan is quiet. The bartender clinks glasses somewhere behind us.
“She married him, you know. They have kids together. But I heard they got divorced a few years back. He cheated on her with her best friend.” I finish the beer. “Small towns don’t forget anything.”
“Collette is not Caitlin,” Evan says.
“I know that.” The irritation flares up before I can stop it because I do know that.
Collette is nothing like Caitlin. Caitlin was sweet and careful and never said what she meant.
Collette will tell you exactly what she thinks while looking you dead in the eye and daring you to argue. They’re not even the same species.
“Then what is the problem?” Evan pushes.
“There’s no problem because I’m not interested in her. We’re just friends.”
Evan raises a brow at me. One single brow. The Russian brow of disbelief that has ended more of my bullshit arguments than I can count.
“I mean it. Do I like her as a friend, as a colleague, of course. But do I see more? No. Never.”
“If you say so.” He takes a slow sip of his beer, those dark eyes watching me over the rim.
“What? No. Hey, don’t do that.”
“I’m doing nothing.”
“Yes, you are. Some Russian reverse psychology shit.”
This makes him chuckle, low and quiet. “I’m not. It’s not my fault your subconscious is saying otherwise.”
I hate it when he talks like this in riddles. Like some brooding fortune cookie. “You’re so fucking annoying, do you know that?”
“Yes.” He grins.
“Fucking friend you are.”
“You can lie to yourself.” He sets his beer down, and those dark eyes lock onto me with the kind of intensity that reminds me why opposing forwards hate playing against him. “You can lie to everyone else. But you won’t fucking lie to me.”
The words land heavily in the cold air between us.
“I’m not lying.”
“You like Collette. And I get all the reasons why you can’t do anything about it. But don’t sit here and deny it to me.”
I take a big gulp of beer. The label is completely shredded now, little pieces of wet paper are stuck to my fingers. “Of course I like her …” I roll my eyes at him like it’s nothing, like this confession isn’t costing me anything. “But we can only ever be friends. Not that I want more.”
“See. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He smiles into his beer.
Fucking Russian.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He grins. “You and Collette do have chemistry. All these fan edits show that.”
“They’re made up. Picking bits and pieces to create a different narrative than what’s there.”
“True. But the fact that they picked up on the two of you and how you play off each other isn’t made up. You can slow-mo anything, but the camera can’t invent what doesn’t exist.”
I don’t have an answer for that. So, I signal the bartender for another beer, stare at the Pittsburgh skyline, and try very hard not to think about hazel eyes, citrus shampoo, and the way she looked at me in that hotel room like I was the source of every problem in her life.