Chapter 16 Collette
COLLETTE
Acouple of hours later, my phone buzzes.
Fish: You didn’t stay.
Collette: I couldn’t. Are you okay?
I ask him as I nervously nibble my bottom lip. Suddenly, my phone rings, and it’s Fish. I stare at his name across the screen and wonder what I should do. Pick it up, dummy. You’re freaking out for no reason.
“Hey,” I say, trying to play it cool.
“Are you okay?” he asks, sounding concerned.
“Um, yeah. Don’t you think I should be asking you that question? Are you okay?”
“Of course, that was nothing,” he says, being blasé about my concern.
“It wasn’t nothing to me.”
Silence comes down the line.
Shit.
“Were you worried about me, St. Pierre?”
“I ... um …” He starts laughing. “Of course I was, asshole.”
“Aw, Lettie. I didn’t know you cared,” he teases.
“Screw you. Well, I’m glad you are okay. If all you called for was to make fun of me worrying about my friend, then consider it done.”
“Lettie …”
“No. I was worried about you. It brought flashbacks of my brother lying there.” I swipe the tears falling from my face.
“Fuck, Lettie. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got to go.” I hang up on him as I bawl my eyes out. Urgh. Must be getting my period, I’m totally overreacting. But I can’t seem to stop it as I curl up on the sofa and continue to watch my show.
There’s knocking on my door. I still. What the hell? No one can get onto my floor. Maybe it’s my brothers. I get up off the couch and pad over to the front door, I quickly look through the peephole and still.
What the hell is he doing here? And how the hell did he make it to my door?
I open my front door, and I’m shocked to see Fish there. “What the hell?”
“Let me in before Cap sees me,” he says, and I let him in because I’m so flustered.
“I … how …?”
“I’m on Emmett’s approved list and get access to this level,” he explains.
Oh.
“Are you here to see Emmett?” I question him.
“No, I’m here to see you. You hung up on me.”
Oh. I stare at him blankly. “You came all the way over here because I hung up on you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t like the thought that I had upset you,” he confesses.
Oh.
“I was embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?” His brows pull together in confusion. I can’t look at him. He walks over and places his finger under my chin. “Why were you embarrassed?” Those blue eyes look like glittering pools that I want to drown in, and that’s what is embarrassing. “That I got upset over you getting hurt.”
“I’m fine,” he says softly, reassuring me.
“I see that,” I mumble.
He takes a couple of steps toward me as I quickly take a couple of steps backward, until I hit the edge of the sofa. “You were worried about me?”
“Let’s not make it a thing,” I say, rolling my eyes while I defensively cross my arms.
“Oh, I’m making it a thing, friend,” he says, emphasizing the word, as he continues to be in my personal space.
“Fish.”
“I know.” He smirks.
I shake my head, “Don’t …” I warn him.
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever you’re thinking …” I tell him as panic rushes my body.
“What do you think I’m thinking?” He grins.
“Something you shouldn’t be?”
“You’d probably be right.” The next thing I know, he grabs me, making me squeal as he picks me up and places me on the edge of the sofa, then moves in between my legs.
“What are you doing?” I hiss as my breath comes out staggered.
“I don’t know.” His answer confuses me.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I can’t decide if I want to kiss you or hang out with you?”
My eyes widen. “You can’t kiss me.”
“Not even once? I mean, the entire world thinks we’re fucking and have this amazing chemistry, aren’t you the least bit curious?” he asks me, sliding further between my legs.
“We can’t.” Is all I say.
“I know we can’t. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m curious.” He grins.
“We can’t,” I repeat again.
Those blue eyes narrow. “You’re not the least bit curious?” He slides his finger across my lip again, just like he did in the corridor. I swallow because my body feels like it’s on fire.
“Of course, I’m curious but …” I close my eyes, trying to ignore the lust that is swirling between us.
“But what?”
“I don’t want to ruin things.” This makes him pause. “We step over that line, we can’t come back from that.” He bites his bottom lip as he looks me over, the heat slowly disappearing from those blue pools.
“You’re fucking right.” He curses, taking a step back from me, putting distance between us again.
“I’m sorry. What the hell am I doing?” He runs his hands through his hair.
It’s as if he were under some kind of spell and we’ve just broken it.
“I’ve got to go,” he says abruptly as if he can’t get away from me fast enough.
“Stop,” I yell out as I race after him. I grab his hand and halt him. “Don’t go.”
“Now I’m the one who’s embarrassed,” he tells me, and I can see it on his face. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around him and give him a big hug. He stiffens underneath me, but I don’t let up, and he finally relents and embraces me. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” I warn him as I continue to hug him, and it feels like he needs it. “You’re safe here,” I tell him, which earns me a big squeeze. “Stay, tonight has been a shit night for you. I’ve got tequila and an extra bed.”
“Seriously?” he asks, a little perplexed.
“Seriously,” I tell him as I grab his hand in mine and walk him to the sofa, where I demand him to sit while I go get us some tequila, because it feels like we both need to get black out drunk and forget today even happened.
The tequila does what tequila does. It erases the awkwardness and replaces it with something loose, stupid, and fun. By shot four, the almost-kiss is a distant memory, and we’re arguing about who has better music taste.
“You cannot be serious right now.” I stare at him.
“What? It’s a classic,” he argues back.
“It’s terrible.”
“Please, as if your musical taste is any better. Give me your phone,” he demands.
“No,” I say, hugging it to my chest. My playlists are sacred.
“Give me your phone, St. Pierre.” He practically growls as he holds out his hand.
“If you play that song in my apartment, I will physically remove you.”
He lunges. I scream and hold my phone above my head, which does nothing because he’s six foot two and I’m not. He grabs it easily, holds it over his head, and starts scrolling through my playlists while I’m jumping, trying to get it back.
“Oh my god.” He stops scrolling. “You have an entire playlist called Sad Girl Shit.”
“Give it back.”
“Sad Girl Shit, Collette? There are forty-seven songs on here.” He looks at me with contempt.
“I am going to kill you.” I try to secure my phone back.
“Is that Adele? You’ve got four Adele songs in a row. That’s not sad girl shit, that’s a cry for help.”
I snatch the phone back. “Everyone has a sad playlist.”
“Mine has three songs on it. You have a forty-seven-song spiral.”
“Some of us feel things deeply.”
“Clearly.” He grins. “Okay, my turn.” He connects his phone to my speaker, and the opening of some song I don’t recognize fills my apartment. It’s upbeat, funky, the kind of thing that makes your body move before your brain agrees to it.
“What is this?”
“Just listen.” He grins.
And it’s good. By the chorus, we’re both moving. The tequila is in my bloodstream, the music is loud, and we’re dancing in my living room like idiots. He spins me, and I crash into his chest, laughing.
“You can dance, twinkle toes,” I say, surprised.
“It’s on my player profile.” He scoffs.
“I thought you were lying.”
“Ask Nelly, he’s been trying to learn my moves for years,” he jokes.
We dance and drink, and he shows me some ridiculous move that he swears he did at a team Christmas party last year.
I nearly fall over trying to copy it, but he catches me.
We’re both laughing so hard we can barely stand, and for a while, it’s just music, tequila, and two people having fun without thinking about anything else.
The playlist changes to something slower, and we both stop.
Aware of each other. Aware that his hand is still on my waist from catching me.
“Next song,” I say, moving away from him.
“Next song,” he agrees, and changes it immediately to something loud and stupid, and we’re back to being idiots. Which is safer. Much safer.
I wake up and something feels wrong. I still. There is an arm across my waist that does not belong to me. Wait. There is a warm, large body behind me radiating heat like a furnace. Who the hell is in my bed? Their face is pressed into the back of my neck.
I open my eyes, which is hard to do, and see that I’m in my bedroom. I look down and see I’m wearing my thin sleep top, no bra, and shorts. The arm around my waist is attached to a very large, very shirtless man who is spooning me like we’ve been doing this for years.
It’s Fish.
Shit. Fish is in my bed.
I quickly look down and lift the blanket to see if he is naked underneath. It appears he has sweats on, but he is shirtless.
“You trying to catch a glimpse of Big Fish?” He chuckles as he pulls me closer. His fingers graze my stomach where my top has ridden up, and my entire body lights up.
“Fish.” I shove him.
“What ...” He bolts upright, looks around, looks at me, looks at himself shirtless, looks at me again.
“Nothing happened?” I say it more as a question than a statement, pulling the covers over my chest because my thin top is hiding nothing, and he’s already noticed.
He shakes his head. “You’d remember if I’d fucked you.”
Now is not the time for cockiness, and I grab my phone from the bedside table. “It’s six thirty.” Shit. “Fish, it’s Monday, travel day, the plane leaves at ten.”
The reality lands on both of us at the same time.
“Fuck,” he says.
“Fuck.” I agree. He launches out of bed, gets tangled in the sheets, and nearly face plants. I watch him rush around shirtless, those muscles contracting with each movement.
“Are you checking me out?” he asks, pulling me from my perve session.
“Um, no …” I instantly feel my cheeks turn red.
“I think you were.” He chuckles as he runs his hand down his shirtless body.
Shit.
“My eyes are up here, Lettie,” he says, pointing to his face.
The only thing I can do is flip him off.
“Where’s my shirt?” he calls out.
“I don’t know.”
He finds it near my dresser and yanks it on inside out before quickly turning it right side out, then finds his socks and shoes in the same spot. His brows pull together as he stares at me, still in bed. “Are you not getting up?” he asks.
“I am … it’s just …”
“What?” He looks at me, confused.
“I’m not wearing a bra and my shirt is see-through.”
His eyes widen. “Is it? Show me.” He smirks. I throw a pillow at him. “Oh, come on. I showed you mine, you can show me yours,” he teases, and my eyes drift down to his gray sweats, and yeah, here I am worried about my nipples showing when his impressive package is outlined, again, in those sweats.
“You need to buy new sweats, they’re practically lingerie at this point.”
“Collette St. Pierre, are you checking out my dick?”
“It’s hard not to look.”
“Really?” The next thing I know, he jumps on the bed and cages me in.
“Anytime you want to see Big Fish, he’s yours.
” My mouth falls open in shock. Then Fish leans over, kisses my cheek, and jumps out of bed before I have time to relax.
“Thanks for a great night. We need to do that again. But I’ve got to go before Emmett walks out of his apartment and catches me. ”
Shit. That’s right, his captain is literally at the other end of the corridor.
“Go, get out of here.” He gives me one last smirk before rushing out of my bedroom.
I hear the front door close not long later, and I let out an unsteady breath.
What a night. I need a coffee and some painkillers to help.
The charter terminal is busy with players, coaches, and staff all on the same plane.
I find the girls near the gate and try to look like a person who is put together, not someone who is hungover.
I have no idea what I packed, but we will be on the road for most of the week. I’ll have to buy stuff when I’m out.
“You look rough,” Zara says.
“Thanks. Had a late one, drinks with friends,” I lie.
“That will do it.” She chuckles as we wait for the rest of the team to arrive.
Bouch arrives with a coffee the size of his head. Nelly has his noise-cancelling headphones on. Pierre and Felix walk in together, and Pierre walks over with a brown paper bag.
“Got you your favorite croissant from that bakery you like,” he says, handing me the package.
“You are a life saver,” I say, taking the bag, opening it up, and taking a big bite which has him laughing as he walks off.
And then Fish walks in. He’s showered, dressed in fresh clothes, and doesn’t look like the man I found in my bed hours ago.
He scans the terminal, finds me, and for a fraction of a second something passes between us before he looks away and joins the boys.
We board, coaching staff up front, players in the middle, and us content girls at the back.
I sit next to Marlowe and open my laptop like a professional who did not wake up being spooned by number twenty-two this morning.
My phone buzzes.
Fish: How are you feeling?
Collette: This never happened.
Fish: What never happened?
Collette: Exactly.
Twenty minutes in, Zara leans across the aisle. “Big Fish content is still climbing.”
“Great,” I say, staring at my laptop but seeing nothing.
I glance toward the front of the plane, Fish is next to Evan, headphones in, eyes closed.
I put my phone face down and stare out the window.
Below us the city shrinks, and ahead is an away game in a city where no one knows that hours ago I woke up with Justin Crawford’s arm around my waist, his breath on my neck, and his fingers on my bare skin.