Chapter 20 Fish
FISH
Who knew being friends with Collette St. Pierre would be fun?
I didn’t think being friends with a woman you fancy would be easy, but it is.
Our friendship is low-key, we aren’t in everyone’s faces with it, but most people know we’re friends, even her brothers.
They keep an eye on me, but leave us alone for the most part. Surprising, I know.
Most mornings when I wake up, there’s a text from her on my phone. Something stupid like a meme or a million and one reels she’s sent me while scrolling in bed late at night. I respond back in the same way.
I’ve organized for her coffee to be delivered to her desk every morning because I remember seeing her one morning running late because she slept in and didn’t have time to grab one, and she was grumpy as hell.
Like scary grumpy. None of us wants to suffer through that again, so now I make sure she always has one waiting for her.
She texted me the first time it showed up with a string of question marks, and I played dumb. She knows it’s me.
We’ve been doing movie nights because she hasn’t seen the classics.
The Godfather. Goodfellas. Shawshank. In return, I have to watch her stupid reality TV shows, which are genuinely the worst things ever created by human beings.
But the fact that I get to sit on her sofa with her legs across my lap while she yells at the screen about someone named Brittany making bad choices is worth the brain damage.
Yes, I still think about kissing her. The need isn’t disappearing. I’m just getting better at hiding it.
At work, we’re on fire. The content we create together is the best the team has ever produced.
The mini mic interviews, the behind-the-scenes stuff, the quick hits where she asks me something ridiculous and I give her an answer that makes her break character on camera.
The fans eat it up. Engagement goes through the roof.
Renee, her boss, gave her a raise because of it.
Collette texted me the second she got out of the meeting, and I responded with a string of emojis because I’m proud of her and don’t know how else to say it without crossing a line.
The internet still ships us. The comments under every video are the same variations of ‘just date already’ and ‘the way he looks at her.’ We did a best friend trend together, hoping it would put the rumors to rest, and for the most part it has.
She sends me screenshots of the thirsty comments about me, usually Big Fish related, and I’ve learned to shake it off.
I’m sure she doesn’t show me the worst of it.
Evan is on board with our friendship, finally.
The three of us hang out a lot. He even told me he understands now why I like her so much, which made me irrationally jealous.
We had a whole conversation about it where he reassured me, he only sees her as a friend, she’s not his type, and I needed to calm the fuck down. His words. He wasn’t wrong.
The craziest thing has happened, I’m not sleeping with bunnies anymore.
I’m actually not sleeping with anyone. Shocking, I know.
I’m just not interested. That doesn’t mean I’m not seen with the bunnies, I have an image to maintain, but at least I am honest with the girls, I tell them I’m not sleeping with them, but if they want the exposure, they’re welcome to hang off my arm.
That way, I still look like I have this wild sex life, playing up to my playboy image, when in reality, my days and nights are spent working or with Collette and my right hand.
It’s pathetic. It’s called being in love with someone you can’t have. Facts.
The only negative about the friendship is her dating life.
Yep. She’s started dating. She hasn’t slept with anyone since moving to New York, and she’s mentioned more than once that she’s becoming desperate.
I may have offered my services as any good best friend would.
She declined and told me she’ll keep using her toys.
So, because I’m selfish and a little unhinged, I sent her a box of new ones.
Anonymously. She figured out it was me in about three seconds, and called me a psychopath and then thanked me, which I’m choosing to count as a win.
And I also hope she thinks about me when she uses them.
My phone buzzes, and I’m on the sofa watching highlights with Evan when Collette’s name lights up the screen, so I answer. I always do.
“I need you to come get me,” she whispers.
I sit up. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
This piques Evan’s interest.
“I’m on a date, but he’s a fucking weirdo, and I’m hiding in the bathroom.”
Evan glances at me. ‘Go,’ he mouths.
“Where are you?” I ask, already standing up.
“I’ll send you a pin. That Italian place on the Upper West Side. The one with the red awning.”
“What did he do?” I try to cool my temper.
“He asked me if I wanted to see his knife collection, and then showed me photos on his phone. Fish, he has a lot of knives. Like a concerning number of knives.”
What the fuck. “I’m on my way. Stay in the bathroom.”
“Obviously, I’m staying in the bathroom. Where else would I go? Back to the table with the knife enthusiast?” she sasses me.
I grab my keys and jacket.
“Need back up?” Evan asks.
“I’ve got this. You okay?” I ask him.
“I’ll let myself out.” He waves me off with his beer.
I rush downstairs and hail a taxi. We get to the restaurant in twelve minutes, which is a miracle in Manhattan traffic.
I walk in and scan the room. There’s a guy sitting alone at a table near the window, looking at his phone, mid-thirties, button-down shirt, looks normal enough, which is always how the weird ones look. I text Collette.
Fish: I’m here. Which one is he?
Collette: Window table. Beige shirt. Receding hairline. Looks like an accountant who murders people on weekends.
I nearly choke trying not to laugh. I compose myself and walk over to the table.
“Hey man, sorry to interrupt,” I say, flashing my most charming smile. “I’m a friend of Collette’s. Family emergency, I need to grab her.”
The guy looks up at me, and his eyes widen because I’m six-foot-two and in a hoodie that makes my arms look massive, and also because he probably recognizes me, which helps. “Oh. Is she okay?”
“She’ll be fine. Thanks for understanding.” I clap him on the shoulder with enough force to communicate, ‘Don’t call her again’ without actually saying it.
Collette emerges from the bathroom with her jacket already on, bag over her shoulder, moving fast. “I’m so sorry,” she says to knife guy as she passes.
“Family thing. You understand.” She doesn’t slow down.
I follow her out the door, and we walk half a block in silence before she stops and leans against a wall.
“A knife collection, Fish. He showed me close-up photos of hunting knives while I was eating pasta.”
“Were they at least nice knives?” I joke.
“I hate you.” But she’s laughing, that laugh where her whole face opens up and her shoulders shake, and she looks at me like I’m the most ridiculous person she’s ever met.
“Did you at least finish your pasta?” She shakes her head. “Come on,” I say, holding out my hand for her. She entwines her fingers with mine. “I know a place.”
“Where are we going?” she asks, falling into step beside me, but not letting go of my hand.
“You mentioned a couple of weeks ago that you wanted to try that Thai place in Chelsea, the one Harper told you about.”
She stops walking. “You remembered that?”
“Yeah.” I shrug like it’s nothing when it’s everything.
She stares at me for a second, and then beams. “I’m so excited.”
The restaurant is small, warm, and smells incredible, and the second we walk in, Collette’s eyes light up the way they do when she finds a place she’s going to love.
We get a corner table, and she orders half the menu because she can’t decide.
I let her because watching her get excited about food is one of my favorite things about her, and that thought should concern me, but it doesn’t.
We eat and talk, and she tells me about the three dates she’s been on this month, each worse than the last. The first guy spent forty minutes talking about his podcast. The second asked her to split the bill and then tried to kiss her in the parking lot, and now knife guy.
“Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something,” I say, stealing a spring roll off her plate.
“That New York men are trash?”
“That you’re looking in the wrong places,” I say casually, but my heart is slamming against my ribs because I know what I mean even if she doesn’t.
She looks at me across the table, chopsticks paused midair, and for a second, something flickers behind those hazel eyes. Then she blinks and it’s gone. “You’re probably right. Maybe I should try women.” She grins.
“That’s not what I meant.” I smirk. “It would be hot, but no.”
“I know what you meant,” she says quietly, almost to herself, and then changes the subject to the new content series she’s pitching to Renee, and I let her because some doors aren’t mine to open.
I pay the bill before she can argue, but she argues anyway.
I tell her it’s a rescue fee. She tells me to go fuck myself.
I walk her home because that’s what I do now, and when we get to her building, she turns and looks at me in the lobby light and says, “You know you’re ruining other men for me, right? ”
“Good.” It comes out before I can filter it.
She shakes her head, smiling, and disappears into the elevator.
I stand in the lobby for a second too long and then walk home in the cold, wondering how much longer I can do this before something breaks.
The youth hockey clinic is my favorite day of the season.
Kids everywhere in oversized helmets and jerseys that hang past their knees, taking shots with foam pucks that barely make it to the net.
The arena is loud with the particular chaos that only small children can create, squealing and laughing, and the constant scraping of tiny skates on ice.
I spend the whole morning crouched down, teaching kids how to fall without crying.
There’s a kid, maybe five, who’s been face-planting every thirty seconds for the last ten minutes and won’t quit.
His helmet is too big and keeps sliding over his eyes, and every time he goes down, he pops back up with this huge grin on his face like eating ice is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
I skate over and crouch down next to him.
“Hey, buddy, want me to show you a trick?”
He nods so hard his helmet shifts again.
I adjust it for him, then show him how to bend his knees lower to keep his center of gravity down.
He tries it and manages three full strides without falling, then falls anyway and laughs, and I laugh, too, because this kid is the best person I’ve met all week.
I look up, and Collette is on the boards filming, but the camera is lowered, and she’s just watching.
The look she gives me isn’t the normal content creator expression, it’s something else, something soft and unguarded that she’d never let me see if she knew I was looking. Don’t read too much into it.
Later, after the clinic wraps and the kids have gone home with foam pucks, autographs, and stories they’ll probably tell for years, she finds me in the corridor.
“You’re good with kids,” she says.
“It’s because I have the maturity of one,” I joke.
She doesn’t laugh, she just looks at me with those hazel eyes, steady and serious. “No. You’re really good with them, Fish.”
The way she says it, like it matters, like she’s filing it away somewhere important, makes me feel like I’ve just scored the game-winning goal in overtime.
“You’ll be a great dad someday,” she tells me. Her comment surprises me. “I mean, if you want kids, that is.”
“Yeah, I want kids. I want a whole hockey team,” I tell her.
“Not sure if your future wife would feel the same,” she jokes.
This makes me smile. “What do you feel?”
Her brows pull together, not quite sure if she is getting where my innuendo is going. “Yeah. I’d like kids, maybe two or three, not sure.”
“Then it’s settled.” I grin. “Got to run, I’m catching up with Evan, and you know how much he hates tardiness.”
“So true. See ya,” she says as I walk away.
I’m so fucked.