Chapter 6 Collette
COLLETTE
Two weeks in, and I have a problem. The problem is six foot two, plays left wing, and keeps showing up in my content with the kind of natural charisma that makes my engagement numbers look like I actually know what I’m doing.
Justin Crawford is good on camera. Annoyingly good.
The kind of good where I point a lens at him and he just shines, he’s funny, quick, and never says what I think he is going to say. The fans have noticed.
“The Fish content is outperforming everything else by double,” Zara tells me Monday morning, pulling up the analytics dashboard. “Whatever you two are doing, keep doing it.”
“We’re not doing anything. He’s just …”
“Charismatic? Charming? Obsessed with being in front of your camera?” She grins.
“He volunteers a lot,” I say carefully.
Zara gives me a look. “Mm-hm.”
“He does!”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face said something.”
She turns back to her screen. “You two have chemistry, that’s all I’m saying.”
She’s right, we do have online chemistry. The back and forth we have with the mini mic is great content, and the internet is lapping it up. That’s what I am supposed to do, though, make great content, it’s my job.
Then why does your stomach do that thing every time he skates past you? It doesn’t do a thing. That’s indigestion. I had a questionable bagel this morning.
The thing about Fish that I didn’t expect is that there’s more to him than the cocky grin and the revolving door of women.
I’m not saying he’s deep. I’m not saying I’ve uncovered some tortured soul beneath the hockey bro exterior.
But that day in the corridor when I apologized for being a dick about the brunette stuff, something moved in his expression that he tried to hide before I could see it.
He didn’t quite manage it. But something’s different between us, lighter, maybe.
Like we got past a wall without either of us realizing it.
Practice is wrapping up, and I’m on the ice getting the last of the BTS footage, close-ups of pucks hitting the net, the guys stretching, the kind of behind-the-scenes stuff that pulls huge numbers.
I’ve got my skates on because I’m the only one on the content team who can actually stay upright out here.
Fish is doing shooting drills at the far end, top corner, top corner, top corner.
Repetitive, precise, satisfying to film.
I drop low for an angle and catch three in a row that look cinematic.
He stops, looks at me, and I keep filming.
“Bet you can’t do that,” he says cockily.
I lower the camera. “Excuse me?”
“Shoot like that.” He nods toward the net. “Bet you can’t.”
Is he serious right now? “I grew up with Pierre and Felix. I’ve been shooting pucks since I was four.”
“Cute story, but this is the professional league.”
Something ignites in my chest, not anger, something more competitive than that, something purely St. Pierre. “Oh, this is the professional leagues.” I imitate his voice, and he flinches at my mocking, but then that charming smile lights up his stupidly handsome face.
“Are you seriously chirping me right now?”
“I’m just saying …”
“Want to bet?” he says, and that is like waving a red flag to a bull to a St. Pierre, we are competitive as fuck.
“Want to bet what?”
“Five water bottles, top of the crossbar. First to knock all five off wins,” he says.
Half the team has drifted over like sharks smelling blood.
“You’ve got this, Lettie,” Pierre calls out.
I turn around and see Pierre and Felix leaning on the boards, with Bouch grinning beside them. Evan has his arms folded, those intense eyes narrowed on his best friend as if he is wondering what the hell he is thinking.
“You’re serious?” I turn back to Fish.
“Yeah.” He shrugs.
“Guess I have no choice, seeing as they’re all watching.” I point over my shoulder.
“What’s the bet,” Nelly calls out.
“Yeah, St. Pierre, what’s the bet?” Fish grins. “I’m up for anything,” he leans over and whispers to me.
“In your dreams,” I bite back.
“Was worth a try.” He chuckles. “Hey, St. Pierre bros, if I win, can I take your sister to dinner?”
The rink goes quiet.
Did he just …?
Pierre looks at me, then at Fish, then at Felix before returning his gaze to me, looking shocked as if he can’t believe he just asked that.
“You’re buying, and Felix and I are coming,” Pierre shouts back at him.
“Obviously,” Fish yells back. “You think we could ditch them if they came?”
I’m laughing. I can’t help it. The audacity of this man asking my brothers for permission to buy me a meal while standing on their ice, in front of the entire team, during a bet he started because he thinks I can’t shoot.
“And if she wins?” Bouch calls from the bench.
Marlowe, Zara, and Billie have materialized at the boards like they have a sixth sense for content. They huddle for three seconds, and then Billie looks up.
“Strip tease on the ice full production,” she yells out.
The team erupts. Nelly is banging his stick. Pierre is laughing, which means he’s confident I’m going to win.
“Deal,” Fish says, like an idiot. “I knew you wanted to see me without my clothes on. You didn’t have to go to these lengths. I would happily strip for you any day,” he says quietly, only for my ears.
“You really have a high opinion of yourself.”
“Babe, look at me. Who wouldn’t want to see me without my shirt on?”
He’s not wrong.
“Did you just babe me?”
Fish stiffens. “It just slipped out, sorry.”
“Don’t think we’re at that level of friendship yet,” I warn him.
Then his face lights up. “Are you telling me we’re friends?”
I roll my eyes, but can’t hold in my laugh. “You’re an idiot.”
“Is that how you talk to your friends?” He raises a brow at me.
I flip him off, which makes him chuckle. “Right, let’s do this,” I shout so everyone on the ice can hear me as I roll my shoulders back.
Felix skates over and hands me his stick. “You’ve got this. Don’t let the family down.”
Gee, thanks for the pep talk, bro. I adjust my grip, it’s been a while since I’ve held a stick, but I used to train with Pierre when I lived with him and Kitty back in South Dakota. He had built a huge indoor ice rink, and we would escape out there to play when Kitty got too much for us both.
Nelly skates out and places five water bottles across the crossbar. He grins and throws me a wink as he skates back off. I practice a little with the puck, loosening up my stick handling as it’s been months since I last did this. You’ve done this a thousand times with Pierre, you’ve got this.
“Ladies first?” Fish offers.
“Thanks, but I need a tiny bit more practice. You do this all the time, I’m not warmed up.”
He nods. “Fair. I’ll go first and show you how it’s done.”
I roll my eyes and continue warming up.
Fish goes first. Top right, ping. Bottle flies off, the bench cheers. Second shot, top left, ping. Two down, and the third clips the bottle but doesn’t knock it off. It wobbles, and everyone holds their breath, but it eventually falls. Fish lets out a sigh of relief.
“Pressure’s getting to him,” Felix calls.
Fish flips him off as he resets. Fourth, ping, he knocks it off. One left, dead center. He takes the shot, it hits the crossbar and bounces off.
“Fuck,” he mutters as his entire team starts screaming and chirping at him.
One miss.
I need to either miss one or not miss anything to win.
I step up and the team shouts encouragement, they want me to win.
The stick feels right in my hands now that I’ve warmed up.
Pierre is watching from the boards with his arms crossed, and I can feel his energy from here telling me to show him who you are.
First puck. I set it. Breathe. Just go with it.
Shoot. Ping. Bottle down.
Second. Ping. Another down.
Third. Ping. It’s down.
The rink is quiet. I can hear my heart thumping wildly in my chest.
Fourth shot. Ping. Another down.
Shit.
I can do this. There’s one bottle left. I line up the puck and suck in a breath to try to center myself.
I turn and look at Fish, which is a big mistake, he’s so cute.
He’s watching me with this expression that’s not competitive anymore, it’s something else.
Like he’s seeing me properly for the first time.
Not Pierre’s sister. Not the content girl.
Just me, on the ice, about to beat him at his own game.
Don’t miss. Don’t you dare miss.
I shoot.
Ping.
Five for five.
The bench explodes. Nelly is screaming. Bouch is on his feet. Felix is doubled over. Pierre’s clap is slow, deliberate, proud. The kind of clap that says that’s a St. Pierre.
I turn to Fish, and I can’t help the grin that forms on my face. “So, about that strip tease, are you ready to give it?”
Fish stares at me blankly for a couple of moments before shaking his head. “You want me to strip right now?”
“Content waits for no one.” I smirk at him as I lean against the hockey stick.
“I can’t believe you beat me?”
“Me either.” I giggle because I can’t believe it.
“Pay up, buddy.” I smirk.
“You heard her, Fish, get that kit off,” Emmett tells him.
“Fuck, Cap, come on …”
Emmett shakes his head. “A bet’s a bet.”
Fish grumbles. “Fine.”
I look over, and Marlowe has the camera locked on him.
He starts to pull off his jersey, while Zara shouts directions.
The bench loses it, erupting into whistles and cat calls, some of them even have their phones out.
He’s never going to live this down. Next are his gloves that he throws at Evan, who has his camera out.
Pads next, he’s playing it up now, hamming it for the camera, and the boys are howling.
Pierre yells something in French, and I translate between laughs. “He says you have no shame.”
“Tell him I have plenty of shame, I’m choosing to ignore it,” Fish yells back.
He’s standing on the ice in his base layer, arms out, grinning like a man who just lost everything and doesn’t care.
And I’m laughing so hard my ribs hurt. This is just content, good content.
The girls online are going to go insane.
The puck bunnies, too. Especially seeing the way his shirt molds to his muscles. Is it getting hot in here?
“Take it off! Take it off!” Nelly is leading the charge because, of course, he is. The bench starts chanting, actually, chanting, like we’re at a frat party and not a professional hockey facility.
Fish looks at me. “You sure about this?”
“They didn’t stutter, take it off.”
He grins and pulls the base layer over his head in one motion.
I try to swallow, but nothing seems to be happening.
He is cut to perfection. Am I drooling? I sure as hell hope not.
The noise of the team screaming as he swings his shirt high above his head like a lasso pulls me back to the situation. I should not be perving on that man.
“Work it, Fish!” Bouch yells from the bench.
And he does. He drops into some kind of hip roll that has no business being that coordinated, then flips into a press-up on the ice, showing off his muscular arms. Next, he shifts into the move that has made all the girlies swoon during warmups as he dry humps the ice.
His teammates urge him on, while the girls continue to film.
The internet is going to go wild for this.
He then jumps up and skates backward, shirtless, soaking in the praise as he rubs his hands all over his toned body.
“Best day ever.” Billie giggles.
He then skates over into a slide that has him spraying me with ice and him on his knees in front of me.
Evan slow claps from the bench. “Awesome work.”
“Thanks, glad someone appreciates the art.” Fish grins.
He’s panting as he looks up at me. “Did I pass, or do you want more?” And the way he asks ‘want more’ sounds as if he is asking for something else. I’m flustered suddenly and can’t find an intelligent comeback to him.
“You’re good,” I tell him as I turn on my heel and skate away, my face feeling like it’s on fire.
“Put your clothes back on.” I hear Emmett call out to him.