Chapter 8 Collette
COLLETTE
Game day energy is a living thing. It hums through the building’s walls before anyone’s even laced up, buzzes under the fluorescent lights, and vibrates through the concrete floors.
The hallways smell like fresh ice and industrial coffee and whatever cologne Bouch bathed in this morning.
Practice was sharp with barely any chirping, everyone is locked in because tonight is the LA game.
It’s the exhibition match the boys have been waiting for since Felix and Pierre arrived.
Everyone knows what happened to Felix with that team.
Everyone knows what Stephen Carter did. And everyone knows my brothers well enough to know that tonight is not going to be pretty.
Good. I hope Pierre breaks his face. That’s not professional, Collette.
I’m not feeling professional with those assholes.
The girls and I are set up outside the players’ entrance, filming arrivals.
Game-day style content that the fans lose their minds over, it’s the guys walking in looking sharp for the cameras.
The late afternoon light catches the building just right, and Billie has angled the camera to get the golden hour glow.
It’s easy, it’s fun, and it gives us behind-the-scenes material that pulls huge numbers.
Emmett arrives before everyone because the captain doesn’t do fashionably late.
Dark navy overcoat, crisp white shirt, no tie, top button undone.
It’s simple and clean, the kind of outfit that says I didn’t try, and yet somehow costs more than everyone else’s combined.
He walks past the camera with a polite nod to Billie and keeps moving.
No performance, no posing, just quiet authority that fills the entire entrance without him saying a word.
“That man is dangerously attractive,” Marlowe murmurs once he’s out of earshot.
“And completely unavailable, emotionally,” Zara adds.
Sully is right behind him, because where Emmett goes, Sully follows. Camel coat, cream shirt, dark trousers, and loafers, no socks. He spots the camera and gives it this slow, knowing smile that’s all mischief.
“Ladies,” he says, tipping an imaginary hat as he passes.
“Sully gives me old Hollywood energy,” Billie says. “Like he should be in a black and white movie holding a martini.”
“Oh, here comes Nelly,” Marlowe says as the Swedish wall of a man strides in wearing a black turtleneck and caramel overcoat like he’s about to assassinate a Bond villain or he is the villain.
Bouch is next in a fitted leather jacket, dark jeans, and boots that probably cost more than my rent.
You don’t pay rent. Well, if I did, it would be the same price as his shoes.
The French-Canadian in him would never let him leave the house looking anything less than effortless.
He spots the camera, blows a kiss, and adjusts his collar like he’s about to walk a runway in Montreal.
I make a mental note to slow-mo that for the edit.
“It’s giving main character,” Billie adds, and she’s not wrong.
Evan walks in behind him, head down, earbuds in, always dressed in all black everything. Black coat, black shirt, and black jeans. There’s no acknowledgment of the camera, no smile, just pure Russian energy radiating off him like a warning sign. The temperature drops three degrees when he passes.
“He scares me a little,” Marlowe whispers.
“He scares everyone a little,” I tell her as we laugh.
“It’s wild that he and Fish are best friends. They are complete opposites,” Zara adds. “One is black cat energy, and the other is total golden retriever vibes.”
Speak of the devil, Fish walks through the door, and I hear Billie inhale beside me.
Navy suit, white shirt open at the collar, hair pushed back like he rolled out of bed looking like that, and honestly, he probably did.
The suit fits him like it was sewn onto his body, and I hate that I notice.
He spots the camera and gives it his signature grin, the one that makes women on the internet lose their collective minds, the one that makes the engagement spike every time I post it.
Stop staring at him. I’m working. This is literally my job to look at the players.
Your job doesn’t require your heart rate to increase.
“It’s not fair how handsome he is,” Billie says, shaking her head.
“No wonder he’s been picked up to be the face of the menswear brand, James Eyre.”
“Men want to be him, and women want to do him.” Billie chuckles.
She’s not wrong, but I’m not going to say that out loud.
Next are my brothers, Pierre in a charcoal suit, clean-shaven, jaw set, looking like he’s heading to a board meeting where he plans to fire everyone.
Felix is in a designer hoodie, oversized, with sneakers that haven’t even dropped yet, totally different vibes.
Pierre looks like he’s about to go to war on Wall Street, and Felix looks like he’s about to DJ a set in Brooklyn.
Together, they look like the most mismatched siblings on the planet, which is kind of our whole family brand.
I’m in the tunnel with the mini mic catching guys as they come off the ice after warmups.
The air is colder down here, sharp with the smell of fresh ice shavings, rubber, and the metallic tang that clings to everything near the rink.
The energy is different from a normal game, tighter, meaner.
You can feel it vibrating off the guys as they file past. I catch a few of them for quick sound bites.
Emmett gives me his usual one-word answer, those green eyes already somewhere else, probably replaying defensive formations in his head.
Sully stops long enough to say, “If anyone asks, I’m calm and focused,” with a grin that says he is neither of those things, before heading back toward the locker room.
Then Issy finds me between takes, pulling me into a quiet corner away from the cameras. Something about the look on her face makes my stomach clench before she even opens her mouth.
“I need to tell you something, and you need to keep it together.” That’s never a good opening.” Josh has leaked AI-generated nudes of Harper.”
The words land like a punch. My hand grips the mini mic so hard the foam compresses. “What?”
“They’re fake. They’re not her body. But they’re everywhere. She’s at home dealing with it, and she doesn’t want Felix to know before the game.”
I close my eyes for a second. Gorgeous, fierce, brilliant Harper, who has dealt with more shit from that psychopath ex of hers than any person should have to, and now this.
Fake images of her body are plastered across the internet for strangers to gawk at while she sits at home alone. Keep it together.
“She wants him to know she’s watching. That she’ll see him after.”
“She’s not coming?” My voice is steadier than I feel.
Issy shakes her head. “She can’t, she needs to deal with this.”
I nod. Keep it together, Collette. Your brother needs you to keep it together. “I’ve got it,” I tell Issy. My voice doesn’t crack, my face doesn’t crumble, and I am a goddamn professional. She squeezes my arm and heads back up to the family suite.
Pierre sees me from the ice a few minutes later and skates over to the boards. He takes one look at my face and knows. Pierre has always been able to read me like a book, even when I think I’ve got my mask on tight.
“Don’t tell Felix, but shit’s gone down,” I say quietly.
“Is Issy okay?”
Of course, that’s his first question. The man’s entire world revolves around that woman, and honestly, it’s kind of beautiful even though it makes me want to gag. “She’s fine. She’s up in the family suite. But Harper isn’t okay, and we need Felix’s head in the game.”
Before I can say more, Felix skates over and joins us, helmet pushed back, cheeks pink from warmups, completely oblivious. “Hey, Lettie.” He knocks Pierre’s helmet playfully. Don’t let him see it on your face. Smile. Be normal.
“You guys look good out there together. Can I get a picture?” I hold up my phone, and they pose, arms around each other. Felix is grinning his big, dumb, beautiful grin, and my heart fractures a little knowing what I’m hiding from him.
“Do you know if Harper is coming?” he asks.
Lie. “She should be. There’s an accident, so traffic is crazy.
” The words come out smooth and easy, and they sit like acid in my stomach.
He relaxes and gives me a thumbs up before skating away.
I watch him go, and I feel sick lying to him.
Pierre gives me a concerned look but doesn’t push it. “Smash them,” I call after Pierre.
“I’ll do my best,” he calls back, and the look he gives me over his shoulder says, ‘I’ll handle it out there. You handle it in here.’
That’s always been the deal with us, the St. Pierre division of labor. Pierre handles the physical, I handle the emotional, Felix handles the charm, and Jo, when she’s here, handles the logic. Apart, we’re a mess. Together we’re unstoppable.
Tonight, I wish Jo were here.
I watch the game from the family suite with Issy, Mom, and Marcus, Pierre’s manager.
The suite is all glass and leather and the kind of corporate luxury that still feels surreal even though I’ve been in rooms like this my whole life because of my brothers.
Issy is next to me, her hand gripping her wine glass so tight I’m worried the stem will snap.
Mom is on the edge of her seat, her reading glasses perched on top of her head like she always wears them when she’s too nervous to sit still.
The game is physical from the drop. LA came to play dirty, that much is obvious.
Every shift, someone is in Felix’s ear. I can’t hear what they’re saying from up here, but I can see the effect.
His passes are sloppy, his body language is tight, and he’s taking hits he’d normally dodge.
Pierre body checks one of them into the boards so hard the glass shakes and the crowd roars.
“That’s my boy,” Mom says proudly, which makes Issy beam beside her.
Then Felix breaks away and scores, and the suite erupts. Mom is on her feet, Issy spills her wine on her jeans, and I’m screaming like a lunatic, slamming my palm against the glass. That’s my brother, that’s my little brother, he scores, everyone goes wild.
And then everything changes.
There’s a confrontation, Felix is in someone’s face, and the gloves come off.
The crowd surges to its feet as I watch my little brother throw punches at Stephen Carter, and my stomach is in my throat because this was always going to happen, but watching it is different from knowing it would.
The sound of the crowd is deafening, this roar that fills the whole building, and I can’t tell if they’re cheering or screaming.
Then Felix hits the ice hard, and he doesn’t get up.
The stadium falls silent. That horrible, suffocating silence that only happens when everyone in the building knows something is wrong.
I can hear the hum of the lights. I can hear someone’s heels clicking on the concourse below.
I can hear my own breathing, short and shallow, and not enough. Get up. Felix, get up. Please get up.
He doesn’t move.
Pierre is there within seconds, dropping to his knees, and screaming Felix’s name.
Then my brother launches himself at Stephen, and the whole thing erupts again.
His teammates drag him away. The refs blow whistles.
Pierre is sent to the penalty box, and I watch my oldest brother smash his stick against the walls like a caged animal while the medical team rushes to Felix with a stretcher.
A stretcher.
Mom is crying and shaking, Issy has her arm around her, holding it together the way Issy always does because Issy is made of something stronger than the rest of us.
Marcus is on his phone, pacing. When the entire stadium stands and cheers as they carry Felix off, the sound crashes over me, and I lose it.
Tears stream down my face, but I wipe them away fast because everyone needs me to be strong right now.
“We need to get to the hospital,” Issy says, already organizing, already in control. God, I love this woman. Mom is a mess. Marcus has his hand on her back, guiding her as everyone grabs bags and coats.
“I’ll stay and wait for Pierre,” I tell them. Someone needs to be here when he gets out of that penalty box. Someone needs to make sure he doesn’t do something stupid in the parking lot.
“Are you sure?” Issy asks, those dark eyes scanning my face like she can see every crack in my armor.
“Go, take care of Mom. I’ve got Pierre.”
They leave, and the suite empties as I stand there alone, surrounded by half-empty wine glasses and crumpled napkins, while the crowd outside is going crazy. The Mavericks are winning, not that it matters, because Felix didn’t get up.