Chapter 12 Collette
COLLETTE
Acouple of weeks later, one of the physios on the team experienced complications with her pregnancy and has been ordered to go on bed rest. This means the team is now scrambling for a replacement.
They need someone fast, someone good, and the second I heard about it, I know exactly who to call.
I dial my sister because I think she would be brilliant for this job.
“Hey,” she answers, and I can hear it in her voice immediately. She sounds flat, exhausted.
“Hey, you sound exhausted.”
“That’s because I am. I just got home. I’m currently lying on my bed staring at the ceiling, hoping for a sign from the universe to tell me what to do.”
That’s bad. I knew the promotion thing hit her hard. Jo would never say it outright because she’s not built like that, but losing out to the owner’s son when she was the most qualified person in the building? That’s a punch to the gut she didn’t deserve.
“That’s so freaky because I think you just spoke your answer into existence.”
“Huh?” She sounds confused, and probably doesn’t have the brain capacity for my teasing right now.
“Because I’m calling you about that. About what to do next.” I take a breath. “One of our physios, who’s pregnant has been having problems, and has been given orders due to complications with her pregnancy that she has to stop working.”
“Oh no, is she okay?”
“She will be. Just bed rest,” I explain. “Management is starting to look for a temporary replacement. Maybe permanent, depending on if she comes back.” Silence on the other end. “They’ve asked around if we know anyone and I suggested you.”
“You did?” She gasps.
“So did Pierre and Felix. They’ve mentioned you’re one of the best physios they’ve ever worked with. And not because you’re family. That you’re brilliant. Professional. They talked up your stats at the rugby club.”
“They did?”
“Yeah. And um ... they looked you up and are interested,” I tell her.
“Lettie ...” she gasps.
“I know it’s a lot. But I wanted you to know. If you’re interested, you should apply. With Pierre and Felix’s endorsement, you’d have a real shot.”
I can practically hear her brain working overtime through the phone.
“There’s also a spare bedroom with us at the apartment. We could be roomies again,” I add, and I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice because the idea of having my sister here, in New York, down the hall from me, is everything.
“When would they need someone?” she asks.
“Sooner rather than later.”
“Shit.”
“I know. But think about it. Better pay. Better facilities. Closer to family.”
There’s a long pause.
“Send me the details?” she says.
“Already done. Check your email.” Because obviously I sent it before I even called her. I’m not an amateur. “Jo? You still there?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“Look, I’m not trying to pressure you. But I miss you. We all do. After what happened with that promotion, maybe this is a sign for a fresh start.”
“Let me think about it. Tell the boys thank you for advocating for me.”
“Of course. But don’t take too long. They’re interviewing candidates next week.”
“I’ll let you know,” she tells me, but I can hear it in her voice, she is seriously thinking about it.
“Good. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up and stare at my phone. Please say yes. Having my brothers here has been amazing, but having Jo? That would make New York feel like home.
The season kicks off, and suddenly, time stops being a thing that exists.
It becomes game days and travel days and edit days and no days, an endless rotation that I can barely keep track of without the content calendar Zara has color-coded to within an inch of its life.
Red is game day. Blue is travel. Green is content creation.
There is almost no white space. I stare at it every Monday morning and feel a specific kind of tiredness that only exists in professional sports.
But also, and I will not say this out loud because I refuse to be that person …
I love it. I love the pace of it. The way the arena smells different on game nights, like something electric in the air that you can’t manufacture.
The way the guys transform between the locker room and the ice, all that banter and noise goes quiet and sharp right before they go out.
The crowd. The noise. The moments that happen in real time that no content calendar can plan for.
I love my job. I love this city. I love that I’m good at this.
The day in the life series is my idea, and it is, objectively, a genius one.
Pick a player, follow them through a full game day from morning skate to final buzzer, behind the scenes, unfiltered.
Real access. The kind of content that builds an actual connection between the fans and the players, not just highlight clips and interview sound bites.
I pitched it to Renee, our boss, and she signed off on it in thirty seconds flat, loving the idea.
We are dividing and concurring on this segment.
This week I’ll be following my brothers and Fish.
The girls suggested that, because of our banter, which the internet has been loving, it would be a good idea.
I agree with them, but also don’t. Not that I don’t like Fish, he’s a nice guy just …
you think he is hot. And charming and … you get the picture. Not that I am interested.
Collette: I’m shadowing you tomorrow for the day in the life segment.
Fish: Are you telling me I need to bring my A game?
Collette: Yes, but act normal.
Fish: You want my natural charism to shine through, got it.
Collette: Don’t be weird.
Fish: I’m never weird.
Collette: You can be.
Fish: I’m offended, but so can you.
Collette: Me?
Fish: Yeah.
Collette: How?
Fish: Just do.
Collette: Tell me?
Fish: I don’t have anything specific I can recall right now.
Collette: Then I call bullshit.
Fish: Give me time, I’ll find examples.
Colette: Can’t wait. Tell me tomorrow.
Fish: Oh, I will. Don’t you worry.
The shoot starts at morning skate, and Fish shows up exactly on time, which is great, at least I know he isn’t a diva. He spots me rink side and grins. “St. Pierre,” he calls out.
“Fish,” I throw back at him.
“You ready to make me look good?” He smirks.
“I’m ready to point a camera at you, yes. Whatever happens after that is on you,” I warn him.
“Please, look at me, as if I would let you down.” He laughs and skates off.
I tell myself the warmth in my chest is just the afterburn from my morning coffee.
I lace up my skates and follow him onto the ice.
The thing about filming Fish is that he genuinely doesn’t care about the camera.
Some of the guys stiffen up when they know they’re being recorded, slipping into a subtle performance mode without realizing it.
Fish just keeps talking, keeps moving, keeps being exactly whatever he is.
It makes for incredible footage, and it makes my job significantly harder than it should be because I keep losing track of what I’m supposed to be capturing.
Morning skate is controlled chaos. Drills running, coaches yelling, the sound of blades on ice, and pucks cracking against the boards echoing around an empty arena that seats eighteen thousand people.
I love it in here when it’s like this. No crowd, no performance, just the team doing the actual work.
I move around the ice carefully. Billie learned the hard way last month that sneakers and a rink do not mix, so I’ve got skates on while filming the drills, getting close on the footwork and passes, and the way Fish moves like the ice was built specifically for him.
He’s terrifying to watch if you don’t know him.
All efficiency, precision, and zero expression.
Like watching a machine that just happens to be shaped like a person.
Fish is at the far end, running shooting drills with Bouch and Nelly.
Top corner, top corner, wide, top corner.
Bouch heckles him for the wide one. Fish says something that makes Nelly lose it.
I get the drill footage, get Fish’s footwork, and get a wide shot of the whole ice that I already know is going to look incredible in the edit.
I’m moving toward the bench end when Fish peels off from the drill and skates past me.
“You get my good side?” he asks without stopping.
“You don’t have a good side.”
“That’s right, all my sides are good.” He grins.
Don’t smile. He’s being cute. You’re being professional.
Too late. A smile forms across my lips.
“You and that ego.” I chuckle.
“It’s not an ego if it’s facts, it’s just the truth,” he argues.
“Wow. Your self-confidence knows no bounds, does it?” I chuckle.
“You love it.” He grins, sending me a wink as he skates off.
I hate that he’s not wrong.
We’re in the tunnel post-morning skate and I’ve got the camera on him, asking the standard day in the life questions, routine stuff. “What does game day look like? Walk me through it,” I ask.
“Same meal, same seat, every time,” he says. “I don’t talk to Evan before puck drop.”
“Why not?”
“Have you met Evan before a game?”
Fair point, the Russian is scary. “But why do you not talk to him? How did you find out that it worked.”
Fish sighs. “I had lost my voice and couldn’t talk, and usually Evan and I talk just before we get on the ice, but I couldn’t and that night I scored a hat trick and ever since then I don’t talk to him.”
Fair enough, hockey players are superstitious.
“What else?”
He looks at the camera, and completely straight-faced, he confesses, “I kiss my stick before a game.”
I lower the camera slightly. “Sorry?”
“For luck. It’s not weird. Don’t read into it,” he says defensively.
I burst out laughing. I may have even snorted, too. It comes out loud and slightly undignified, echoing off the tunnel walls, and I genuinely cannot help it.
Fish goes quiet as I continue to laugh.
Don’t look at him. I look at him. He’s grinning. Not the one he gives the camera, the real one, the one that’s slightly crooked. He raises a brow at me as if he can’t believe I am mocking him, which makes me laugh harder, and that somehow makes everything worse.
“I’m sorry. Continue,” I tell him.
“I don’t know if I want to.” He pouts.
“Oh, come on, that was funny.”
“It was. You’re welcome,” he says, rolling his eyes at me.
I go to frame the next shot, and my lanyard gets caught in my hair.
Not a little caught, fully, catastrophically caught.
I’m trying to free it without dropping the camera, when Fish reaches over into my personal space and starts to untangle it from my hair without saying a word.
I look up at those blue eyes as he does this, and he gives me a small smile. Gentle, quick, done.
He steps back. “There you go, all fixed.”
“Thanks,” I say, knowing full well my cheeks are probably bright red. “I think I’ve got everything.”
“Do you?” he asks.
“Was there more you wanted to do?”
“Um, I thought you would be filming me pre and post-game?”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” I’m totally flustered.
We’re filming the guys arriving at the game, the internet loves critiquing their style.
Fish arrives in a charcoal suit with the top two buttons undone, looking like a model on a catwalk.
No wonder he landed some modelling contract with a big menswear designer, he looks good, as do a lot of the guys. He isn’t special.
“Fish.” I point the mini mic at him. “Why did you choose this outfit?” I ask him.
He stops, looks down at himself, and looks back at me. “Do you not like it?” I can see he is genuinely concerned.
“No, it looks good. But why did you choose a suit instead of something more casual?”
“Um, look at me in a suit. I give the people what they want.” He smirks at the camera before he does a turn, showing his outfit off. I roll my eyes at him. “And the people want Fish in a suit.” He grins, leaning in to the mic.
“Did you just talk about yourself in third person?”
“Yeah, and?” he questions me.
I shake my head. “Anyway, good luck tonight. I’ll see you on the other side,” I tell him, he nods and walks away.
I get the guys warming up. The girlies like the ice humping stretches, so I must do a thirst trap video for them.
Then I get images of Fish on the bench, looking serious, talking to his line mates.
His blue eyes are sharp, watching the ice as he thinks about the plays ahead.
He scores in the second. I catch it, catch the bench losing their minds, catch Pierre with his fist in the air, screaming something in French.
He shoots me a winning smile as he skates past the camera, giving it a wink.
Post-game, the locker room is loud and chaotic, and smells like sweat and victory, which is a smell. Bouch has music going. Nelly is dancing in the corner. I get the footage, get the quotes, and get what I need before leaving them to it.
Fish finds me on his way out. His hair is damp, and he’s dressed, but his jacket is over his arm, and the white shirt’s sleeves are rolled up showing off tanned, muscular forearms.
“Get everything you need?” he asks, looking me up and down.
“I think so.” I check my phone.
“What happens now. Is it over?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, I want to get one last footage of you and the boys celebrating at Murphy’s, is that okay?” I ask him.
“Of course, I’ll even shout you a drink for all your hard work.” He grins.
“I’ll hold you to it.”