Chapter 29 Collette
COLLETTE
Jo walks through the door a little while after he left. She takes one look at me, messy hair, bandaged head, coffee in hand, sitting on the sofa with a grin I can’t wipe off my face, and drops her bag on the floor.
“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” she asks, looking at me with concern.
“I slipped at the arena last night during the photo shoot, sneakers on ice don’t mix. I’m all good.”
Her eyes narrow on me for a moment as she medically calculates if I’m okay. She must see that I am because she squeals. “Tell me everything.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Collette Marie St. Pierre. You texted me not to come home. You told me you took my advice. I have been dying for twelve hours. Talk, now.”
I sip my coffee. “You didn’t tell Emmett, did you?” She shakes her head. “Good. I haven’t told Fish about you two either.”
“Thanks,” she says. “So.”
“Best sex of my life.”
“Oh my god.” Jo screams as she launches herself onto the sofa beside me and grabs my good hand. “And?”
“And what?”
“What now?”
I bite my bottom lip. “We’re together. Just like you and Emmett. We agreed to wait until the season is over, but we are slowly going to become closer again, and hopefully train our brothers that me being with Fish is a good thing.”
“Good luck with that.” She sighs. “So, does Big Fish live up to its name?”
“Jo!” I giggle as I hit her with the pillow. “Who are you? And, yes, it does.”
We both fall into a fit of giggles. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Thanks. I love him, Jo. Never thought I would find my person, but I have.”
“I know the feeling,” she says, giving me a small smile.
“Our brothers are going to kill us when they find out.”
“Probably, but it’s worth it,” Jo says.
“Agreed. I wish I had done something sooner.” This cracks us up again.
“Does anyone else know, besides me?” Jo asks.
“Evan does,” I tell her.
“Makes sense, they are best friends. He’s an interesting one that boy,” Jo muses.
“He is. I was always so scared of him, but he’s lovely once you get past the scary exterior.” We giggle.
“It sucks we can’t tell our family that we’re happy,” Jo says sadly.
“I know. Look, it’s our lives, not our brothers … but I’m more concerned about the team than our brothers.”
“Me, too,” Jo says in agreement. “Well, guess we’d better get ready for game day. How do you think you will go seeing Fish at work?”
“I don’t know, hope we can hide it.”
Jo gives me an unconvinced look.
The arena is electric, home game, packed house, and energy buzzes through the building before the puck even drops.
I’m rink side with the girls, camera ready, mini mic clipped on.
Same routine I’ve done a hundred times. Except nothing is the same because somewhere in that locker room, the man I’m in love with is getting ready to skate out onto the ice, and I have to pretend he’s just another player. You can do this. You’re a professional.
The boys take the ice for warmups, and I film them the way I always do.
Pierre first, then Felix, then the rest of the line.
When Fish skates out, I keep the camera steady and my face neutral, even though my stomach does a backflip.
He looks good, he always looks good on the ice, but tonight there’s something different, it’s as if he’s lighter.
The edge that’s been there for weeks, the angry hitting, the reckless play, it’s gone.
He’s skating with the kind of easy confidence that made him a fan favorite in the first place.
He skates past me during warmups and doesn’t look at me.
Then he circles back, and this time he glances in my direction, then he shoots me a wink and that naughty smirk, and my panties need changing.
I bury my face in the camera viewfinder and pray nobody notices.
The game starts, and the boys come out flying.
Pierre scores within the first five minutes.
Felix picks up an assist. Emmett is a wall on defense.
And Fish is everywhere. Forechecking, setting up plays, winning puck battles he has no business winning.
He picks up an assist in the second period, and when the bench celebrates, he catches my eye across the glass for just a second and winks again.
The Mavericks win and the arena erupts. I’m filming the celebrations when my phone buzzes, then buzzes again. Then it doesn’t stop.
“What’s going on?” I ask Billie, who’s staring at her phone.
“Fishette is trending,” Marlowe says.
“What?” I panic.
She turns her screen to show me that social media is on fire. Fishette is everywhere, clips from tonight’s game, Fish looking at the camera during warmups, the wink, side-by-side comparisons of his body language from last month versus tonight.
The comments roll in.
“Something changed.”
“He’s happy again.”
“THE WINK. I’m dead.”
“Fishette is back, and I’m not okay.”
“The fans are losing their minds,” Billie says. “They’re saying Fish looked like a different person tonight. They think something happened between you two because you both haven’t been as active with each other, and now, you’re back to how you used to be.”
“Nothing happened between us,” I say, too quickly, too defensive, and Billie raises an eyebrow.
“I didn’t say it did. I said the fans think it did.”
“Well, the fans are wrong. We’re colleagues. That’s it.” I look at the screen, and my heart is hammering. The internet shipped us when we were just friends. Now that we’re actually together, they can apparently sense it. This is going to be a problem.
My phone buzzes.
Fish: Did you see? We’re trending.
Collette: I saw. You winked at me on camera. This is all your fault.
Fish: It was a good wink.
Collette: It was reckless.
Fish: You loved it.
Collette: That’s not the point.
Fish: What’s the point?
Collette: The point is, we’re supposed to be a secret.
Fish: We are a secret. The internet is just guessing.
Collette: The internet is guessing correctly.
Fish: Then we’re doing a terrible job.
Collette: WE? You’re the one who winked!
Fish: And you’re the one who blushed. Very unprofessional, Lettie.
Collette: I hate you.
Fish: No, you don’t. You love me.
Collette: Whatever.
Fish: Come over tonight?
Collette: We have to be more careful.
Fish: Is that a yes?
Collette: Yes.
Fish: Bring the vibrator.
Collette: Justin!
Fish: You love me.
I put my phone away and try to look normal, while my heart beats at a million miles per hour.
I arrive at his apartment an hour after the game with the vibrator in my bag like some kind of deranged booty call. He opens the door in gray sweats and nothing else, hair still damp from his post-game shower, and the sight of him makes my mouth water.
“Hi.” He grins, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hi.” I hold up my bag. “I brought what you asked for.”
“That’s my girl.” He pulls me inside by my waist and kicks the door shut behind me.
His mouth finds mine immediately, warm and hungry, his hands sliding under my jacket.
I drop the bag on the floor and melt into him because kissing Justin Crawford after watching him play hockey for three hours is a religious experience.
“Good game tonight,” I murmur against his lips.
“Mm. Had something to play for.” His hands grip my hips, pulling me flush against him. I can feel him hardening against my stomach already. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you the entire third period.”
“That’s a terrible strategy.”
“Got an assist. Can’t be that bad.” He pulls back and looks at me with an expression that’s half playful, half predatory. “I want to show you something.”
He takes my hand and leads me to his bedroom. On the bed, neatly laid out , is his jersey. Number twenty-two. Crawford across the back. Beside it, a pair of black heels that are definitely not his.
“Where did you get those?” I ask, staring at the heels.
“I may have asked the concierge to pick them up this afternoon.”
“You bought me heels.”
“I bought you heels that go with my jersey.” He stands behind me, his mouth brushing my ear. “Put them on.”
“Just the shoes?” I ask.
“No, my jersey and the heels, no underwear.”
Oh. Kinky. “You’ve been planning this.”
“Since this morning. When you were lying in your bed in my shirt, I thought about what would look even better.” His hand slides up my spine, finding my zipper. “My name on your back. Those legs in heels. Nothing else.”
Shit. I bite my bottom lip. He unzips my dress slowly, his knuckles dragging down my spine, and the dress pools at my feet.
He unclasps my bra and lets it fall beside the dress.
Then he hooks his fingers into my underwear and slides them down my legs.
I step out of them, and I’m naked in his bedroom, and his eyes are raking over me like I’m something holy.
“Now.” He picks up the jersey and holds it open for me. I slide my arms in, and it falls to mid-thigh, soft and oversized, his number on my back, his name across my shoulders. He pulls my hair free from the collar and steps back.
“Heels,” he says.
I step into them, four inches, and my legs look endless. I turn to face him, and the sound he makes is barely human.
“Fuck.” He says it like a prayer. His eyes travel from the heels up my bare legs to the hem of the jersey that barely covers my ass, to my face. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”
“Tell me.”
“Like every fantasy I’ve ever had, standing in my bedroom wearing my name.” He moves toward me, slow, deliberate, and pulls me against him by the jersey. “I’m going to ruin you.”
“Promise?”