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COLLETTE
Working for a hockey team with your brothers sounds glamorous.It’s not.It’s a nightmare and a full-time operation in which two grown professional hockey players with matching god complexes have decided that the best use of their professional energy is to make sure their younger sister never gets laid ever again. I love them. Truly. But if Pierre makes a“This is my sister, do not look at her”speech, I’m going to kill him.
The St. Pierre siblings arrived at the Manhattan Mavericks with drama baked into the deal. Pierre, as the runaway groom, yes, actual, literal, left-a-woman-at-the-altar runaway groom.Don’t feel sorry for her, it was well deserved. Kitty was a bitch.Then there’s Felix, as the guy whose girlfriend was sleeping with his best friend and teammate right under his nose.
And then there’s me, the obviously awesome sister of those two morons, who is the Mavericks’ new Social Media Coordinator. Except everyone knows I got the job because Pierre wrote it into his contract.For the record, I’m excellent at my job.Not that it matters because everyone’s going to assume nepotism anyway.
What I refuse to accept is Pierre doing‘the thing’. He did it at the South Dakota Devils, and I told myself this time would be different. I had a plan, walk in confidently, make a great first impression, and let my work speak for itself, not my brothers.I was wrong.
The locker room smells like sweat and ambition and a brand of body wash that probably costs more than my rent. Half the team are dressed ready for practice while the others are in various states of getting ready.
Coach Anderson has just wrapped up his welcome speech, where he warned them to cooperate with the social media team. I told him that included the Coach, too, which made the guys laugh but the Coach scowl.
That’s when I see Pierre stand up. No. No, no, no. Pierre, I swear to God … I try to give him the St. Pierre stare, but he is oblivious to my internal daggers. I turn my attention to Felix. He can’t even look at me. Oh shit. They’re doing it.
“This,” Pierre says, gesturing at me like he’s unveiling something at an auction, “is our sister. Collette.”
Thirty-odd professional hockey players look at me.
“Pierre,” I hiss, but he ignores me. I wave, hoping I’m projecting that everything is fine while internally hoping the ground will swallow my brothers whole.
“If any of you touch our sister,” Pierre continues, calm as anything, “you die.”
Silence.
Total, beautiful, catastrophic silence.
The guy on the floor slowly stops stretching. Someone to my left finds the ceiling very interesting. The protein shake guy takes a long, considered sip.
“We’re serious,” Pierre adds.
“Dead serious,” Felix confirms helpfully.
And then, because the universe has it out for me, the captain steps forward. Emmett Black. Built like a brick wall with bulging biceps, he crosses his arms, looking serious. “You heard them,” he says to the room. “We don’t touch sisters.”
Murmurs of agreement fill the locker room.
I want to leave my body, float somewhere above this, and watch it happen to someone else, because then the words that come out of my mouth without thinking won’t stun everyone.
“Please disregard what they’re saying. Touch away.” I hear the words land and no one laughs, it’s just awkward silence.What did you just say? Touch away?My face goes red from the neck up. That sounded a hell of a lot different in my head than it did leaving my mouth.
“What the fuck, Lettie?” Pierre says in French as he turns and glares at me.
“I panicked,” I respond in French.
“They are not allowed to touch you,” Felix adds, also in French. “You’re not allowed to touch her,” he explains to the room in English.
I turn my back to the locker room and glare at my brothers. “You are ruining my first day with your stupid overprotective nonsense, and I was trying to be funny and lighten the mood, so they are not terrified of me when I create content with them.”
Pierre drags a hand down his face. “It wasn’t funny.”
“I’m aware.” I turn back to thirty-odd hockey players watching this unfold like it’s pay-per-view. “Anyway.” I pull my shoulders back.You’ve got this.“I’m Collette St. Pierre. I’ve joined the social media team. I’ll be harassing you with a tiny mic and making you answer ridiculous questions for the fans.”
A couple of the guys groan, and I’ll take that over the oppressive silence.
Coach Anderson claps his hands, cutting the tension. “Practice in five. Move.”