She buries her face in my chest, shoulders shaking, and I hold her, pressing my lips to the top of her head and thinking about how months ago I was trying to fight my feelings for my best friend, and now she's my wife.
"I love you," she says against my chest.
“I love you too. You’ve made me the happiest man in New York.”
34
FISH
Life is good. Like, stupidly, disgustingly, annoyingly good. Collette has been at my apartment every night since she got back from Quebec. Technically, she still lives with Jo, but her toothbrush is in my bathroom, her shampoo has taken over my shower, there’s a drawer in my dresser that’s now hers, and her cereal collection has colonized an entire shelf in my kitchen. She sneaks over after work and lets herself in with the key I gave her. And when we have away games, she sneaks into my room and is gone before anyone notices. It’s hot sneaking around, but I don’t know if I can keep doing this till summer.
Last night, she fell asleep on my chest while we watched some terrible dating show she’s obsessed with. I carried her to bed, and she mumbled “Thanks, husband” against my neck, and I lay there in the dark grinning like a psychopath because that word still hasn’t gotten old. I don’t think it ever will.
Nobody knows, that’s the hardest part. At work, we’re colleagues. On camera, we’re Fishette, the internet’s favorite maybe-couple, the ship that launched a thousand edits. In the locker room, I’m Fish, the guy who flirts with everyone and commits to no one. And at home, I’m Justin, her husband, theman who orders her coffee every morning, fucks her every night, and is so in love it physically hurts to pretend otherwise for eight hours a day.
But today I am just as excited because it’s Snow Classic day and New Year’s Eve. We will be playing in an outdoor rink, just like most of us did when we were kids. It’s going to be the biggest regular season game of the year, and the energy in the building is insane.
The locker room before the game is loud, the boys are hyped. Bouch is blasting something French and terrible. Nelly is doing his pre-game stretches in the corner, looking like a very flexible Swedish robot. Sully is chirping everyone within earshot. Evan is silent, focused, already in game mode. Pierre is pacing back and forth, chewing his mouthguard, bouncing on his toes. He’s always intense before big games, but tonight, he’s on another level.
“You good?” I ask, taping my stick.
“Fine. Great. Never better.” He says it too fast.He’s lying.
“You look like you’re about to shit yourself.”
“Thanks for that visual.” He glares at me.
Felix catches my eye across the room and gives me a look that says, ‘Don’t push it.’Okay.Something is going on that I’m not in on. As long as it doesn’t mess up his game, I’m cool. Emmett walks through the locker room doing his captain thing, tapping helmets, clapping shoulders.
“Let’s play smart and win this thing,” he says as he continues walking around the room.
I finish taping my stick and think about Collette somewhere in the arena, probably rink side with the girls, camera ready, wearing her Mavericks scarf, my ring on a chain under her sweater.My wife.At my game. I wanted her to wear my jersey, but she said that wouldn’t look right, but she did say I could fuck her later in it, so I’m all good.
The crowd is packed,with breath visible in the cold air, and the atmosphere is louder than any indoor arena I’ve played in. First period is tight. Both teams are trading chances, playing physically from the whistle. I pick up an assist on a play with Bouch, and the bench erupts.
Second period starts, and we come out hard. Pierre and Felix are on fire, cycling the puck, creating chances. Emmett is a beast in the center.
Then it happens.
Emmett goes into the boards.Hard.The hit is clean, but the angle is wrong, and his shoulder takes the brunt of it. He goes down and doesn’t get up.
Shit.
All I can do is watch from the bench. The bench is silent as the ref blows the whistle. The medics are on the ice in seconds. I’m standing at the bench, stick on the boards, watching our captain lying on the ice, not moving, and my stomach is in my throat.
“Fuck,” Evan says beside me.
“He’s tough. He’ll be fine,” I say, but I don’t know if I believe it.
They help Emmett off the ice. He’s holding his shoulder, face twisted in pain, and the crowd gives him a standing ovation as he disappears into the tunnel.
The game continues without Emmett. The team has to adjust without our captain, but the boys step up. The third period is a grind. We’re up by two and playing smart, protecting the lead. Pierre is everywhere, playing like a man possessed. With two minutes left, he gets the puck off a turnover, cuts to the middle,and rifles a shot into the top corner. The crowd erupts. Pierre slides on his knees, arms up, and the boys pile on. The buzzer sounds, and the Mavericks win the Snow Classic.
The locker room afterward is chaotic, with music blasting, and everyone screaming. Except Emmett’s stall is empty, and the sight of it takes the edge off the celebration.
“Cap’s got a Grade 3 AC joint separation,” Sully tells us. “He’s out four to six weeks.”
The room goes quiet for a moment, then Bouch raises his water bottle. “We won this one for Cap.”