“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face said something.”
She turns back to her screen. “You two have chemistry, that’s all I’m saying.”
She’s right, we do have online chemistry. The back and forth we have with the mini mic is great content, and the internet is lapping it up. That’s what I am supposed to do, though, make great content, it’s my job.
Then why does your stomach do that thing every time he skates past you?It doesn’t do a thing. That’s indigestion. I had a questionable bagel this morning.
The thing about Fish that I didn’t expect is that there’s more to him than the cocky grin and the revolving door of women.I’m not saying he’s deep.I’m not saying I’ve uncovered some tortured soul beneath the hockey bro exterior. But that day in the corridor when I apologized for being a dick about the brunette stuff, something moved in his expression that he tried to hide before I could see it.He didn’t quite manage it.But something’s different between us, lighter, maybe. Like we got past a wall without either of us realizing it.
Practice is wrapping up, and I’m on the ice getting the last of the BTS footage, close-ups of pucks hitting the net, the guys stretching, the kind of behind-the-scenes stuff that pulls huge numbers. I’ve got my skates on because I’m the only one on the content team who can actually stay upright out here. Fish is doing shooting drills at the far end, top corner, top corner, top corner. Repetitive, precise, satisfying to film. I drop low for an angle and catch three in a row that look cinematic. He stops, looks at me, and I keep filming.
“Bet you can’t do that,” he says cockily.
I lower the camera. “Excuse me?”
“Shoot like that.” He nods toward the net. “Bet you can’t.”
Is he serious right now? “I grew up with Pierre and Felix. I’ve been shooting pucks since I was four.”
“Cute story, but this is the professional league.”
Something ignites in my chest, not anger, something more competitive than that, something purely St. Pierre. “Oh, this is the professional leagues.” I imitate his voice, and he flinches at my mocking, but then that charming smile lights up his stupidly handsome face.
“Are you seriously chirping me right now?”
“I’m just saying …”
“Want to bet?” he says, and that is like waving a red flag to a bull to a St. Pierre, we are competitive as fuck.
“Want to bet what?”
“Five water bottles, top of the crossbar. First to knock all five off wins,” he says.
Half the team has drifted over like sharks smelling blood.
“You’ve got this, Lettie,” Pierre calls out.
I turn around and see Pierre and Felix leaning on the boards, with Bouch grinning beside them. Evan has his arms folded, those intense eyes narrowed on his best friend as if he is wondering what the hell he is thinking.
“You’re serious?” I turn back to Fish.
“Yeah.” He shrugs.
“Guess I have no choice, seeing as they’re all watching.” I point over my shoulder.
“What’s the bet,” Nelly calls out.
“Yeah, St. Pierre, what’s the bet?” Fish grins. “I’m up foranything,” he leans over and whispers to me.
“In your dreams,” I bite back.
“Was worth a try.” He chuckles. “Hey, St. Pierre bros, if I win, can I take your sister to dinner?”
The rink goes quiet.
Did he just …?