“Go, take care of Mom. I’ve got Pierre.”
They leave, and the suite empties as I stand there alone, surrounded by half-empty wine glasses and crumpled napkins, while the crowd outside is going crazy. The Mavericks are winning, not that it matters, because Felix didn’t get up.
9
COLLETTE
The corridor outside the locker room is cold and smells of concrete, sweat, and that brand of industrial cleaner that every arena in the country uses. I find a corner, press my back against the cinderblock wall, and try to breathe. The wall is freezing through my shirt. I don’t care. I’ve been holding it together for hours. Since Issy told me about Harper. Since I lied to Felix’s face with a smile. Since I watched my brother hit the ice and not move. I’ve been the sister who had it together, the one who stayed behind, the one who sent everyone else to the hospital while she waited alone in an empty suite.I’m so tired of being strong.As fresh tears start to fall down my cheeks, I angrily swipe them away.
The guys come off the ice after winning the game, and I tuck myself further into the corner, pulling my sleeves over my hands, making myself small, not wanting anyone to see me like this. Most of them pass by without noticing. They’re high on the win, loud, slapping each other’s pads, talking shit. The sound of skate blades on rubber mats and sticks clattering against walls fills the tunnel.
Then Fish walks past, still in his gear with his helmet in his hands, his hair damp with sweat. Those blue eyes scan the corridor and land on me like he knew exactly where to look. He stops, takes me in, the red eyes, the arms wrapped around myself. The mascara I know is probably halfway down my cheeks. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Doesn’t give me a motivational speech. He just walks over, drops his helmet on the ground, and wraps his arms around me.
And I break.
I cry into his chest like I haven’t cried all night. He smells like sweat and exertion, and underneath that, faintly, his cologne. He’s still in his pads, and I’m getting mascara all over his jersey, but I don’t care and it seems neither does he. Because with everyone else, I had to be the sister who had it together. But Fish isn’t my family, he isn’t expecting me to be anything. And something about that, about the fact that he’s not Pierre, who needs me to be steady, or Felix, who needs me to be brave, or Mom, who needs me to be strong, something about the absence of expectation makes it safe to fall apart. His hand comes up to the back of my head, and he just holds me. Doesn’t shush me. Doesn’t tell me it’s going to be okay. Doesn’t pull some motivational crap out of his ass. Just lets me ruin his jersey until I run out of whatever was keeping me upright.
I pull back and wipe my face with the heels of my hands. “Ew, you stink.”
He laughs, this deep, surprised sound that bounces off the concrete. “Yeah, well, I just played a hockey game. I scored, by the way.”
“Did you?” I sniffle. Everything after Felix hit the ice is a blur. I couldn’t tell you the final score if my life depended on it. “Congrats.”
“Also got two assists, in case you were wondering.”
He’s trying to make you laugh, which is sweet of him.
“I’ll make a graphic. ‘Fish scores and has two assists, while his teammates’ sister ugly cries on him in a corridor.’”
“Viral content right there.” He grins, but it’s gentle, not the one he gives the cameras, this feels like a real one.
“Hey.” His voice drops. “Felix is tough. He’s going to be fine. And Pierre did what any brother would do.” I nod because if I speak, I’ll start crying again, and I’ve already put this man through enough tonight. “I’ll check in on you later, okay? The boys will come to the hospital once they’re done.”
“Okay.” My voice is barely there.
He gives my shoulder a squeeze, and his hand lingers for half a second longer than it should before he picks up his helmet and heads toward the locker room. I watch him go, this giant man in full hockey gear walking away from me down a fluorescent corridor, and I don’t know why, but I feel a fraction less alone than I did five minutes ago.
Pierre comes out not long after, in his suit, jaw set, eyes hard, knuckles bruised from the fight. He sees me, and his face crumbles just enough for me to know he’s barely holding on.
“Let’s go see our brother,” I say, linking my arm through his.
He doesn’t speak, just nods, and we walk out together.
The hospital waitingroom is chaotic. But all I can concentrate on are the beige walls and the buzzing fluorescent lights that make everyone look sick. The smell of antiseptic and bad coffee wafts through the waiting room. Mom is with Felix, only family is allowed in. Issy is fielding calls, and pacing back and forth in front of the vending machine. Marcus is in the corner on his phone, probably trying to keep the media at bay. Harper arrives looking destroyed, her mascara streaked. She’s wearing Felix’sjersey like she ran out of her apartment the second she could, and the moment she sees Issy, she bursts into tears. They hold each other, and something about watching that makes my throat close over.
Pierre goes straight to Issy the moment Harper lets her go, and I watch her wrap her arms around him and whisper something in his ear that makes his shoulders drop, he has his person. I want to find my person. I’ll be thirty next year, and honestly, I think that internal ticking clock is getting louder. Tears well, and my throat closes over as something aches deep inside me, something I don’t want to name because naming it will mean admitting it exists. I stand up abruptly. “I’m going to grab coffee. Anyone want anything?”
A chorus of orders comes back at me, and I’m grateful for the task because it gives me a reason to move, to walk, to be useful instead of sitting there watching everyone else be loved.
“I’ll help,” Fish says from behind me.
I jump and spin around, the boys have arrived. Emmett, Sully, Bouch, Nelly, and Evan file in quietly, still in their post-game clothes. Fish is back in his navy suit, but he’s missing the jacket. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up and exposing the tanned skin of his forearms as he leans against the doorframe like a six-foot-two reminder that the universe has a sense of humor.
“You came,” I say, and I hate how surprised I sound.
“Told you I would.” No grin. No wink. Just steady blue eyes looking at me like he means it. Nobody looks up from their grief or worry to wonder why the team’s left wing is helping Pierre’s sister carry coffees, and I’m grateful for that too.
We walk out of the waiting room together. The corridor is long, white, and fluorescent, and smells like floor polish. I hate hospitals. We turn the corner toward the cafeteria, and my eyesburn again.No, keep it together.You already cried on this man once tonight. He doesn’t deserve a repeat performance.