“Hey,” Fish says quietly, his hand touching my arm, just lightly, just his fingertips on my sleeve.
And that’s all it takes.
I stop walking, press my hands over my face, and cry.Again. In a hospital corridor, in front of a man who should be out celebrating a win with his teammates.This is so embarrassing.
He pulls me into another hug. “You’ve got to stop doing this to me, St. Pierre. I’ve used up all my emotional intelligence for the month.”
I laugh through the tears. An ugly, snotty, broken laugh that echoes off the linoleum. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says, and I can feel the rumble of his voice against my cheek because my face is pressed into his chest again. This time he smells like soap and clean cotton and something warm underneath that’s just him.
“I keep crying on you.” I hiccup.
“I can handle it.” His hand cups my face, those big, calloused hands that can shoot a puck at ninety miles an hour, and his thumbs wipe my tears away like they’re made of something fragile. “You’ve been so strong in there. I could see you struggling to keep it together. I just ... I wanted to help.”
The confession surprises me. It’s so unexpected from him, from Justin Crawford, the walking highlight reel, the guy with the revolving door of women, with the cocky grin and the reputation that precedes him into every room. This isn’t that version of him. This is the version that shows up at hospitals, holds crying women in corridors, and doesn’t make it about himself.Don’t fall for it.I’m not falling for anything. I’m crying on a colleague.A colleague whose heartbeat you can feel against your cheek.Shut up.
“I’m fine,” I say, pulling back.
He doesn’t believe me. “You’re not fine, and that’s okay.”
I don’t have a comeback for that. I don’t have a sarcastic deflection or a smart remark or any of the things I usually throw up when someone gets too close. My walls are down, and I don’t have the energy to rebuild them tonight. “Thank you,” I tell him. And I mean it in a way that scares me.
“That’s what friends are for,” he says simply, without weight, without agenda, and somehow that makes it land harder than anything else he could have said. Because he means it, he truly means it, and I don’t know what to do with a man who means the things he says.
We get the coffees from the cafeteria, which is deserted except for one nurse eating a sad-looking sandwich, and carry them back. I hand them out like I’m serving a dinner party instead of standing in a hospital waiting room to find out if my brother’s brain is bleeding. Fish finds a seat near the boys who are talking quietly. Pierre reaches over and squeezes my hand without looking at me. Issy has her head on his shoulder. Harper is in the chair next to Issy, her knee bouncing.
The doctor comes out eventually and tells us Felix has a severe concussion, two weeks’ recovery, but he’s going to be fine. Harper goes in first because he’s asking for her, and the relief that washes through the room is physical. Mom starts crying again, but happy tears this time. Marcus lets out a breath I think he’s been holding since the third period. I lean back in my plastic chair, close my eyes, and breathe for what feels like the first time in hours.
My phone buzzes.
Fish: Glad he’s okay. Get some sleep tonight.
I look across the waiting room, and he’s already looking at me. His blue eyes shine under the fluorescent light, the whiteshirt pulled tightly across his muscles, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles because he’s too tall for hospital chairs. I give him a nod. He gives me the smallest smile. And I think, for the first time since I moved to this city, that maybe friendship with a hockey player isn’t the worst thing in the world.
10
COLLETTE
“So, I need to talk to you about something.” Pierre is standing in my doorway doing that thing he does when he’s nervous, rubbing the back of his neck while avoiding eye contact. He looks like he’s about to confess to a crime.
“You’re moving in with Issy,” I answer for him.
His head snaps up. “How did you know?”
“Pierre, you’ve slept here three times in the last two weeks. Your toothbrush hasn’t been in the bathroom since Tuesday. Frankston’s bed is already at her place.” I cross my arms. “I’m not an idiot.”
“I feel bad.” He sits on the edge of my bed. “Felix is gone, and now I’m leaving, too, and you’re going to be alone in this huge apartment.”
“I’m going to be alone in this huge, gorgeous, fully paid for apartment with no one telling me what to do or what time I should come home, the horror.”
“Lettie, I’m serious.”
“So am I. I also can’t wait to acquire your bedroom.” I sit up and look at my big brother, he looks happy. The kind of happythat’s been slowly settling into his face since Issy let him back in. The tension he’s carried since the wedding, since Kitty, since the Devils, has been dissolving week by week, and I’m not about to be the reason he hesitates. “Go, be with your girl. Frankston needs a yard.”
“It’s not a big yard,” he argues.
“She has more space than this apartment, and that dog has eaten four of my shoes since we moved in.”