“Um, I thought you would be filming me pre and post-game?”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” I’m totally flustered.
We’re filmingthe guys arriving at the game, the internet loves critiquing their style. Fish arrives in a charcoal suit with the top two buttons undone, looking like a model on a catwalk. No wonder he landed some modelling contract with a big menswear designer, he looks good, as do a lot of the guys. He isn’t special.
“Fish.” I point the mini mic at him. “Why did you choose this outfit?” I ask him.
He stops, looks down at himself, and looks back at me. “Do you not like it?” I can see he is genuinely concerned.
“No, it looks good. But why did you choose a suit instead of something more casual?”
“Um, look at me in a suit. I give the people what they want.” He smirks at the camera before he does a turn, showing his outfit off. I roll my eyes at him. “And the people want Fish in a suit.” He grins, leaning in to the mic.
“Did you just talk about yourself in third person?”
“Yeah, and?” he questions me.
I shake my head. “Anyway, good luck tonight. I’ll see you on the other side,” I tell him, he nods and walks away.
I getthe guys warming up. The girlies like the ice humping stretches, so I must do a thirst trap video for them. Then I get images of Fish on the bench, looking serious, talking to his line mates. His blue eyes are sharp, watching the ice as he thinks about the plays ahead. He scores in the second. I catch it, catch the bench losing their minds, catch Pierre with his fist in the air,screaming something in French. He shoots me a winning smile as he skates past the camera, giving it a wink.
Post-game, the locker room is loud and chaotic, and smells like sweat and victory, which is a smell. Bouch has music going. Nelly is dancing in the corner. I get the footage, get the quotes, and get what I need before leaving them to it.
Fish finds me on his way out. His hair is damp, and he’s dressed, but his jacket is over his arm, and the white shirt’s sleeves are rolled up showing off tanned, muscular forearms.
“Get everything you need?” he asks, looking me up and down.
“I think so.” I check my phone.
“What happens now. Is it over?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, I want to get one last footage of you and the boys celebrating at Murphy’s, is that okay?” I ask him.
“Of course, I’ll even shout you a drink for all your hard work.” He grins.
“I’ll hold you to it.”
13
FISH
The private plane is quiet. Pierre and Felix are playing cards with Emmett and Sully, the other guys are chatting away about some shit, while I’ve got my headphones in, watching something Evan recommended that I’m about forty percent sure is going to end with everyone dying. My phone buzzes. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again. I pull out one earbud and look down at the notifications from the younger guy’s chat.
Bouch: What the hell. *Screen shots*
Nelly: Fish!!!!
I tap the picture, and it opens the comment section on our official account. There are hundreds of them, and they’re all saying variations of the same thing.
Omg are they together??
The way he looks at her, I’m not okay.
Tell me they’re not together because if they are, I’m going to cry.
I’ve watched this 47 times.
The way she looked up at him after … she felt it, too, she just doesn’t know it yet.