“I’m doing nothing.”
“Yes, you are. Some Russian reverse psychology shit.”
This makes him chuckle, low and quiet. “I’m not. It’s not my fault your subconscious is saying otherwise.”
I hate it when he talks like this in riddles. Like some brooding fortune cookie. “You’re so fucking annoying, do you know that?”
“Yes.” He grins.
“Fucking friend you are.”
“You can lie to yourself.” He sets his beer down, and those dark eyes lock onto me with the kind of intensity that reminds me why opposing forwards hate playing against him. “You can lie to everyone else. But you won’t fucking lie to me.”
The words land heavily in the cold air between us.
“I’m not lying.”
“You like Collette. And I get all the reasons why you can’t do anything about it. But don’t sit here and deny it to me.”
I take a big gulp of beer. The label is completely shredded now, little pieces of wet paper are stuck to my fingers. “Of course I like her …” I roll my eyes at him like it’s nothing, like this confession isn’t costing me anything. “But we can only ever be friends. Not that I want more.”
“See. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He smiles into his beer.
Fucking Russian.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He grins. “You and Collette do have chemistry. All these fan edits show that.”
“They’re made up. Picking bits and pieces to create a different narrative than what’s there.”
“True. But the fact that they picked up on the two of you and how you play off each other isn’t made up. You can slow-mo anything, but the camera can’t invent what doesn’t exist.”
I don’t have an answer for that. So, I signal the bartender for another beer, stare at the Pittsburgh skyline, and try very hard not to think about hazel eyes, citrus shampoo, and the way she looked at me in that hotel room like I was the source of every problem in her life.
14
COLLETTE
The elevator doors open to the rooftop terrace in the middle of Manhattan, and the first thing I see is Fish’s face, fifteen feet tall, dressed in a charcoal suit, leaning against a brick wall with an expression that would melt women’s panties. Damn him for being that hot stretched out like that.
“Wow,” Felix says beside me, stepping onto the rooftop. “He looks very big.”
“At least he scrubs up well,” Pierre adds.
“Don’t tell him that, it’ll go to his head,” I mutter as we continue walking into the party. The rooftop is ridiculous, string lights crisscrossing overhead, a DJ in the corner playing something smooth and moody, the Manhattan skyline glittering behind everything, like the city itself showed up to be his backdrop. There are at least six of these display boards scattered around the terrace, and every single one of them is a different version of Justin Crawford looking like he was assembled in a lab specifically to ruin women’s lives. Navy overcoat with the collar turned up and his jaw doing that tense thing, looking at something off camera. Him in a tuxedo like a prince of some faraway country. White shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showingforearms that should be classified as a public safety hazard.You’re staring.Pretty hard not to when his face is everywhere you turn.
I haven’t spoken to him properly in weeks. Not since Fishette started trending and the internet collectively decided that Justin Crawford and I were in love based on a lanyard and some tunnel footage. I told him in his hotel room in Pittsburgh to dial it back. He said okay, no argument, no pushback, no cocky comeback, and then he actually did it. No more hanging around the tunnel after practice. No more swinging by my office with coffee. No more anything. He pulled back exactly the way I asked him to, and it worked. The comments died down, especially when he was seen having drinks with an actress. Fishette became old news.It’s what you wanted.Still is.But you miss him.I miss our banter. Miss his stupid face appearing at my desk, trying to make me laugh when I’m on a deadline.Urgh. Men, I need to get laid, that’s my problem.
The rooftop is packed with industry people, press, and waiters circling with trays of champagne and tiny food that looks too pretty to eat. The air up here has a bite to it, cold enough that I’m glad I wore sleeves, and the wind carries the faint smell of someone’s cigarette from the far corner mixed with expensive perfume and rooftop bar candles. A couple of female models from the campaign stand near the bar, impossibly tall and impossibly beautiful, laughing at something Fish is saying. One of them touches his arm. He doesn’t flinch, just smiles and keeps talking, completely at ease in a room full of people who are all here because of his face.So out of my league.Where the hell did that thought come from? I am not interested in Fish. Nope. No way. Never. Is he hot?Yes.Do I want to sleep with him?The reviews by the bunnies ….No.What the hell am I thinking?
Pierre hands me a drink. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, why?” I ask, taking the glass of champagne from him.
“You’re staring into the distance with a frown on your face.”Because I’m watching a model stroke your teammate’s arm, and apparently that’s a problem for me now. “I’m taking in the event. Forgot to turn my resting bitch face off,” I say, sipping my drink. “This rooftop is pretty nice.”
“Yeah, it is,” Pierre says before Felix pulls him into a conversation about something hockey related, and I tune my brothers out. My eyes drift back to Fish at the bar. The model has her hand on his arm again. She’s leaning in, and he’s laughing at something she said. It’s probably not even that funny, but she’s gorgeous and tall, and her legs go on for days, and she’s exactly the type of woman who ends up in his bed and on that Reddit page raving about the experience.Stop it.I take a large sip of champagne to settle whatever is happening to me. I zone out for a moment until I hear my name.