Page 1 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

CHAPTER ONE

BARRETT

“ F or fuck’s sake, Blackstone! Make it greasy and shove it in deep!”

There’s three minutes left in the third period and the scoreboard is fucking glaring down at me, mocking me with every passing second on the clock.

4–3.

I’m sweating bullets under my cage, my pads are like concrete, and every muscle in my body is tense and ready.

Portland circles my net like sharks, fast and hungry.

They’re out for blood tonight. And my teammates?

Fucking gassed, sloppy, and late on every coverage.

And I’m no better having let the puck into the net more times than I care to talk about.

But the game isn’t over until it’s over.

We could tie it up and go to overtime.

We could take the win.

I try to bark at my defensemen but it’s like I’m yelling underwater and nobody can hear me.

And then it happens.

A fucking turnover at the blue line.

A clean breakaway.

Portland has possession and their forward, Andre Dirkovich, who I’ll forever refer to as Dick-ovich is fast. Too fucking fast. He cuts right and then drags the puck left waiting just long enough for me to bite. I see his game as he’s playing it.

I know exactly what he’s going to do.

He’s going for my five-hole.

Fucker!

I drop to the ice and flare my pads but it’s like I’m dropping through sludge.

I’m too damn slow.

The horn sounds and the puck slams into the back of the net with a sickening thud.

5–3.

The crowd erupts. Well, part of the crowd. The away jerseys are everywhere tonight, like a sea of green swallowing us whole in one gigantic tidal wave. And they’re losing their damn minds.

I stay down on one knee for a second too long, the red light still glowing behind me like it’s the sun itself.

When I right myself my heart pounds against my gear as I pick up the Gatorade bottle on the net during the timeout.

I rip open my cage and slam back the cold liquid as I’m joined by Ollenberg and Meers.

They both see the rage on my face so neither says a word.

“Why the hell are we collapsing into the slot like it’s a goddamn fire drill?” I growl, chest heaving. “What is this— beer league ?”

They don’t look at me. They never do when I’m like this. Too intense. Too loud. Too honest.

Coach mutters something vague about keeping heads up, but I tune it out looking for anyone to blame but myself.

We finish the game in a fog. Final score: 5–4. Close enough to sting but not close enough to feel like hope.

The lights in the press room always feel too bright after a loss.

Like they’re designed to make you sweat under the weight of your own mistakes.

I tug the brim of my cap lower, jaw clenched so tight I can feel it in my molars.

I still smell like the rink, like the sting of ice spray and… fucking frustration.

There’s no doubt I lost this game.

Yeah, the guys played like shit but they were scoring.

I’m the one who let Portland through again and again.

I’m the one who failed them.

This loss is on me and I know it.

Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it though, yet here I am.

I step up to the mic, eyes scanning the room.

Yep, it’s the same tired faces staring back at me with most likely the same rehearsed questions.

But then my eyes fall on a new face. Someone I’ve seen around the arena because she’s a friend of Marlee’s but since I have yet to do a press conference this season, I haven’t had the pleasure of her questioning.

Her name is Blakely Rivers.

She stands dead center like she’s claimed the whole room with nothing but heels and confidence. The only female reporter to ever make it into the press room and I can see why. She’s fucking hot.

Her form-fitting blue dress hugs every curve, showing off a banging figure, while caramel-colored waves tumble over her shoulders in perfect style.

Makeup flawless, confidence blazing—Ella would call it on-point—and I’d be lying if I said she doesn’t radiate beauty.

All eyes are drawn to her, including mine.

In a room filled with one rich man dressed in a designer suit after another, Blakely Rivers is like a flame, untouchable but alluring just the same.

Marlee says she’s tough as nails but Marlee’s also one of her best friends so I know she’s blowing a little smoke to make Ms. Rivers look good.

Ledger says he calls on her first to make sure she gets the chance to ask her questions before any of the other assholes in the room.

I also know Ledger would do anything Marlee asks of him because he’s that fucking whipped where she’s concerned.

Whatever. I guess I can play that game too.

At least I’ll have something hot to look at while she asks me the same questions any of these other bozos asks on a normal day.

The mic crackles as I say hello and gesture to Blakely. “Yeah, you…with the lipstick.”

The guys in the room chuckle but Blakely doesn’t react. Her face is stoic as she begins.

“Barrett.” Her voice rings out, crisp and sharp. “Do you feel like maybe tonight you were a little too slow tracking the puck laterally? Especially on that third goal?”

What the fuck?

She went straight for the jugular.

Nobody’s ever asked me that before.

She must’ve talked to one of the trainers.

Where are the softball questions like, “What happened out there?” or “What was different out there tonight from your usual strong nights?”

The sound I release from my mouth isn’t quite a sigh, but it’s close. Then I lock eyes with her.

“You mean the goal where our defense left me out to dry?”

A few low laughs echo through the room but I don’t give a shit. I know I’m throwing my team under the bus. I know I’ll get hell for it later but fuck it. I’m barely holding back the irritation clawing at my throat. The last thing I want to do is admit I was the biggest loser of the night.

But Blakely doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even blink.

“I mean the one where your right pad didn’t seal post. Again.”

My grip tightens on the podium as her mix of analysis and accusation lobs like a puck straight to my gut.

She knew exactly where to aim.

“Appreciate the coaching, Rivers,” I say coolly. “I’ll be sure to review your film before our next game.”

“No need,” she says, casually flipping a page on her notepad. “I already reviewed yours . Last three games. Same issue, same side.” Her bright green eyes lift and lock with mine in a piercing stare. “So, is this a technique problem or a confidence one?”

Where does she get off?

What the hell is her problem?

I wish I could step away from this fucking podium and close the distance between us. Wish I could walk straight into her space until the room vanishes around us and give her a piece of my mind.

But that would be wildly unprofessional and Coach would have my ass.

Not to mention I would come across to the viewing public like the sexist goalie on the team. I can see those headlines now.

With the cameras still rolling, all I can see is her.

Her calculating eyes.

Her lipstick like warpaint.

The way she didn’t emote with my pause.

“Are you trying to make this personal, Rivers?”

She doesn’t move. Just arches an eyebrow. “Not at all, but you do make it so easy.”

I should be pissed. I should walk away from her audacity, but there’s something in the way she talks back to me, not with contempt, but with challenge.

It does something to me.

“You could’ve asked about the glove save in the second,” I murmur, letting the hint of a smirk tug at my mouth. “You know. The cool highlight reel stuff.”

She tilts her head slightly. “That’s not my job. I’m not here to stroke your ego, Mr. Cunningham.”

You could stroke something else if you want.

“No.” My eyes flick down to her lips before I catch myself. “But you sure know how to get under my skin.”

Her smile is small, but wicked. Almost dangerous. “Then I guess I should thank you for allowing me to live there rent-free.”

Fuck.

She’s good.

But I’ll be damned if I let her win.

I laugh under my breath, stepping back before I do something stupid.

“Well,” I throw one last glance her way, “hope you like it hot. Next game? I’m coming back on fire.”

“Good.” She nods, biting the tip of her pen. “Then I’ll finally have something nice to write about you.”

You can hear a pin drop as all the air is sucked out through the collective gasps of every male reporter in the room.

The smirk that hits my face though is a surprise to them.

By all means I could be pissed. I could roll my eyes.

I could scoff at her assertive confidence.

I could say a few things that would make me look like a complete dick.

But I don’t. My smirk isn’t about our win or loss tonight.

It’s about her.

Fucking Blakely Rivers.

The locker room looks is a mess. There’s gear everywhere, jerseys balled up and chucked at the walls, Blackstone’s nursing a split lip with an ice pack and a bottle of something that’s most definitely not Gatorade.

The rest of the guys are packing up in silence, several pointedly not making eye contact with me.

I drop onto the bench so hard the metal legs screech, then throw my gloves like they’re the problem. Ollenberg looks up from the bench where he’s seated.

“Press conference looked like it went well, Bear.”

I glare at him. “Yeah, real fucking well. You catch her question?”

“Rivers?” He grins, the bastard. “Which one? The one where she said you had a shit five-hole, or the one where she asked if you’re losing your nerve?”

“Both,” I snap, unstrapping my leg pads. “And she didn’t ask if I was losing my nerve. She implied it, right in front of a dozen cameras, with her little murder face and her fake professional smile.”

Meers, who until now had been scrolling through his phone, tosses it aside, grinning just like asshole Ollenberg did. That makes them both bastards.

“She’s got you pegged, Bear.”

“Peg this,” I say, kicking off my skates as I flip him a double bird. I yank off my chest protector so thuds hard on the bench beside me. “The only thing she’s pegged is my patience.”

I don’t like how Ollenberg’s smile says otherwise, like there’s a joke I’m not in on or something. “Dude, she’s in your head already,” he says, rolling his shoulders, voice all easy and warm like he’s talking about the weather.

“No kidding,” Roche agrees, pulling on his shorts. “I know you don’t usually do a ton of press interviews, Bear, but I’ve never seen you this rattled. Also, you have to give her props. She didn’t even blink when you tried to roast her with the lipstick thing.”

“Her questions were legit though,” Dayne pipes in from the bench in front of his locker. He tosses his wet towel into the bin and runs a hand through his hair, eyes gleaming with mischief. “She’s not wrong about your five-hole.”

“Eat shit,” I growl, but my heart’s not in it.

I take two deep breaths while reminding myself I’m not actually mad at my teammates.

Hell, I’m not even mad at Rivers. Not really.

I’m…what? Impressed? Outplayed? Outsmarted for sure.

But the way my chest thrums when I think of her, kneecapping me in the press room with no warning and zero mercy, it’s not rage. Not even close. It’s something else.

I’m still thinking about her when I get to the showers.

The mix of sweat and salt have coagulated into a film, thick as oil, and the water pressure is the only thing strong enough to beat it off my skin.

Jets hiss and echo in a perfect white noise.

I lean my forehead into the tile, let the steam work at my locked jaw, and try to push Blakely Rivers—her mouth, her eyes, her fucking voice—out of my head.

But she doesn’t leave.

She’s there, in my peripheral, picking apart my game tape with clinical precision, exposing my flaws while the rest of the league is still trying to figure out how to spell my last name. I hate her.

Fuck.

Okay, I don’t hate her.

I respect her audacity but I’m pissed she swung her huge balls in my direction. It’s a sick, coiling contradiction that makes my stomach clench.

What the fuck ever.

She can do whatever the hell she wants. I don’t fucking care.

I’ll let her win this little battle for now, but if she keeps this up, continues to call me on my shit like she did today, Blakely Rivers will absolutely not win the war.