Page 10 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

CHAPTER SEVEN

BARRETT

T he first rule of flying with the team is keep your head down and your mouth shut, unless you want to get publicly roasted or shivved with a plastic butter knife by Griffin Ollenberg.

The second rule is nobody, and I mean absolutely nobody, makes the first boarding call except for Coach.

Which is why I’m already at the gate, earbuds in, hoodie up, doing my best impression of a man-bear in hibernation, when Blakely Rivers strides through the automatic doors and manages to hijack every molecule of oxygen from the concourse.

She’s wearing leggings and a Stars quarter-zip pullover.

She’s got aviators over her eyes and her hair is in one of those messy knots that looks effortless but probably took three attempts and a YouTube tutorial to complete.

Her roller bag is black, like her sense of humor, and every step she takes is pure confidence.

No hesitation, no scanning for approval, just zeroed in on her destination like she’s got a sniper rifle for a soul.

“Blakely!” Marlee does some sort of high-pitched squeal and then gives her a hug. I’m two seconds away from reminding Marlee to be careful around the Grinch but then I remember they’re friends.

Good friends.

Best friends?

I can’t remember.

“Dude, why didn’t you fucking warn me about her in the first place, huh?” I lean over and grunt to Ledger who is helplessly scrolling through pictures of his babies like he didn’t just see them this morning.

I get it though. New dad and all.

“Warn you about who? Rivers?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “You’re failing me left and right here, bro.”

He lowers his phone to his lap and narrows his eyes. “How so?”

“First of all, you failed to tell me how relentless she is in the press room. Had I known she was going to rip me a new asshole over one bad night, I could’ve been better prepared to defend myself, and secondly, there’s no way you didn’t know she was coming with the team today.

” I huff. “I mean a little heads up would’ve been nice, don’t you think? ”

Ledger chuckles and pats my leg. “Sorry big guy. She’s always been nice to me in the press room. Very complimentary. And I did know she was coming today but watching you squirm is way more fun than warning you ahead of time.”

I slump back in my chair. “Fuck you, Dayne.”

He laughs. He fucking laughs. “I told Marlee you’d be a mess all morning. She owes me lunch.”

Dirty unrepentant asshole.

I scowl but let it go. Rivers is all business as she drops her bag beside the little cluster of women traveling with the team, already deep in conversation with Marlee, Layken, and Ella.

I try not to stare, but I can’t help tracking the line of Blakely’s calves, the curve of her cheek when she laughs at something Marlee says.

There’s a weird relief in seeing her like this.

Off-duty and a little unguarded. Maybe she’s not a cyborg, after all.

I resort to my phone, check my email for any word from the vet clinic keeping Killer for a few days to make sure he’s got all he needs, check the latest league stats, and do an admirable job of pretending not to notice her until Harrison sidles up and nudges me with his elbow.

“You gonna say hi, or just eye-fuck her into the TSA database?”

I flick my eyes up at Harrison, who’s rocking a designer suit that undoubtedly cost him more than I paid for my used car.

“If I wanted to talk to her, I’d talk to her,” I mutter.

“Sure,” he replies, not looking up. “But you don’t want to, because then you might have to admit she’s smarter, funnier, and objectively better looking than you.” He pauses and then shrugs with a shit-eating grin. “But hey, denial is a valid lifestyle. You do you, Teddy Bear.”

“Don’t call me Teddy Bear.”

Fuck. He’s right on all accounts.

“Aww.” Ledger, still smirking, cocks his head. “What’s the matter? You don’t want the big boss lady to see you’re just a big softie under all…this.” He gestures to my entire body.

My hands tighten around my phone, thumb accidentally mashing the screen so hard my team lineup disappears. “I just don’t need the aggravation. I’d like to get through this road series without becoming a meme again if I can help it.”

Harrison shrugs. “Then next time, maybe don’t pick a fight with someone who brings a bazooka to a water gun battle.”

Our boarding group finally gets called and the team jumps to their feet in perfect choreography.

We move like a pack, even the rookies falling into the mix.

We’re all on the plane tossing our bags into our seats when Blakely steps inside, her laptop held tightly to her chest and her tiny suitcase rolling in front of her.

“Rivers!” Griffin cheers as she slowly steps through the aisle. “Welcome to the team flight! You want an interview?”

She eyes Griffin’s outfit and raises a teasing brow. “You didn’t tell me this was a slumber party, Ollenberg. I would’ve dressed for the occasion.”

Hell, now she has me wondering what she would wear for a slumber party.

Matching sleep set?

Silky little negligée?

Does she sleep naked?

Wonder what she would look like in nothing but a Stars t-shirt with my name on the back.

“Oh, so you like my new pajama pants?” Griffin pulls at his newest pair of sleep pants that have sleeping cats all over them. “My brother loved them and sent them to me. He loves cats. I promised him I’d wear them just for him.”

Blakely’s head tilts and a sincere smile spreads across her lips.

Fuck. She’s pretty when she smiles.

Hell, she’s pretty even when she doesn’t smile.

“How super sweet of you, Griffin,” she says. “It’s so nice to see that some of you big burly guys actually have a soul underneath all that padding.” Her eyes shift quickly to me and I know damn well that comment was meant for me.

I roll my eyes with a huff and pull my headphones onto my head, pretending to ignore her.

Finally, the door to the plane closes and we slowly taxi out of the gate to the runway.

This is our cue to get out of these clothes so we can be comfortable for the four-hour flight.

Within seconds, the aisle becomes a technicolor strip club of half-naked hockey players shucking off suit jackets, yanking off ties, and squirming out of their collared shirts with all the grace of a preschool classroom.

The rookies try to change in their seats, but the vets make a spectacle of it, standing in the aisle and hurling their dress pants into the overhead bins like they’re tossing hats after a hat trick.

I stand, grateful for any excuse to get out of my dress clothes.

I’ll step out of my dress pants and am two buttons into my shirt when I notice Blakely standing in the aisle across from me, unzipping her carry-on with military precision.

She’s pretending to fish something out of her bag, but her eyes are not-so-casually glued to my hands as I work my way down the row of buttons.

You’d think a woman who’s made a career out of not blinking would be better at hiding her tells. She’s totally staring.

I don’t say a word. I just keep stripping. With deliberate slowness, I peel my shirt off in one smooth motion. A small, almost imperceptible hitch betrays her.

Ha!

I knew it!

She fumbles the zipper of her carry-on, her eyes flicking up to my chest before she makes a show of plucking out her phone and

She’s blushing. Maybe not full-on, but there’s definitely color in her cheeks.

I let it ride, feeding the moment with a calculated flex as I reach into the overhead bin for my joggers, the shirtless stretch making my torso angle toward her just enough to confirm what I already suspected.

For all her icy control, Blakely Rivers is not immune.

I let her have a good, long look before I pull the joggers on over black compression shorts. She honestly looks like she’s trying to solve a math equation and can’t decide if she likes the answer. I want to laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I give her a nod. “Like what you see, Rivers?”

She tosses her hair, the aviators coming down just enough to reveal a flash of green eyes and a smirk so sharp it could slice through steel. “I’ll let your PR agent know you’re branching out to adult modeling. Maybe then people will remember your abs instead of your save percentage.”

The guys erupt. Rivers slides into her seat diagonally in front of me and boots up her laptop, the screen already covered in color-coded notes.

She’s all business now, a human firewall, but every so often I catch her stealing glances my way, quick as a wrist shot.

She can try to play it cool, but I know what I saw.

Ledger, never content to let a moment die, leans across the aisle and whispers, “She definitely wants to see your highlight reel, and I don’t mean hockey.”

I flip him off and pretend to sleep, but somehow the hum in my body never quite resets to zero.

For the whole flight my brain runs the numbers a hundred times, playing through every micro interaction since the parking lot: the near-miss, the almost-smile, the steady thread of challenge braided with something that feels suspiciously like interest. I keep tabs on her while pretending not to, watching the way she types with her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed in pure concentration.

Watching the way she laughs at whatever Marlee whispers in her ear, or the way she shoves her laptop aside to help Ella with some godawful Pinterest board she’s building for a mascot party.

Halfway to Portland, Rivers gets up to stretch and walks up the aisle.

I see her pause at the galley, just past the curtain, debating whether to brave the bathroom or stage a moment of civilian normalcy in a world of monstrous male appetite.

I don’t know why, but I go after her. Not fast, not direct.

Just a lumbering amble toward the back, like I’m hunting for snacks.

There’s already a stack of granola bars and plain bagels on the counter, and Blakely’s standing there with one hip braced against the sink, arms crossed, staring out the little porthole window.

She clocks me in the reflection and doesn’t flinch. “Are you stalking me, Cunningham? Or did you just hear the siren song of the free biscotti?”

I grab a bottle of water and pop the cap, letting the silence drag out until she turns her body. “I could ask you the same thing, Rivers. You’ve been eyeing me all morning. Is it the abs, or are you praying I’ll do team yoga and tear a hamstring?”

Her jaw ticks, and she rolls her eyes but she’s smiling a little. “I’d never wish injury on a player. That’s bad luck. I’m just making observations. Journalism stuff. You know, what I get paid for.”

I lean a shoulder against the wall, folding my arms, not caring that I’ve still got barely more than a t-shirt on and my hair’s a mess from changing in a fuselage stampede. “You always keep such detailed notes on the team’s abs, or am I a special case?”

She shakes her head, but she’s not really annoyed.

Not even close. “You’re a special case all right.

My editor thinks you’re a ratings magnet, which is sad for journalism but great for your agent.

So, congratulations, I guess.” She picks at her thumbnail, glancing past me at the closed bathroom door.

“But between us, yes, I have a spreadsheet on who skips core day.”

The silence blooms at thirty thousand feet. It’s oddly comfortable. I watch the shadows play across her cheek, and I can’t stop myself from saying, “You ever get tired of having to be the sharpest person in the room?”

She turns back to the window, then shrugs.

“Would be nice if it worked. Usually, I just end up being the pretty one.” There’s no bitterness in her words this time.

Just the resigned honesty of someone who’s done this dance too many times to care about tripping anymore.

For a split second, I feel guilty. Harrison’s comment from a few days ago about her being good at her job rings through my ears.

“What about you?” she asks, taking a bite of her granola bar. “Ever get tired of being the junkyard dog, just biting whoever walks by?”

I let the question linger, rolling it over in my head.

Junkyard dog.

That’s good.

Nearly accurate in some senses.

Though I think I’m more like Killer the kitten.

I almost want to answer for real, but the habit of a lifetime snaps into place before I get close. “What, you want me to start handing out hugs and motivational posters?”

She huffs, and her lips tug in a smirk. “Power dynamics are weird, huh? In your world, strength is loyalty. In mine, the only way to be respected is to rip someone’s throat out before they rip out yours.

” She pushes off the counter, shoulders hunched up as if bracing for turbulence.

“Maybe that’s why we keep ending up in the same room.

We’re hunting the same thing, just with different weapons. ”

She lingers a moment, the air tight between us, then pivots and strides back toward her seat.

I watch her go. Maybe it’s her unapologetic stride, or the way she cocks her head to look back as if to check if I’m still watching, but a knot forms in my chest. A cold, flickering ember of desire that both ignites my heart and chills my resolve.

The feeling doesn’t line up with what I thought I wanted at all.

I chase it down with a gulp of water and flex the tension out of my hands.

Why is she so damn intriguing?

Back in my row, the guys are like a pack of wolves—maybe even hyenas—hazing the rookies and debating whether it’s physically possible for Ella to host a mascot party inside a hotel ballroom without someone getting tased by security.

I pretend to join in, but my focus angles to the blue glow of Rivers’s laptop screen in the row ahead, and I wonder how the hell she does it.

How she can absorb so much bullshit and keep barking?