Page 20 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BLAKELY

S ome days you just know you’re going to get pantsed by fate before you even step out of bed.

I woke up late.

Not just late, but late, late. The kind of late that makes me want to hurl my phone across my room and scream into a pillow.

I’ve missed the pre-game skate and the morning press availability.

No one texted. No one called. Because why would they?

I’m supposed to be on top of my game and the guys all hate me anyway.

They’d do anything for a leg up in the press room.

“Fuck!”

I scramble out of bed, rushing through a dry shampoo job that should be illegal and throwing on the first blazer I can find that doesn’t smell like anxiety and exhaustion.

The zipper on my boot catches and is stuck halfway up so I go with it and pretend it’s the latest fashion craze.

I spill coffee on my notes in the car on the drive over, and I drop my goddamn press pass in a parking lot puddle that soaks through my partially zipped footwear.

By the time I make it to the arena, I’m two hours behind and one passive-aggressive comment away from homicide.

And of course, it comes.

Right on cue.

“Didn’t think you’d show today, Rivers,” Greg mutters as I pass. “Figured you needed extra time to do your pretty hair and all.”

I respond with a dry laugh and a tight smile.

Mother fucking asshole.

Still, it stings. More than I want it to. It’s not the first time someone’s treated me like I don’t belong here, and it won’t be the last. But today, I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired .

The real punch lands later, though, in the press room following tonight’s game.

We won. They lost.

And the guy at the podium knows it.

Eli Mercer, the starting goalie for Miami, sits there like he’s chewing glass. He’s got a towel draped around his neck and the kind of jaw tension that says “don’t ask me anything stupid.” He’s already snapped at one reporter, and now the room’s quiet. No one wants to set him off again.

But I’m not here to play it safe.

I’m the risk taker among the crowd, so I raise my hand. “Blakely Rivers, Sports News Network.”

His eyes flick toward me. Slow. Uninterested. In fact, his left brow lifts slowly as if he’s asking what the hell I’m even doing in the room.

Yeah, asshole. I know.

“Eli, your save percentage was strong through the first two periods, but things started to fall apart in the third. Was that a fatigue issue, or a breakdown with your defense?”

Clean. Fair. Backed by the numbers. I know it's a good question. I’ve asked the same question to Barrett when he’s had a bad night.

Mercer stares at me and then he laughs.

“Maybe stick to questions about the mascot, sweetheart.”

A couple of the older reporters chuckle. One clears his throat to cover it. I feel a flash of heat crawl up my neck, but I don’t blink.

I’ve been called worse.

I’ve endured worse.

“Well, you stopped thirty shots tonight but the three you let in made all the difference, so what happened on those plays?”

Eli rolls his eyes and audibly scoffs into the microphone. “You know what, princess, I bet you can figure out what happened on those three plays for yourself. Why don’t you try asking me a real question next time.”

I nod like he didn’t just shove me off a cliff in front of a room full of colleagues, but I feel it. The heat climbing up my throat. My skin going red. I smile.

I always smile.

And I write something down on my notepad. Nothing important, just the words ‘Butt fungus pecker biscuit’ to give my hands something to do.

“Thanks for your time,” I say quietly.

I hold it together through the rest of the presser, through the interviews, and through the slow march out of the locker room and into the echo of the emptying arena.

And just when I think I can shake off another round of bullshit from my already tired shoulders, I get the call that breaks the dam in my confidence.

My boss, Simon tells me the segment I stayed up until 2 a.m. writing the night before was killed.

Replaced by a fluff piece some junior guy churned out in thirty minutes.

“Just didn’t have the right tone,” he says.

“Maybe try to sound less aggressive next time. In fact, let’s get a piece on Barrett Cunningham the man behind the mask, huh?

Fans would love a piece like that. Maybe something with a bit of a romantic feel.

I’m sure you can work your magic, Rivers. ”

Less aggressive.

Less difficult.

Less me.

“Yeah, sure,” I say deadpan and then hang up without saying goodbye. I walk quickly and quietly, as fast as my feet will carry me, straight into the women’s bathroom near the press hallway and into the farthest stall, locking it behind me.

And then I break.

Not loud. Not sobbing.

Just…leaking. Heavily.

Tears slip down my face as my breath catches in my throat like it doesn’t belong there.

My chest tightens until I feel like I might explode from the weight of holding it all in for too long.

It’s not just today. It’s every fucking day.

Every smirk. Every brush-off. Every dig disguised as banter.

Every goddamn thing Barrett Cunningham has ever said to me in the press room.

His biggest personal hit when we were in Ohio.

Every time I’ve been told to smile more or talk less.

Every time I’ve been told to “play the game, Rivers.”

I sink down onto the closed lid of the toilet, arms wrapped around myself, blazer wrinkled, mascara smudging under my eyes.

And I let it happen.

Finally. Quietly.

I let myself fall apart.

It’s not even about the damn interview anymore. It’s everything. It’s waking up late when I’m always prompt. It’s working my ass off to prove my worth but being treated like shit anyway. It’s Barrett Cunningham and his complete disdain for me. It’s just…all of it.

The endless fight to prove I deserve a seat at the table. The constant effort to be one step ahead, one degree sharper, one emotion flatter. The way my voice always has to walk the line between confident and “not too much.”

And tonight, I was too much. I was visible . And someone decided that was funny.

I press my palms into my eyes, as if I can push the tears back in, but it’s too late. The dam has not only cracked, it’s split wide open and I can’t keep the tears from flowing no matter how hard I try.

Minutes later, I don’t hear the footsteps as a warning, but I hear the knock.

“Blakely?”

Barrett.

My spine locks up and I freeze, wiping my face with the sleeve of my blazer like that’s going to fix anything.

Shit.

What’s he doing here?

How did he know where I was?

He knocks again, gentler this time. “It’s me.”

I hate that I know who me is. I hate that he’s actually walked in here and I hate even more that a part of me doesn’t want him to leave.

“Go away Barrett.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

I don’t answer, but I hear the door shift and I know he’s moved inside. I can feel his presence.

“What do you want?” I try to hide my sniffles but I fail miserably. “If you’re just here to rub my face in my own shit, you can kindly fuck all the way off.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” he says, his voice calm and soft. “Can you please come out here?”

A second later, I open the door and step out.

He looks at me like I’m fragile. Like he doesn’t recognize me.

Which makes sense. This version of me—the red eyes, the ruined makeup, the wrinkled clothes, the girl who feels small—this version doesn’t show up in press rooms or interviews.

This version is private.

Off limits.

His expression changes. Something flickers in his eyes, guilt or regret or something heavier. I straighten on instinct and try to wear my proverbial armor.

“What are you doing here, Barrett?”

“Looking for you.”

“For what, did you come to twist the knife a little more?”

“Jesus, no.” He lifts his hands slowly, voice soft. “I watched the interview from the locker room. Eli was a dick and I…I saw your face. I just had a feeling…”

“A feeling.”

He nods. “Yeah. You looked like you wanted to shiv the guy but also hide under a fucking rock and that’s not like you.”

I turn to the sink, yank out a paper towel, and dab at my eyes. “Go back to your teammates, Barrett. I’m fine. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“You’re not,” he says, and something about the gentleness in it almost breaks me all over again. “You’re not fine, Blakely. And I’m not either.”

I freeze. Eyes on the mirror. I don’t look at him.

I can’t.

“He was a dick,” Barrett says. “No excuses. What he said? That wasn’t banter. That was him being a coward. I know because I was that guy to you in the not too distant past.”

I laugh, bitter and flat. “Right. Not too distant past. Like it wasn’t just a week or two ago.”

“Yeah.” He digs his foot into the ground. “I deserve that.”

I know I’m about to show my vulnerability in front of him, but today has been a shit day, and I’m not sure how much longer I can really stay in control, so I spill my emotions, throwing caution to the wind.

“I’m so fucking tired, Barrett.” I pound the bathroom sink.

“I’m tired of every jackass in my profession making a joke at my expense.

And not only that but doing it in a room full of men who already don’t think I belong there.

Do you even realize how many times I’ve had to eat shit and smile through it?

” My throat burns. “How many times I’ve been made to feel small in front of everyone? ”

He doesn’t speak. The silence stretches between us like a fragile thread.

And then I feel him move closer. Step by step.

I tense, but he doesn’t touch me. He reaches out and gently takes the damp paper towel from my hand and tosses it in the trash. Then he just stands there. Beside me. Quiet and steady and still.

“What are you doing?” I ask him sniffling.

“I see you,” he says softly. “Even when I pretend not to. Even when I pretend you’re just a pain in my ass.”

I turn to look at him, surprised by how serious his face is, how naked it looks, stripped of sarcasm and swagger.

“You’re smart,” he says. “And brave. And you don’t back down.

You fucking know the game of hockey and that scares the hell out of me, because I’ve never had to be better before.

I’ve never had to really answer to someone else before.

Not until you showed up and called me on my bullshit.

On my weaknesses. You weren’t afraid to show me that I’m not perfect and I didn’t like it. ”

My breath stutters. The bathroom feels too quiet. Too intimate.

“But that didn’t make it any less true.” He lifts a hand and gently tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek lightly.

“I hate that I had a part in making you cry.”

“I didn’t cry,” I whisper, refusing to admit weakness now.

He nods, his voice almost a breath. “Okay. Then I hate that I made you not cry.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or scream or punch him.

But I don’t do any of those things.

And when he opens his arms—slowly, cautiously, like I might bolt or punch him in his chest—I don’t move.

I just…lean in a little.

It costs me something, I’m sure.

But it gives me something, too.

He wraps his arms around me, big and warm and real. The smell of musky cologne mixed with the faint scent of sweat, like a combination of leather and a warm summer breeze fills my senses. The familiar aroma of fabric softener and shower gel lingers in the air as well.

And for the first time, I let myself lean a little more. I let myself believe, just for a second, that I don’t have to hold the whole damn sports world up by myself.

Barrett holds me—not like I’m weak, but like I matter. Like I’m seen.

And maybe, just maybe, I’m not alone.

“I want to show you something,” he finally says after a moment. “Will you come with me?”

His voice is soft and when I lean back to look at him, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes.

“Where are we going?”

“Trust me.” The corner of his mouth pulls up with a sympathetic smile. “I promise it’ll make you smile and if it doesn’t…” He shrugs and winks at me. “Maybe you really don’t have a soul.”

I slap his bicep weakly. “Barrett Cunningham, I am not a soulless person contrary to whatever you might believe.”

“I don’t really believe it, Rivers.” He takes my hand and squeezes it lightly, leading me from the bathroom. “Come on.”