Page 21 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BARRETT

I never planned on being the kind of guy who owns a kitten.

I also never planned on inviting Blakely Rivers to my house either, but here we are driving from the arena, the quietness of my SUV only interrupted by Blakely’s occasional sniffles.

She’s pulled herself together since walking out of the bathroom but her eyes are still rimmed red, mascara smudged at the corner like war wounds.

I can’t stop looking at her, worried that if I look away too long, she’ll shatter all over again.

“Your place better not be some bachelor pad nightmare,” she finally says, breaking the silence as we pull into my building’s underground parking garage. “I’m expecting at least three protein powder containers repurposed as planters.”

I snort, grateful for the return of a little of her sass. “Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t even own plants to have in a planter.”

We take the elevator up only two levels and then I lead her to my apartment door. She stands to the side looking skeptical as hell while I fumble with my keys like some nervous teenager.

"So, this is where the great Barrett Cunningham lives," she says, eyeing the modest apartment door with obvious surprise. "I expected something more…"

"Flashy?" I finish for her. "I guess I’m 0 for 2 tonight then,” I say as I push open the door.

She follows me inside, taking in the simple furnishings, the plain walls with just a few framed photos mostly of my family and some team shots. Nothing ostentatious. Nothing that screams I make seven figures a year stopping pucks for a living.

"It's…"

"Normal?" I offer, setting my keys on the counter. "I don't need much."

Blakely steps farther into the apartment, scanning everything—the worn leather couch, the modest TV, the kitchen with basic appliances and a single coffee mug in the sink.

No signed memorabilia displayed like trophies.

Just a space that looks lived-in and deliberately understated.

I watch her cataloging it all, probably filing away details for some future article.

"Actually, I was going to say clean," she says, arms crossed defensively over her chest. "You have a cleaning service or something?"

I rub the back of my neck. "No, I just…don't like mess."

“Hmm.” She nods “It’s nice.”

Does she really think it’s nice or is she just being kind?

“Thank you.”

She sets her briefcase bag and purse down on the small dining table in the kitchen area and then turns to me. “So, you promised me something that would make me smile. So far it's just a surprisingly un-douchey apartment."

Her teasing smirk makes me relax a little and then as if right on cue, a small chirp sounds from somewhere near the kitchen, and Blakely's head whips around. "What was that?"

"That," I say, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness, "is what I wanted to show you."

The small, high-pitched sound happens again and Blakely’s eyes grow huge when a tiny orange tabby kitten with comically large ears tries to scamper across the hardwood floor but flops over several times.

"Oh, my God! Is that?—"

"Killer," I say, feeling my face heat up as the kitten weaves between my ankles. "Found him outside in front of the door several weeks ago. Little bugger was a hot mess. I couldn’t just leave him out there so…he’s with me now.”

Blakely’s entire demeanor transforms. Her shoulders fall, her eyes soften, and her mouth hangs open. She drops to her knees without hesitation, all pretense of coolness abandoned.

"Killer? You named a two-pound ball of fluff Killer?" Her voice rises to that soft, high-pitched tone people use with babies and small animals.

Killer approaches her with a cautious wobble, tiny tail quivering straight up like an antenna. When he reaches her outstretched fingers, he sniffs once, then immediately headbutts her hand with surprising force.

"Jesus," she laughs, genuinely laughs, and something in my chest loosens at the sound. "He's a little battering ram."

"Hence the name," I say, watching her scoop him up. "You should see what he does to my shoelaces."

She cradles him against her and something inside me feels like it’s cracking wide open.

Killer starts making biscuits on her blazer and she chuckles softly, her finger smoothing over his soft little head.

“Killer. You’re about as deadly as a cotton ball, aren’t you little guy?

” She lifts her eyes to meet mine and catches me staring at her.

I don’t even feel bad that I was caught. I can’t help it. She’s beautiful like this. “He seemed off when I found him, you know? Not totally broken. Just a little…bent. Kind of struck a chord with me and I figured maybe…you know, you’d see him for what he is, too.”

She doesn’t respond to what I just said but I see it register in her face. “Why does he wobble when he walks?”

“Uh, the vet said it’s called cerebellar hyperplasia. It’s a neurological condition that effects their coordination and balance so he falls a good bit.” I smile. “Especially when he tries to run. It’s fucking cute every time.”

“And he can live with this condition for his whole life?” she asks, her expression worrisome.

I nod. “Yep. Vet said he’s otherwise perfectly happy and should live a long and happy life.”

"Happy," she echoes, scratching under Killer's chin as he purrs loud enough to rival the building's HVAC system. "You ever think about that? How animals don't get hung up on their limitations like we do?"

I lean against the counter, watching her cradle my ridiculous little cat. "Every damn day. Kid's got no idea he's different. Just wakes up, knocks shit over, and demands breakfast like he's king of the jungle."

She smiles, her eyes still red-rimmed but brighter now. "And the great Barrett Cunningham, terror of the crease, just…gives it to him."

"What can I say? He's got my number." I shrug, trying to play it casual when there's nothing casual about any of this. Blakely Rivers is sitting on my floor, holding my special needs kitten, looking like she belongs here.

"I would have never pegged you for a cat person," she says, letting Killer climb up her arm to perch on her shoulder. "Especially not the type to rescue a little killer like this."

I watch as Killer nuzzles against her neck, his tiny orange paws kneading at her collarbone and for a moment, I’m actually jealous of the four-legged cotton ball. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Rivers."

"Clearly." She tilts her head, studying me with those sharp eyes that never miss a thing. "So, what else is Barrett Cunningham hiding from the world? Secret knitting hobby? Do you scrapbook?"

I snort, moving to the fridge. "Want something to drink? I've got water, beer, or…" I pause, realizing how pathetic my offerings sound. "Actually, that's it. Water or beer."

"Beer," she says without hesitation. "After today, I need alcohol more than I need hydration.”

I grab two bottles from the fridge, pop them open, and hand her one. She accepts it one-handed while making sure Killer doesn’t fall from her shoulders. He’s purring so loud he sounds like a tiny motorcycle.

"So," she says, taking a sip and wincing slightly at the bitter taste. "You rescue broken things. Is that your thing?"

The question hits deeper than she probably intended. I take a long pull from my beer, buying time. "Maybe. Or maybe broken things just find me."

"Like me tonight?" Her voice is quieter now, more vulnerable than I've ever heard.

"You're not broken, Blakely." I move closer, settling on the floor across from her. "You're just tired of fighting assholes who don't deserve to breathe the same air as you."

She looks down at Killer, who's now batting at a strand of her hair that's fallen loose from her ponytail. "Sometimes it feels the same."

"It's not." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "Broken things can't do what you did tonight. Can't walk into a room full of jackasses and ask the questions nobody else has the balls to ask. Can't take a hit like that and still stand up straight."

She's quiet for a long moment, just stroking Killer's fur. When she finally looks up, there's something raw in her expression. "You know what the worst part is? It's not even the insults anymore. It's that I'm starting to believe maybe they're right. Maybe I don't belong."

"Bullshit." The word comes out harder than I intended, and Killer startles slightly in her arms. “You belong in that press room more than any of those other assholes in there. You know your shit, Blakely, and you’ve been throwing genius punches since day one.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"It's supposed to be the truth." I watch as she runs her finger along Killer's spine, the kitten arching into her touch. "You scare the shit out of me in that press room, Rivers. But every question you ask, every time you call me out, you make me better. Even when I hate it."

She meets my eyes. "And here I thought you just wanted to throttle me."

"Oh, I do. But not in the way you think."

Her eyes flick up to mine, darkening at the edges. "Careful, Cunningham. I'm not exactly in a place to be played with right now."

"I'm not playing." I set my beer down and lean forward. "Haven't been for a while."

The air between us shifts, electric and dangerous.

Killer, oblivious to the tension, tumbles from her lap and wobbles over to attack my shoelace with ferocious determination.

Her cheeks flush pink at my words, and she ducks her head, focusing on Killer who's now attempting to climb her like she's a tree.

"I can't believe you have a cat," she says, clearly changing the subject. "This feels like the kind of secret that could ruin your whole tough-guy image."

"Maybe I don't care about that image as much as everyone thinks," I say, watching her fingers trail through Killer's fur.