Page 26 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

We had sex.

On his kitchen floor.

After I cried in a bathroom stall at the arena and he…he found me. Held me.

I should feel humiliated. Ashamed, maybe. But mostly I feel…sore.

In all the best ways, of course, but also I’m completely and unequivocally confused.

I splash cold water on my face, trying to shake off the weird emotional vertigo that's taken hold of me. This is exactly why I don't do this, the messy complications of sleeping with someone I have to work with. Someone who's already proven he can hurt me with words alone.

But as I stare at my reflection, I can't bring myself to regret it. Not the way he touched me like I was something precious, not the way he showed me his vulnerabilities, not even the way he made me feel completely owned and cherished at the same time.

My phone buzzes from the bedroom again, and I know I can't avoid my friends forever. I walk back into the bedroom and grab my phone, steeling myself for whatever chaos my friends have unleashed in my absence.

Marlee

Blake? You went quiet. Are you okay?

Ella

Did we scare her off?

Layken

Or is she busy getting her world rocked again?

Me

I'm fine. Just… processing.

Marlee

Processing what? Good processing or bad processing?

I pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

How do I explain that I'm processing the way Barrett looked at me like I hung the moon, then retreated the moment morning arrived?

How do I tell them that I'm terrified I've ruined everything by being exactly who I am—someone who overthinks and puts up a wall with anyone who feels threatening?

Me

He's making coffee. I think I fucked this up already.

Ella

What happened?

Me

Nothing. Everything.

The scent of coffee drifts from the kitchen, and I realize I can't hide in his bedroom forever. I throw on my clothes from last night, a wrinkled blouse and pants that feel foreign after being naked in Barrett's arms. I look like exactly what I am: a woman doing the walk of shame.

When I finally emerge, Barrett is leaning against his counter, coffee mug in hand, staring out the window as Killer plays with his own tail at his feet. He's still shirtless, and the morning light catches the scratches I left across his shoulders. He doesn't turn when I enter.

"Coffee's fresh," he says to the window. "Mugs are in the cabinet above the pot."

The politeness in his voice is worse than his usual gruffness.

At least when he was an asshole, I knew where I stood.

This careful distance feels like being handled with rubber gloves.

I pour myself coffee with hands that are steadier than they should be, considering the man standing five feet away just made me forget my own name multiple times last night.

The silence stretches between us like a minefield, and I'm not sure which of us is going to step on the explosive first.

"Thank you," I say, wrapping my fingers around the warm mug. "For the coffee. And for… last night."

He finally turns to look at me, and I catch something raw flickering across his features before he masks it. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't thank me like I did you some kind of favor." His jaw ticks, and I can see the walls slamming back into place. "We're both adults. We both wanted it."

I take a sip of coffee to buy myself time, trying to decode whatever's happening in his head. "Barrett?—"

"You should…”

"I should what?" I challenge, setting my mug down harder than necessary. The clink echoes in the suddenly too-quiet kitchen, and Killer looks up from his tail with wide, curious eyes.

Barrett's grip tightens on his coffee mug. "You should probably get going. Don't want to be late for work."

The dismissal hits me like a slap, and I feel my spine straighten automatically. It’s the same defensive posture I use when some asshole reporter tries to put me in my place.

"Right. Of course." I force a smile that feels like broken glass. "Thanks for the reminder."

Something flickers across his face—regret, maybe, or frustration—but it's gone before I can be sure. "Blakely, I didn't mean?—"

"No, you're absolutely right." I'm already moving toward the table where I left my bags, my movements mechanical and practiced. I roll my eyes though he can’t see them at the moment. "Wouldn't want to be late for work. What would people think?"

"That's not what I—" He sets his mug down and takes a step toward me. "Rivers, will you just?—"

"Look, it's fine." I grab my bag, refusing to meet his eyes. "Last night was… great. Really. But you're right, we're adults. No need to make this complicated."

I'm lying through my teeth. It's already complicated. It was complicated the moment he found me crying in that bathroom, maybe even before that. But I'll be damned if I let him see how much this sudden coldness hurts.

"Is that what you want?" he asks, his voice softer now. "For this to be uncomplicated?"

I finally look at him, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. "What I want…" I start, then falter when I see his vulnerability peeking through. The truth is, I don't know what I want. Or maybe I do, and that's what terrifies me.

"That's what I thought," he says, his voice suddenly flat again. He turns away, running a hand through his hair. "Look, we don't have to make this weird. Last night was…" He pauses, searching for the right word but then he doesn’t finish his sentence and now I wonder what he’s not saying.

Does he regret it?

Was it not that good for him?

Was I not good enough?

“But I get it. You have your career to think about."

"And you have yours," I counter, crossing my arms over my chest and trying my best not to tear up.

The bruises he left on my body pulse with a dull ache that reminds me of everything we did.

"God forbid anyone finds out the great Barrett Cunningham slept with the annoying reporter who's been making his life hell. "

His head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "Is that what you think this is about?"

"Isn't it?" I fire back, my voice sharper than I intended. "Come on, Bear. We both know how this looks. The female reporter who can't keep it professional, sleeping with the players she's supposed to be covering objectively."

"That's not—" He starts, then stops, jaw clenching. "You really think that little of me? That I'd see you that way?"

The hurt in his voice catches me off guard, but I'm too deep in defensive mode to back down now. "I don't know what to think. Five minutes ago, you were holding me like I mattered, and now you're practically shoving me out the door."

"I'm not shoving you anywhere," he growls, taking a step closer. "I'm trying to give you an out before you decide you made a mistake."

"An out?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "How generous of you, Bear. Really. Nothing says, 'great night' like being offered an escape route before the coffee's even cold."

His eyes flash with something that looks like pain, but I'm too worked up to care. "That's not what I meant."

"No? Then what did you mean?" I step closer, close enough to see the conflict warring in his dark eyes. "Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you're trying to convince yourself this was a mistake before I get the chance to."

"Maybe it was." The words come out harsh, cutting, and I actually flinch.

There it is. The truth I was waiting for.

Something cold settles in my chest, heavy and familiar. It's the same feeling I get every time someone dismisses me in a press room or the locker room. The sting of rejection that's become so familiar I should be numb to it by now.

"Great," I say, my voice artificially bright as I grab my bag. "Now that we've established that, I'll get out of your hair. Thanks for the coffee."

I turn to leave, dignity wrapped around me like armor, when his hand catches my wrist. The touch is gentle but firm, stopping me in my tracks.

"Blakely, wait." His voice has lost its edge, replaced with something softer, almost pleading. "I didn't mean?—"

"Yes, you did." I don't turn around. I can’t bear to see the pity in his eyes. "It's fine, Barrett. Really. We're both adults, remember? No harm done."

Except to my barely-hanging-on ego.

“I’ll see you around.”