Page 29 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

CHAPTER TWENTY

BLAKELY

B arrett Cunningham stands at the edge of the crease, a six-foot-five wall of muscle and attitude, and all I can think about is how those hands felt gripping my thighs four nights ago.

I force my eyes back to my notes, ignoring the flush creeping up my neck.

Coach Hicks called an extra practice this morning and the team is in full swing.

The rink is filled with the rhythmic scrape of skates and the hollow thwack of pucks hitting the boards.

I'm tucked away in my usual spot in press row, third seat from the left, where the lighting is decent for my pre-game prep work. I can’t help but notice I’m the only reporter sitting in on practice today.

Where the hell are the guys?

Why should I care?

They snooze, they lose.

Guess I get the inside scoop this time. A reward for checking my damn email. My fingers hover over my tablet, trying to focus on the segment I'm supposed to be writing about defensive strategies, but my traitorous eyes keep drifting back to him.

Four days since I walked out of his apartment. Four days of radio silence. Four days of replaying that morning on a torturous loop, wondering if I imagined the whole night before it.

I haven't slept worth a damn, my body still remembering the feel of his hands, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress.

Not to mention what we did on his kitchen floor.

I've been trying to convince myself it didn't mean anything, that I'm a professional who can compartmentalize, but my body betrays me every time he moves in his crease.

"You planning to actually write something, or just stare at Cunningham's ass all morning?" Marlee slides into the seat beside me, coffee in hand.

"I'm working," I mutter, though my notebook remains stubbornly blank.

"Uh-huh." She smirks, sipping her coffee. "That's why you've written exactly zero words in the last twenty minutes."

I'm about to fire back a witty retort when a voice booms across the ice.

"Rivers!"

My head snaps up. Barrett is staring directly at me from the net, hockey stick planted in front of him like a medieval staff.

The entire practice seems to freeze. Players are whispering among themselves, trainers have stopped moving.

Even Coach Hicks folds his arms across his chest, his brows arched.

“Oh, God, what is he doing?” I whisper to Marlee. She merely shrugs and takes another sip of her coffee.

"You played in college, right?" Barrett calls out, his voice echoing through the arena.

I feel every eye in the place turn to me. My throat goes dry. "You know I did," I shout back, trying to keep my voice steady. "Why?"

Barrett jerks his head toward the bench. "There's a pair of skates in the equipment room. I need your help.”

Heat floods my face as everyone stares at me and my heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

"What?" I manage to croak out, my voice embarrassingly high. "I don't think that's?—"

"I'm having trouble with my lateral movement," he continues, as if this is a perfectly normal request. "You’ve said so yourself. I need someone who knows what they're doing to help me fix it. Someone who can really challenge me."

“That’s what you have an entire coaching staff for, Cunningham,” I say gesturing to the bench where several coaches and trainers stand by confused.

“They don’t see me like you do, though,” Barrett calls back, impatience edging his voice. “You coming or what?”

Marlee elbows me hard in the ribs. "Go," she whispers urgently.

"Are you insane?" I hiss back. "I can't just go out there," I protest, but Barrett's already beckoning to me with that infuriating crook of his finger, the same one he used four nights ago to make me come undone. The memory hits me like a physical blow.

"Rivers!" he bellows again. "Five minutes. Equipment room."

Coach Hicks is now looking between Barrett and me, his expression somewhere between confused and intrigued. I'm painfully aware of the other players watching, some outright smirking.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter, but I'm already gathering my notes and shoving them into my bag. "I'm a reporter, not a skating coach."

"Yet you're going," Marlee points out with a knowing grin like this is the most entertaining thing she’s seen all week.

I shoot her a death glare. "Because he's making a scene."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

I should say no.

I should walk right out of the arena and slam the locker room door behind me.

But I don’t.

Because I’m an idiot.

And because something in his voice—not cocky or sarcastic, but hopeful, almost boyish—makes my stubborn feet move.

I storm down the corridor toward the equipment room, fury and something else—something I refuse to name—churning in my stomach. The nerve of him.

The absolute audacity to call me out like that in front of everyone.

The equipment room smells like sweat, rubber, and whatever industrial cleaner they use that never quite masks the funk of hockey gear.

A pair of women's skates sits on the bench, brand new and already laced, and beside them, a pair of gloves, a pair of sweatpants in a medium size—my size—to pull over my leggings, and a Stars team hoodie with Barrett’s last name on the back.

How did he even know I’d be wearing leggings today?

"You've got to be kidding me," I groan.

This wasn't a spontaneous request.

Barrett planned this.

I should walk out. I should march back to press row and pretend this never happened.

But my fingers are already tracing the name on the back of the hoodie, CUNNINGHAM, and something stubborn and defiant flares in my chest. He wants to make a spectacle.

Fine. I'll show him exactly what he's been missing.

I change quickly, yanking the sweatpants over my leggings and pulling the hoodie over my head.

His name stretches across my shoulders like a claim.

The skates fit perfectly because of course they do.

I finish lacing them with practiced fingers, muscle memory from years on the ice taking over despite my rage.

When I step onto the ice, the familiar bite of cold air hits my face, and my body remembers what to do before my brain catches up.

I glide forward, the satisfying scrape of metal on ice bringing back a flood of memories, early morning practices, late-night games, the smell of Zamboni-fresh ice.

"Took you long enough," Barrett calls from his crease, and I swear I detect a hint of nervousness beneath his usual cockiness.

I skate toward him, my legs finding their rhythm despite years away from competitive play. "So, what exactly is this about, Cunningham?" I ask when I reach him, voice low enough that only he can hear me.

He tosses me a stick—a player's stick, not a goalie's paddle—and nods toward a pile of pucks at the blue line. "Exactly what I said. I need help with my lateral movement. You've mentioned it in three separate post-game analyses."

"You pay attention to my analyses?" I blink, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.

"Every word." His eyes lock with mine, intense and unreadable behind his mask. "I’m too slow tracking the puck laterally. My right pad doesn’t seal post. I telegraph my movements and don’t realize it.” He repeats all my words back to me. “You’ve been right every time. So, help me fix it.”

I stare at him, momentarily speechless.

He's been listening to my analysis?

Taking it seriously?

The thought catches me off guard, but I quickly recover, squaring my shoulders.

"Fine," I say, scooping up a puck with the blade of my stick. "Let's see what you've got."

I skate backward toward the blue line, feeling the ice beneath me, remembering the weight of my body, the balance, the edge work. It's been years since I've done this competitively, but some things you never forget. The stick feels alive in my hands, an extension of my arms as I handle the puck.

"Ready?" I call out.

Barrett drops into his stance, knees bent, glove up, blocker ready. He gives me a curt nod, eyes focused behind his mask.

I push off, skating a wide arc as I approach the net.

I send the puck sailing toward Barrett's glove side, testing his reflexes. He snags it with a quick flash of leather, barely moving his body. Too easy.

"That all you got, Rivers?" he taunts, tossing the puck back to me.

I narrow my eyes, gathering another puck. This time I fake a shot, drag the puck to my backhand, and flick it toward the top corner. He stretches, just catching it with the edge of his blocker.

"Better," he admits, "but I knew where you were going."

"Because I telegraphed it," I say, understanding now. He wants me to show him what I see when I analyze his game.

I grab another puck and circle wider, studying his stance. His weight is slightly forward, his right leg angled just a touch differently than his left. It's subtle. Most people wouldn't notice it, but it's there. I skate back and forth, watching his reactions, how he shifts his weight.

"You have a tell," I call out, circling with the puck. "Your right shoulder drops a split second before you push off on lateral movements."

I demonstrate, mimicking his stance, then showing the subtle drop. "See? Anyone paying attention knows exactly where you're going before you even move."

Something flashes in his eyes. Surprise, maybe even respect. I take advantage of his momentary distraction and fire a quick wrist shot that sails past his blocker.

"Shit," he mutters, fishing the puck out of the net much to the amusement of the rest of the guys.

“Nice play, Rivers!” Griffin applauds from center ice where the guys are now lingering to watch.

"That's one," I say, unable to keep the smugness from my voice when I skate past Barrett. "Want to see more of your weaknesses, Cunningham?"

He straightens, adjusting his mask. "Show me everything."