Page 30 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

The challenge lights up something dormant inside me.

A competitive fire I thought I'd buried along with my hockey dreams. I gather another puck, weaving it between my legs as I circle the zone.

Barrett tracks me, his focus absolute as I test his edges, his patience, watching for the telltale signs I pointed out.

"Try to hide that shoulder drop," I call out, dancing with the puck. "Think about keeping your weight centered until the last possible second."

I fake left, then dart right, firing a shot that he barely catches with his pad. The satisfying thud makes me smile despite myself.

"Better," I acknowledge, collecting another puck. “You’ve got to get better control of your physical game. You’re slow sometimes because you’re overthinking.”

"Again," he demands, tossing the puck back.

I collect it and skate backward, watching him adjust his position. This time, I notice he's consciously keeping his weight centered, shoulders square. When I shoot, he moves with surprising fluidity, tracking the puck perfectly.

"There it is," I nod, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips.

His eyes follow me with an intensity that I can’t describe but makes my cheeks flush just the same. “It’s not just physical commitment, Rivers. It’s mental.”

“What do you mean?”

He pulls himself upright and lifts his mask. “The thing about hockey is, when you get too rigid and too locked up, you lose the ability to adjust when someone comes at you fast.”

“Right.” I nod. “So, lower your center. Commit to the movement and trust your instincts instead of your fear.”

He nods his head slowly, his eyes holding mine as he quietly asks, “Is that advice just for goaltending?”

Suddenly I’m not so sure we’re talking about hockey at all.

My stomach flips and something in my chest flutters. The rink suddenly feels smaller, the noise of the team fading to nothing. I swallow hard. “I’m not here to fix your emotional damage, Barrett,” I answer softly.

“No,” he agrees, shaking his head and skating toward me. “But I am.” He comes to a stop just a few feet away. Not quite close enough to touch me, but close enough for me to see the sincerity in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Blakely.”

“For what?”

As if I don’t know what he’s apologizing for.

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, and I hate how my stomach flips in response. "For letting you walk out of my apartment four days ago," he answers. "For all the things I didn't say. For making you feel like a mistake when you're anything but."

I swallow, my fingers tightening around my stick. "Barrett?—"

He leans closer, the scent of his sweat and that damn cologne making it hard to remember why I was so angry.

"I was scared, Blakely. I still am. I'm scared of what that night meant for both of us," he explains, gesturing between us.

"Of how real it felt. Of how real it still feels for me.

I'm terrified of how much I actually care about you. "

My throat tightens. Part of me wants to skate away, protect myself from another disappointment.

"Barrett—"

"No, just…just let me finish." He peels off his gloves and drops them on the ice, fingertips grazing my arm.

When I flinch, he drops his hand and pushes back.

"I'm sorry. This is me saying the words and meaning every single one. I’m sorry for how I made you feel. For not fighting harder to make it right the second the words came out of my mouth. What I said was in poor taste and not at all what I meant. I reacted without thinking and I was a complete insensitive asshole. But I'm here now. And I'm…I’m asking.” He takes a deep breath, sincerity in the way he holds my gaze. “I’m asking for another chance, off the ice. With you.”

My heart pounds in my chest.

He's not perfect.

God, he's so far from it.

But this vulnerability, this effort, it's more than I ever expected from him.

And maybe…just maybe…he's worth the risk of getting hurt. Maybe this is…a start.

"I need to know, Barrett," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, "Is this just about getting me out of your system? If it is, that’s fine. You can be honest, but I can't?—"

"No." His answer is immediate, firm. "This isn't about getting you out of my system. It's about letting you in."

The words hit me with more force than any slapshot. I stare at him, searching his face for any sign of insincerity, but all I see is raw, unfiltered honesty.

And it terrifies me.

"You can't just…" I gesture vaguely around us, at the team, at the rink, at the absurdity of this whole situation. "You can't ambush me at practice and expect everything to be fixed with an apology."

"I know." He nods, his mask now completely pushed back, revealing his face fully. "But I needed to get your attention.”

"You couldn't have just texted me like a normal person?" I ask, though the fight is already draining out of my voice.

"Would you have answered?" His question is quiet, honest, and it hits deeper than I want to admit.

I wouldn't have.

I would’ve ignored his calls and deleted his messages.

"That's what I thought," he says when I don't respond. "So, I had to get creative."

"Creative," I repeat, gesturing at the ice around us. "You call this creative? You basically forced me into a public spectacle. You’re using up team practice time for…for this."

"I call it desperate," he admits, and the raw honesty in his voice makes my breath catch. "I've been going out of my mind for four days, Blakely. I can't eat, can't sleep, can't stop thinking about you. And I didn't know how else to get you to hear me out."

His words hang between us, sincere and raw. I've spent four days convincing myself that night meant nothing to him, that I was just a convenient body, a moment of weakness. But the desperation in his eyes tells a different story.

"The guys know, don't they?" I ask, gesturing toward the team, who are pretending not to watch us while very obviously watching us.

Barrett's lips twitch. "They knew how I felt about you long before I did."

"And how exactly do you feel about me, Cunningham?" I challenge, needing to hear him say it, needing the words out loud where I can't dismiss them as my imagination.

He glances around at our audience, then back to me. "You want me to do this here? Now?”

I stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You're the one who made this a public spectacle, Bear. Don't get shy now."

Something shifts in his expression. A flicker of determination that makes my stomach flip. His tongue slides against his bottom lip and then he says, “Fine. You want to know how I feel about you?”

Before I have the chance to answer him he drops his stick on the ice with a clatter that echoes through the suddenly too- quiet arena and then closes the distance between us with one purposeful stride.

His eyes hold my gaze, his hands cup my face, and his mouth crashes against mine.

The kiss is nothing like our private encounters.

It’s not desperate or frantic. This time it’s deliberate and possessive.

A public declaration.

I freeze for a split second, acutely aware of the collective gasp from the team, the clatter of sticks hitting the ice, and Griffin's unmistakable whoop of approval. But then Barrett's thumb strokes my cheek, and I melt against him, my gloved hands clutching the front of his practice jersey.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark and serious.

"I'm fucking crazy about you, Blakely Rivers," he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I have been since the first time you ripped apart my game in the press room. Now will you please put me out of my goddamn misery and tell me you’ll go out with me?” He leans his forehead against mine and murmurs, “Because between you and me, watching you skate around my crease with my name on your back is making parts of me very uncomfortable.”

I just barely stifle a laugh, my eyes focusing on his as he takes my hand.

“Go out with me, Blakely. Please.”

“So, you’re saying it’s better to risk everything than play it safe.” My own press question floats through my mind as I inhale a deep breath.

Something inside me tells me that Barrett Cunningham is worth every single risk I could take.

“Okay, Bear,” I say gently. “I’ll go out with you.”

“Thank fucking Christ.” He smiles and then sweeps me up in his arms. He kisses my lips and then carries me off the ice, but not before he spins around on his skates and announces, “Thanks guys. I appreciate the help. That’s a wrap.”

My brows furrow and my mouth falls open as I give Barrett a crazed and confused look.

“What’s going on? Don’t you guys need to practice?”

“Nah.” He chuckles softly as he steps off the ice, still carrying me in his arms. “There was no extra practice. The guys were just doing me a favor.”

What?

“Wait. You planned this? This whole thing?” My voice rises in pitch as I consider the lengths this man will go. And for what?

For me?

“Yep. I told you, I panicked. And then I knew I needed to get you out on the ice. It’s the only place I knew you would listen to me and I needed you to hear me.

” He carries me into the locker room where he sets me on the bench in front of his dressing cubby.

Surprisingly my shoes are right next to his.

“You even had Hicks in on this plan?”

Barrett smirks as he shrugs. “What can I say? Once his daughter fell in love with Roche he saw the importance of us all being a family. Now he wants us to all find love and settle down. He thinks we play better that way.”

“Whoa there soldier. Settle down? Aren’t we putting the cart before the horse?”

He cocks his head, watching me with a mischievous look in his eye. “Did we not fuck it out on my kitchen floor before actually starting a relationship? Is that not putting the cart before the horse?”

“Touché,” I say, and then I pull him in for another glorious kiss.