Page 33 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

BLAKELY

M y body still feels like it’s floating. Like I’ve been ripped open and stitched back together by Barrett’s hands, mouth, and… other parts.

I’m limp and oversensitive, a mess of damp skin and shaky limbs as he pulls me close, tucking me against his chest like I’m something soft and breakable. His hand runs up and down my spine in slow, lazy strokes, and I swear I can still feel the aftershocks rolling through me like tiny earthquakes.

I didn’t even know I could do that.

And now… he’s holding me like I’m his.

Not a hookup. Not a heat-of-the-moment decision. Like I’m his person.

His lips brush against my hairline. “Still alive in there, Rivers?”

Barely. But I nod, eyes closed, heart doing this stupid fluttery thing in my chest that has nothing to do with orgasms and everything to do with the way he’s holding me now.

Like I matter.

Like I’m not just some female form in his bed but Blakely , who he wants to keep close long after the high has faded.

“Just recovering,” I murmur into his chest, my voice rough and full of sleep.

“Should I call for backup? Oxygen? A priest?”

I laugh weakly. “Shut up.”

He presses a kiss to my temple, and I feel him smile against my skin. His hand settles low on my hip, thumb brushing absent circles there like he’s tracing me into memory.

We fall quiet for a minute. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s heavy in that something just changed kind of way.

I tilt my head to look at him. His eyes are half-lidded, that devastatingly smug post-sex smirk on his lips, but there’s something softer in his gaze too. Something almost… reverent.

“You okay?” he asks gently, like maybe he’s worried he went too far. Like making me come so hard I nearly blacked out might've shattered something in me.

“Yeah,” I whisper, my fingers tracing along his ribs. “I’m more than okay.”

He exhales like I’ve just lifted the weight of the world off his chest. His eyes close, and for a second, he looks young . Bare. Real.

“Was that—you’ve seriously never—?” He starts, then seems to rethink the question.

“No,” I cut in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his jaw. “Never. Not like that.”

He lets out a low groan. “Jesus, Rivers. Don’t say that or I’m gonna get hard again.”

I smile against his skin. “So don’t make me say it. Just know it.”

He pulls me tighter against him, tucks my head under his chin. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “I know it.”

And somehow, that feels more intimate than the sex ever was.

Because this? This quiet warmth in the dark? This is what it feels like to belong .

And I’m starting to think… maybe I want to.

With him.

The room is quiet except for the low hum of the city beyond the window and the steady thump of Barrett’s heartbeat under my ear.

And then, like the man has no sense of self-preservation, he says casually, “So…should I retire these sheets? Or maybe bronze them?”

I groan and bury my face in his chest. “Barrett.”

“What?” His voice is pure amusement. “I’m just saying. My girl was badass and I’m going to remember this night one way or another.”

My girl.

I didn’t think I’d ever enjoy hearing those two words come from Barrett Cunningham’s mouth. Especially in regard to me.

But I think it might be my new favorite thing.

I smack him in the ribs, but he just laughs, low and smug and thoroughly pleased with himself.

“You’re such an ass.”

He kisses the top of my head. “An ass who got you to soak my mattress. You’re welcome.”

I glance up at him, trying and failing to look unimpressed. “You realize now I can never look your teammates in the eye again without thinking about the fact that I turned your bed into a kiddie pool.”

He raises a brow, grinning. “Oh, they’re definitely going to know.”

I swat at him again, but he just rolls out of bed with a groan, stark naked and zero shame, and starts tugging the damp sheets off the mattress.

“Stop looking at my ass like that,” he says without looking at me.

“I’m not!” I lie very poorly.

I roll off the bed and he tosses the ruined top sheet into a pile, then shoots me a grin over his shoulder. “You know you’re lucky you’re hot, Rivers. Otherwise, I might’ve made you wash the sheets.”

“You’re lucky you’re good at what you do, Cunningham, or I might’ve walked out mid-orgasm and left you to deal with your swamp bed alone.”

That gets a laugh out of him, deep and unfiltered, and I feel a ridiculous sense of pride knowing I can make him laugh like that.

Once the bed is stripped, he pulls on a fresh pair of sweatpants and tosses me one of his hoodies this time, leaving my clothes dispersed all over the floor of his apartment. Oversized, soft as hell, and smelling perfectly like Bear, I pull it on over my head without thinking.

His eyes darken a little when he sees me in it, but he wisely says nothing. I pretend not to notice, even though I feel it like a spark across my skin.

He disappears down the hallway and I take a minute to use the restroom and clean myself up.

When I’m done I sneak a pair of his boxer briefs from his dresser drawer—what he doesn’t know won’t kill him—and pull them on before making my way down the hall to the kitchen.

He picks up a couple slices of pizza on paper plates and a cold beer in each hand and then turns to find me standing in the doorway watching.

I laugh when he nearly stumbles and drops the pizza when he sees me wearing his underwear along with his hoodie.

“Jesus fucking Christ, woman. Warn a man when you’re looking that hot.”

Killer weaves in and out of my feet so I bend down to pick him up, snuggling him into my arms. My eyes flit to Barrett and then I playfully lift my shoulder. “Sorry not sorry. I needed pants and found these.”

“Snooping through my drawers, I see?” The corner of Barrett’s mouth lifts and he licks his lips like he could devour me all over again.

“You never know, Cunningham,” I tease. “I’m always looking for the inside scoop.”

He laughs. “I promise you won’t find it in my underwear drawer.”

“Are you kidding?” I ask him playfully. “I can tell all the ladies out there, who think you’re God’s gift to sex symbols, exactly what kind of underwear you sport on any given day.”

“Have at it, I guess,” he chuckles. “If that’s what the ladies out there really want to know. But you better also tell them I’m off the market.”

“Oh?”

Something about his confession fills my chest with pride.

“You’re the only one to ever wear my underwear, Rivers.” He winks at me and then hands me one of the beers in his hand. “This is the full Barrett Cunningham post-sex experience,” he says like it’s a love language. “Mind-blowing orgasm, followed by room-temperature carbs and mild sports commentary.”

“Wow,” I deadpan, accepting the beer. “No wonder you’re single.”

He shoots me a grin as he drops onto the couch beside me. “Harsh. And I’m not single anymore. Your pussy made sure of that.”

Why does his comment make me want to smile?

We eat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the TV playing low in the background. Eventually, I glance over at him. “So, what’s the verdict? Do you think you’re getting traded at the end of your contract, or are the rumors just media panic?”

He shrugs, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s always media panic. They see one loss and think it’s the apocalypse. But I don’t think I’m going anywhere. Coach pulled me aside yesterday, told me to ignore the noise. Said I’m his guy.”

I nod, swallowing a bite. “You are his guy. You're the best goalie in the league when you’re not trying to fistfight defensemen mid-game.”

He smirks. “That was ages ago and that guy hooked my ankle. Besides, I didn’t actually hit him.”

“You almost did,” I point out. “I venture a guess the look on your face gave every PR manager in the building a heart attack.”

He grins wider. “That’s just how I flirt.”

I roll my eyes and take another bite. “You need therapy.”

He leans in close, pizza still in hand. “I’ve got something better than therapy.”

“What?”

“You.” He says it so casually, like it’s obvious. Like it’s already a fact.

And just like that, my heart does that stupid lurching thing again.

I shake my head, flustered, grinning despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”

He bumps my shoulder with his. “Yeah. But you like me anyway.”

I do.

God help me, I really, really do.

Barrett nudges a bowl of popcorn toward me as we lounge on his couch, legs tangled, the late-night game playing on mute. His arm is slung behind me, fingers lazily curling a piece of my hair like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

"You don’t talk much about playing hockey in college, but you’ve mentioned it enough times," he says, voice casual but laced with curiosity. His eyes flick to mine. "Were you any good?"

I snort. “Define good.”

He smirks. “Let me guess, center? Fast, feisty, definitely chirpy.”

“You’re four for four,” I say, tossing a kernel into my mouth. “I was that annoying forward who talked trash and skated like she had something to prove.”

Barrett grins like he expected that answer. “Yeah, that tracks. Still your entire personality.”

“Rude,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.

“Did you really stop playing just because you don’t have a dick like you said before? Because it seems like you really love the sport and I can’t see you quitting like that. Well, not without a fight anyway.”

That one hits a little deeper.

I shrug and glance down at the hem of his hoodie—now mine for the night—bunched around my knees.

“You’re right. I didn’t quit because I wanted to.

I tore up my knee sophomore year and came back slower.

I still played, but it wasn’t the same. By senior year, I knew I wasn’t going pro, and journalism…

it gave me a whole different kind of fire.

It was my major anyway and I really enjoyed it.

I figured if I couldn’t play, I could still immerse myself in the game.

I could still talk about it…live it, you know? ”