Page 35 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

BARRETT

I ’ve faced slapshots from guys twice my size. I’ve stared down roaring crowds and deflected pucks with half a second to react. But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepares me for walking into a damn home décor store with Blakely Rivers.

Because she’s beaming. Radiant. Bouncing on the balls of her feet in her white sneakers like this is the most exciting thing she’s done all week. And maybe it is. Hell, maybe it is for me too, and that’s the part that rattles me.

“I’m just warning you now,” she says, scanning the entrance like she’s hunting for targets, “if you try to buy one of those live-laugh-love signs, I’m walking out.”

I grin. “Guess I’ll return the one I already bought.”

She throws me a look over her shoulder that makes my stomach tighten in the best way. Her ponytail swings as she walks ahead, and I catch myself just staring like a complete idiot. Hoodie, jeans, barely any makeup. She looks comfortable. She looks like she belongs in my space.

And for the first time… I kind of want someone to.

Not just someone though. Her. I want it to be Blakely.

“So, what exactly are we looking for?” she asks, grabbing a cart like she owns the place. “Something to warm the place up, right? A vibe?”

“I don’t know what that means,” I say, stepping in beside her. “I need you to translate.”

“Okay,” she says, nodding like she’s accepted the mission. “Then we’re looking for ‘goalie with hidden depth who wants his apartment to say I don’t bite unless I like you.’”

I bark a laugh. “That’s a lot for a couch pillow to communicate.”

“You’d be surprised.” She stops in front of a wall of throw pillows and holds one up. “This says, ‘I care about lumbar support but also aesthetics.’”

“That one’s twenty-five bucks.”

“Comfort is an investment.”

I mutter under my breath but toss it into the cart anyway. Because she likes it. Because her eyes lit up and I want that to keep happening.

“What do you think about these?” she asks, pulling down two round pillows cinched in the center with a button of some sort. They’re each a different shade of blue.

I scratch my chin, mulling over the pillows before I answer, “I think they look like buttholes.”

“What?” She spits out a laugh. “What are you talking about?”

God her smile is so fucking pretty.

“They’re butthole pillows. That’s what I think of them,” I tell her, gesturing to the cinched middles.

“Look, they look like they’re all puckered up.

Like my asshole when Hicks walks into the locker room in a bad mood…

or when you step up to the mic in the press room.

” She’s definitely made my asshole pucker a time or two in that room.

“Oh.” She smiles with a raise of her brow. “So, I make your asshole pucker, huh?”

“Sometimes, yeah.” I nod, matching her mischievous expression. I lean down and press my lips against hers and then tell her, “And one day when the timing is right, I’m going to fuck you in that room so I can show you who’s boss.”

She giggles but I don’t miss the darkening of her eyes at the mention of the idea.

“Promises, promises,” she says before she drops the two butthole pillows into the cart. When she spins toward the lamps, I consider putting one of the two buttholes back but fuck it. What my girl likes, my girl gets.

“What about that one?” I point to a low wooden floor lamp with a warm fabric shade.

Her eyes land on it and her mouth opens a little. “Okay, that’s actually good. I’m impressed.”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Because you just referred to pillows as assholes and the last time I saw you pick something, it was a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and a six-pack of Blue Moon in the gas station this morning. Also, I’m pretty damn sure your nutritionist would not approve.”

“You say that like it wasn’t an elite choice and between you and me, what my nutritionist doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

She snorts and keeps browsing, and I let myself enjoy this. The normalcy of it. No cameras. No pressure. Just…her, here, choosing a fake plant that won’t die in my questionable care, and making my place feel like it’s something more than just a crash pad between road games.

“This one,” she says, holding up a framed print of a mountain landscape with fog curling through the trees. “It feels peaceful.”

I nod. “Yeah. That works.”

She tosses it in the cart, then glances at me. Her voice softens. “You sure this isn’t too much? I know this isn’t your usual Saturday.”

“It’s better,” I say, quieter than I mean to. “I wanted you here.”

Her eyes flick up to mine, wide and searching, like she’s trying to figure out what game I’m playing.

I’m not. Not this time.

“You make it feel like home,” I admit. “I’ve lived in places with better furniture, newer kitchens. But this? Walking around a store like this with you? It’s the first time it doesn’t feel temporary.”

Blakely blinks. Then she smiles soft and slow and a little shy, which is rare for her.

And yeah. I think I’d buy a hundred overpriced pillows if it means I get to see that smile again. “What else do we need?”

Without a second thought she answers, “How about a couple throw blankets. Good for snuggling.”

“Perfect,” I tell her. “Lead the way.”

Together we pick out two very fuzzy and very soft blankets that I’m certain Killer will claim as his own the minute he steps on them.

But what’s mine is his anyway, so I don’t mind.

“Okay, I think that’s it,” Blakely says, swiping her hands together in a job well done gesture.

“You’ve got some great stuff in here to give your place a little freshening up. ”

I glance down into the cart and smile to myself. “One more thing. Well, maybe two or three more before we check out.”

Her brows arch and her pretty mouth forms a perfect little O shape. “Oh? What did I forget?”

With a slow smirk, I gesture my head toward the bedding aisle. “Let’s grab three more sheet sets and a waterproof mattress protector.”

She laughs and goes to slap my arm but I stop her with my hand around her wrist and pull her against me. “Because if I have my way, last night will not have been the only time my bed gets wet.”

It’s not freezing by any means, but even California in the wintertime can get chilly and today is no exception.

Blakely’s bundled up in my hoodie, one hand shoved deep into the pocket as we walk down the block, her other enveloped in my warm grasp.

She doesn’t ask where we’re going, just follows my lead like she’s starting to trust me with more than just apologies and pizza.

Which is… new. And heavier than I thought it’d be.

St. Luke’s comes into view. An old red brick church building with a faded sign and a line already curling around the corner even though the doors won’t open for another twenty minutes. I glance down at her and watch how she scans the street trying to figure out what we’re doing here.

“You ever been here?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Nope. What is this…?”

“A soup kitchen,” I say.

Her head tilts and her curious eyes find mine. “A soup kitchen?”

“Mhmm. I help out when I can. I try to make it here weekly if not every other. It gets tricky during the season but I try to stay regular during the summer months.”

Her brows lift. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” I push open the side door and squeeze her hand before we go in. “But Blake?”

“Yeah?” Her gorgeous round eyes stare back at me.

“This is another one of those off the record things. Can you do that? For me?”

She pulls her hand from her hoodie pocket and presses it against my chest. “Barrett Cunningham, you might not believe this about me, but I’m pretty damn sure I’d do just about anything for you,” she says.

“If you say it’s off the record, it’s off the record.

I’m not a reporter today. I’m just your girl, standing by your side and hanging out with you because I enjoy your company. ”

“My girl,” I repeat. “I didn’t think there would ever be a day where I would have someone to call my girl, but it feels really fucking good.”

“Well, you better get used to it big guy,” she says, smiling at me. “Because I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

“Good.” I lean down and kiss her lips, soft, slow, meaningful. “That makes me happy. And this makes me happy so I wanted to share it with you. Come on.”

Inside, the place smells like coffee and stew. Old wood floors creak under our feet, and volunteers are already setting out trays and sorting cans behind the counter. Carla, who runs the kitchen with a fierce heart and zero tolerance for laziness, spots me and waves me over like I’m late.

“Cunningham,” she barks. “Took you long enough. Go grab an apron.”

Blakely stiffens beside me. “Wait. You work here?”

“Yeah.” I grab a couple aprons off the hook and toss her one. “This isn’t an autograph session. Most of these people don’t even know who I am. To them I’m just a big guy who slings soup into their bowl once a week and helps them feel a little less put out.”

She stares at the apron in her hands, then at me. “You never talk about this.”

“Not really the point,” I mutter, tying mine behind my back.

Her eyes soften. “Barrett…”

I clear my throat and head toward the line. “Come on. They’ll show you what to do.”

We spend the next hour ladling soup, stacking bread, pouring coffee.

It’s busy, warm, loud in the kind of way that wraps around your ribs and stays there.

Some people recognize me but no one asks for a picture or an autograph.

No one razzes me about wins or losses. No one mentions that I’m the millionaire that feeds the poor. Not here. Not at St. Luke’s.

Blakely’s a natural because of course she is.

She’s got that way about her, that ability to make people feel seen.

She talks to the guests like they matter, like she’s not here for a story or a headline.

And every time I glance over, she’s smiling.

Not her reporter smile, but her real one, the one she tries not to let out too often.