Page 39 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

BLAKELY

I ’m not supposed to care this much.

Not while I’m standing behind the plexiglass with my press badge clipped to my jacket and my notes app open on my phone like I’m actually focused on game stats instead of the six-foot goalie who just deflected a slapshot like it was child’s play.

Barrett drops into his butterfly like it’s instinct, fluid and precise. Just like I saw him practice. I’ve seen dozens of goalies in my career but watching him is like watching the game reinvent itself in real time. It’s unfair how good he is. Even more unfair how good he looks doing it.

I catch myself smiling and immediately wipe the expression from my face.

Professional, Blakely.

Be professional.

You're here to report, not swoon.

Still, when the puck rebounds and he dives to cover it, glove outstretched like a damn superhero, my body jerks forward before I can stop it.

A guy beside me—some intern for another outlet—lets out a cheer and I barely restrain myself from joining in.

My fingers twitch like they want to clap but I shove them into my pockets.

It’s a close game, 2–1 in our favor, and the tension on the ice is a living thing.

We only barely won our game last week against the Red Tails and we lost to the Vikings last night so the Stars need to be at the top of their game today.

So far so good. I can tell Barrett’s locked in and laser-focused with his jaw tight behind his mask, legs moving in perfect rhythm as the opposing team circles the net like vultures.

He’s a wall, and God help me, I would give anything to be the girl who gets to break him down after the final buzzer.

But I can’t.

Not here.

Not now.

My boss could be watching from just about anywhere and I’m sure he’s waiting to read my post-game article.

The other reporters already think I got this job because of my face instead of my brain.

And when they got wind that Barrett kissed me on the ice in front of the whole team, well, let’s just say I’ve gotten the look of dissatisfaction, or dare I say jealousy, more times than I can count.

It’s not great for my credibility that I’m involved with one of the players, but I’m damn good at my job.

I know how to be neutral when it comes to the press and Barrett would tell anyone that I never go easy on him.

So, I continue to take notes. Pretend I’m focused on shot counts and power plays while I try not to bite my lip every time Barrett flexes his glove hand.

I write “solid defense” when what I want to write is He looks like he’s made of granite and warpaint and sex appeal and I kind of want him to make me squirt all over that glove.

The buzzer blares, ending the second period, and Barrett skates off the ice, tossing his helmet back to shake out his hair. He glances up—just once—and his eyes find mine through the glass. For a fraction of a second, he smiles.

And damn it.

I smile back.

“You’re not exactly hiding it,” a voice says to my left.

I jerk like I’ve been caught stealing. Spinning, I find Devon Marks, veteran sports writer for The L.A. Tribune , leaning against the wall with a smirk on his face and a coffee cup that somehow survived the first two periods of chaos.

“Not hiding what?” I ask, all innocence, though my voice lands somewhere between breathy and busted.

He arches a brow and sips his coffee. “The look you’re giving Cunningham like he’s the second coming of Fleury. Hell, I haven’t seen someone that fixated on a five-hole since my ex got bored during quarantine.”

My mouth opens and then closes and then I shrug as nonchalantly as possible.

“Whatever. I’m just watching the game.”

“Sure.” He nods sagely, as if I’ve confessed to tax fraud. “With your cheeks all flushed and that dreamy ‘he’s-so-strong’ gaze? Blakely, if you’re gonna fall for one of these guys, at least try to look bored while doing it.”

“I’m not falling for him,” I hiss, shifting my clipboard like a shield between us.

I’ve already fallen.

“I’m reporting. It’s my job. I’ve already got half a piece written in my notes.”

“Oh good,” he deadpans. “Can’t wait to read about Cunningham’s stick work and how he moved with the grace of a Greek god, all while saving your heart and the game.”

I narrow my eyes. “Give me a break, Devon.”

He lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m not your editor. I’m just saying…you know, the ‘heart eyes’ thing. People notice. This industry doesn’t do nuance. It does scandal.”

He’s not wrong. And that pisses me off more than anything.

“Thanks for the advice,” I mutter, already turning back toward the rink.

Devon stays beside me, quiet for a moment. Then adds, “For what it’s worth, I think it’s kinda badass. Loving a guy in the league, I mean. Just… protect yourself. You’ve worked too damn hard. We all know it. Some just don’t want to admit it.”

I nod, throat tight. “Thanks.”

Barrett reappears on the ice for the next period, mask back on, stretching near the net, but I don’t look at him.

Not yet.

My fingers twitch for the keys on my phone, and my heart pounds in time with every beat of the arena music. Devon wandered off, probably to write something brilliant and cynical and I stay right where I am. Straddling the line, because maybe I’m not just reporting on the story anymore.

Maybe I’m in it.

Following the Anaheim win, I high-tail it to the Vikings’ locker room to prepare my questions for whatever players I’ll get the opportunity to talk to tonight.

When we see him strut in, I square my shoulders, clipboard in hand, and wedge myself into the knot of reporters crowding Ryan Carver’s stall.

He’s fresh from the shower, hair plastered back, towel riding dangerously low on his hips like he’s auditioning for some bargain-bin cologne ad.

Cameras click, mics push forward, and I slide between two beat writers to get my phone ready.

“Ryan,” I begin, tone crisp, “you had a strong defensive presence tonight, but the penalty kill in the second period…what fell apart there?”

His smirk is slow and oily, like he’s been waiting for this. “Well, aren’t you a pretty face. Where you from, princess?”

Wanting nothing more than to roll my eyes in disdain, I plaster a fake smile on my face and answer, “Apologies. I’m Blakely Rivers with Sports News Network.”

Carver nods with a smirk. “Ah. Anaheim sends the pretty faces to ask the big scary hockey questions, huh?”

The chuckle from one of his teammates behind him isn’t subtle.

Asshole.

“I’m here for your perspective on the penalty kill,” I reply, voice flat enough to cut glass.

Carver leans back against the locker, deliberately spreading out like he owns the place.

His legs separating enough that he’s clearly trying to flaunt his dick in front of me in front of all these men as if I would be the least bit affected.

He points at me, nodding as if recalling everything he’s ever heard about sports reporters.

“I’ve heard about you.” He folds his arms over his chest. “You know, maybe you’d get the game better if you weren’t so busy keeping the attention of one of your Star boys.

” He tips his chin at me, grin full of teeth.

A couple of reporters glance at each other, and the air shifts the way it does right before a bar fight breaks out. My stomach twists, but my face is stone.

“Funny,” I say, slow and sharp, “I always thought the penalty kill was about shutting down an offense, not broadcasting your insecurities to the press.”

That earns a muffled laugh from a guy on my left, but Carver just lets out a dry chuckle, clearly deciding he’s too big to be touched. “Sure thing, honey. Whatever you say.”

I click off the recorder on my phone, step back, and let someone else feed his ego.

My cheeks are hot. Not with embarrassment, but with the kind of heat that makes me want to carve this guy up in print, listing every single play he fucked up tonight until he wishes he’d kept his mouth shut.

But I remind myself I’m not here to start a war.

Not today, anyway.

The Stars locker room area is a hum of post-game chatter, the smell of sweat and victory thick in the air. August files out into the hall first on a search for Ella.

“She was on level three at the photo-op,” I tell him as I stare at my phone hastily typing my notes.

“Thanks Rivers,” he says on his way down the hall.

I linger a few more minutes in the hallway hoping Barrett will step out but I know he does a lot of post-game cool-downs and stretches.

“Hey Blakely!” Ledger is all smiles when he finally steps out of the locker room freshly showered and dressed. “How you doing?”

“Oh, I’m great, Ledge,” I lie. “Congrats on the win.” I give him a high-five for good measure.

“Thanks. Did you see that assist I had in the second?”

“Of course! How could I have missed it? And nice save off your skate in the third, by the way. That was a stellar play.”

He winks and gives me his cheesiest grin. “What can I say? When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.”

Laughing at his goofiness, I shake my head. “Is Bear coming out any time soon?”

His eyes narrow as he thinks and then he says, “Ice bath. He may be a few minutes.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

I’ve got my phone in one hand, notes from the game in the other, trying to shake off the irritation still buzzing under my skin from my run-in with Carver when I turn back to walk to my desk. I’m halfway to the media exit when I hear, “Blakely.”

I turn, and Barrett is striding toward me, hair still damp from his shower, baseball cap turned backward, and that post-win energy radiating off him. He’s grinning until he sees my face.

“What happened?” he asks immediately, his voice dropping low like we’re already in private.

“Nothing,” I say too quickly. My walls go up on instinct. “Just a post-game interview.” I try to wrap my arms around him to give him a congratulatory hug but he stops me.

“With who?” His jaw flexes.