Page 4 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

CHAPTER THREE

BARRETT

T he smell of chicken and overcooked vegetables hits me the second I step into the kitchen at St. Luke’s. Not exactly the aroma I’m used to, but then again, this isn’t about me. Not today.

I adjust the apron that cuts into my ribs every time I move and step behind the serving line, grabbing the ladle like it’s my goalie stick. It feels clunky in my hand, but at least it has a purpose. Just like me on good days.

Carla, the volunteer who runs this place like it’s her rink, hands me a tray of roasted chicken thighs and gives me the same side-eye she gives me every time I show up.

“You sure you know how to serve without flinging gravy halfway across the room, goalie boy?” she asks, lips twitching at the corners.

She always enjoys teasing me like I don’t know what I’m doing.

In reality, I know how much Carla respects me for giving my time to the community soup kitchen.

And I’m grateful she doesn’t sell me out and tell the media I’m here garnering more attention for the charity because of my presence.

Maybe she’s been so good about letting me be anonymous here because I also donate a hefty chunk of cash.

Either way, I’m good with it. I just like to come here and be the guy who gives back.

Not because the league tells me I have to, but because I want to.

I smirk. “Gravy, pucks, same wrist action.”

She chuckles softly, and moves down the line, muttering something about, “Celebrity athletes with no damn common sense.”

I can’t blame her. A lot of guys come through here once or twice, take a few photos, hand out some smiles, and never come back.

But I see who actually comes through the doors to this community soup kitchen.

I see the moms, the kids, the seniors who look like they haven’t had a full meal in a week.

It hits me in the chest harder than a slapshot to the mask because I know the look.

I’ve sported the look more than once in my lifetime.

Growing up hungry with next to nothing was the norm for me for longer than I care to remember. So, I show up. No press. No PR team. Just me. The guy serving up the chicken and gravy.

“Here you go,” I say, placing a piece of chicken on the tray of a woman who looks like she hasn’t slept in days. Her little boy clings to her side, eyes huge, staring up at me like I’m someone important. Maybe it’s my size.

“You like hockey?” I ask, offering him a smile.

He nods, shy. “My uncle says you play like a wall.”

I can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Your uncle’s a smart guy. Tell him I said thanks.”

We bump fists—tiny knuckles to my calloused ones—and then I give him an extra piece of chicken. The kid is tiny. If I can help fill his belly tonight, I’ll rest easier.

The line moves slowly, but steady. I don’t mind. I have nowhere I need to be tonight and there’s something about this place that grounds me. No crowds. No bright lights. No pressure to be perfect. Just food, people, and the occasional roll that hits the floor.

After a couple hours, the rush thins out. I lean against the counter for a second, wiping the sweat from my forehead. My back aches, and my arm is starting to cramp from holding the ladle too long. And somehow, I like it.

Carla walks by again, eyeing me like I’m a stray cat she doesn’t trust. It’s amusing to me because I’ve been giving my time here for several months now.

I know deep down she really likes me, but I let her pretend otherwise.

She stops in front of me, one eyebrow raised like she’s about to call me out for something.

“You know, Cunningham,” she says, leaning on the counter opposite me, “you could be home with your feet up, watching highlights of yourself on TV. Instead, you’re in my kitchen handing out chicken and mopping up gravy spills. You ever going to tell me why?”

I straighten, tossing the rag over my shoulder. “Maybe I like your cooking.”

She barks out a laugh, the kind that’s more gravel than melody. “Boy, don’t you lie to me. You wouldn’t keep coming back here if it was just about free meals. Plus, in all the time you’ve been here I haven’t seen you eat one darn thing.”

I rub the back of my neck, feeling her stare like she’s poking holes right through me. Most people don’t press. They take the smirks, the sarcasm, the surface-level stuff and move on. But Carla’s been around too long. She can see what’s under the mask.

“Let’s just say I know what it’s like to be on the other side of the line,” I explain, nodding toward the tables where a family is packing up leftovers in foil. “Hungry. Tired. Pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”

Her face softens, but only a fraction. “That your story?”

“Part of it,” I admit. My jaw tightens, but I force myself to keep talking. “Grew up with parents who weren’t always able to keep the fridge full. Some nights, it was either find dinner myself or go without. I figured out really fast what empty feels like. You don’t forget that kind of thing.”

Carla nods slowly, her eyes narrowing, like she’s deciding whether to push further. Finally, she pats my shoulder once with a protective firmness. “That explains why you don’t just write checks.”

I shrug. “Checks don’t look you in the eye and they don’t hand a kid an extra piece of chicken when he needs it.”

For a second, she’s quiet. Then her lips twitch, probably the closest she’ll ever get to sentimental. “You know, goalie boy, you give off this grumpy as hell vibe but you’re good people.”

I smirk, grabbing the mop and twirling it like a stick. “Don’t tell anyone. Wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation.”

Carla shakes her head and rolls her eyes muttering, “A bear on the ice, and softie off it, I guess.”

And for once, I don’t mind being called soft. Not here. “Maybe.”

“A guy like you with money, fame, all your teeth still intact,” she says with a wink. “Why’re you still single?”

I huff out a laugh, grabbing a tray to stack. “You been talking to my teammates? That’s their favorite question.”

“I don’t need to talk to them,” she shoots back. “I got eyes. And a gut. And my gut says you ain’t the type who’s happy going home to an empty place every night.”

I pause, tray in hand, and shrug. “Maybe I’m not.”

She tilts her head, waiting. “So?”

I glance down at the rag in my hand, then back at her, a smirk tugging at my mouth.

“Let’s just say… I might have my eye on someone.

” It’s not the whole truth but it’s not a lie either.

I haven’t stopped thinking about Blakely Rivers since we last spoke in the arena parking lot.

I don’t know why. By all means I should hate her.

I’m definitely not pleased with her but at the same time, there’s something about her that won’t leave me alone.

Carla’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh-ho. The goalie’s human after all.”

“Don’t spread it around,” I warn, pointing the rag at her. “I’ve got to keep people guessing.”

She chuckles, shaking her head as she grabs another pan. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me, Cunningham. But whoever she is? She better be ready for all that heart you’re hiding behind those pads.”

I don’t answer. I just let the smirk stay because she’s not wrong. Contrary to what others think, I do have a heart and I do care a lot about other people.

Carla heads back to the dining room and I take my towel and follow her out to the floor. Kids laugh; a few people nod as I pass. No one asks for autographs. No one treats me like anything special.

And honestly? That’s just how I like it.

Here, I’m not Barrett Cunningham, star goalie for the Anaheim Stars. Here, I’m just Bear. I’m just a guy with two hands, a full heart, and the time to make someone’s day a little easier.

I can live with that.

Hell, I need that.

I end up outside by the dumpsters, leaning against the brick, my sleeves still tacky from someone’s spilled juice.

I close my eyes and listen to the clatter of pans and the scrape of chairs from inside.

These are the kinds of noises I understand.

I like the regularity of them, the fact that no one expects anything other than a job done right. I like the anonymity.

I grew up on places like this. Hand-me-downs, church basement meals, off-brand canned soup.

I remember the way people’s eyes slid off of you when you showed up for the free dinner, or the way the hot lunch lady at school would slip you an extra roll like it was contraband.

I never wanted to stand out. I especially didn’t want to be the center of any kind of attention, good, bad, or otherwise.

Most of the guys on the team live for the spotlight.

Or they did before they settled down and got married.

In years past though, they couldn’t get enough of the Vegas clubs, the red carpets, the endless lines of fans who’d knife their own grandmother for a lock of hair or a drop of sweat.

Me? If I could play in a helmet with blackout glass and skip the post-game interview altogether, I’d sign that contract with blood.

Not that I don’t appreciate what the game has given me.

The money is nice, I guess, but I don’t need it.

At least not as much as they keep giving me.

It’s a bit ridiculous how much money I’m paid to guard a net from a small rubber puck for a few months out of the year.

I don’t feel like I really deserve it. Sure, I work hard and I’m great at what I do most nights, but there are others in this world who would kill to have even a tenth of what I’m bringing in.

It’s definitely not the money that gets me going.

It’s the quiet. The silence of the arena when you’re the only one taking up space inside it.

It’s the way the rink feels at five in the morning before the Zamboni’s even started, when it’s just me and the sound of my own breath echoing off the glass. That’s the closest I ever get to peace.