Page 40 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

I hesitate, because I know exactly what’s about to happen if I tell him. “Nobody. It’s cool. All good.”

“With who?” His eyes search mine.

“Bear, it’s fine.”

“Blakely…”

Fuck he’s not giving in.

“Carver.”

“Ryan Carver?”

I nod.

His expression goes flat.

“Barrett—”

“What did he say?”

I sigh, shoving my phone into my bag. “It doesn’t matter. He made a comment, I shut it down, end of story.”

His gaze hardens, and for a second I swear I see that twitch in his hands he gets before dropping his gloves on the ice. “What kind of comment?”

“The kind that assumes I don’t know anything about hockey.” I pause. “And the kind that…implied I was more interested in getting close to Anaheim players than reporting on the game.”

There’s a beat of silence before Barrett’s mouth twists into something dark. “Mother fucking son of a bitch. I’ll kill him.”

“Barrett.” I plant a hand on his chest before he can take another step. “You will not. You’ve already had enough problems this season without adding assault in the tunnel.”

His chest is solid and warm under my palm, his heartbeat thrumming hard. “He doesn’t get to talk to you like that.”

I tilt my chin up. “You’re right. He doesn’t. And I handled it. You don’t need to fight my battles.”

His eyes flick over my face, softer now, but still simmering. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

I huff out a breath, fighting the smile threatening to break through. “Barrett Cunningham, the human wrecking ball of hockey and bad press.”

“Only bad press I care about is someone talking about you,” he says quietly.

My heart stumbles a beat, and for a moment, I forget we’re in a crowded hallway full of reporters and players.

“You won tonight,” I murmur. “That’s what matters. Let me win this one.”

He studies me for another long second before he finally nods, though I can tell it’s costing him. “Fine. But if he so much as looks at you wrong next time, I’m dropping the gloves before the puck even hits the ice.”

“Okay. Deal. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah just let me grab my bag and we can get out of here.” Barrett heads back into the locker room, leaving me to wait in the hallway. As I’m flipping through my photos of tonight’s game, particularly ones of Barrett I took making a few excellent saves, a text comes in from my boss.

Simon

Stop by my office in the morning

No hello, no punctuation, no “please.” Just a directive, like he’s summoning me to the principal’s office.

I stare at the text, my stomach doing a weird little lurch as I run through the possibilities of what he could want.

One: He wants to talk about my latest feature on Barrett’s shutout. It got good traction online, but maybe he hated the lead.

Two: He finally caught wind of the fact that Barrett and I… are something. And now I’m about to get the “conflict of interest” speech.

Three: Someone in the press box complained about me. Again.

Or four—the longshot—he’s finally ready to give me the promotion I’ve been grinding for.

Right.

And maybe after that, Barrett will propose marriage mid-game.

I type back a quick text.

Me

Sure thing!

What else am I going to say?

Hey boss, can you give me a hint about the subject of this meeting?

Should I bring donuts?

Or maybe a resignation letter?

The locker room doors swing open and more of the guys filter out, hair damp, suits crisp, ties slightly loosened.

Barrett’s one of the last walking out with his duffle bag over his shoulder, his gaze finding me immediately.

He smiles and my stomach does that lurch thing again, but for an entirely different reason.

I pocket my phone and push off the wall, tucking my nerves about tomorrow morning into the same mental box where I keep overdue bills and annual dentist appointments.

Right now, I’ve got something—someone—way better to focus on.

The Sports News Network office smells like burnt coffee and too much printer toner. I pass a couple of interns wrestling with a stack of video equipment and give them a distracted smile before knocking on Simon’s open door.

He’s at his desk, glasses low on his nose, typing like he’s trying to punish the keyboard. Without looking up, he says, “Close the door, Rivers.”

Not good morning , not how was the game last night . My stomach sinks a little lower. I do as I’m told and slide into the chair across from him.

He finally leans back, folds his hands, and fixes me with the kind of look that usually precedes bad news or a lecture.

“Look, I’m just going to cut to the chase here because you deserve that.”

Uh oh.

This can’t be good.

“There have been… whispers.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Whispers?”

“About you,” he says, tapping a pen against the desk, “and Barrett Cunningham.”

Son of a fucking bitch.

My throat goes dry, but I keep my voice even. “People whisper about a lot of things, Simon.”

“Don’t play cute with me, Blakely. You’ve been seen with him outside the rink. The press box chatter’s been…pointed to say the least. And before you say it, yes, I know you’re a damn good reporter. But perception matters. Integrity matters. And right now, there are questions about both.”

“Questions.” I nod as if I completely understand even though I don’t.

I don’t understand one bit because I am damn good at my job.

That’s a fact. And I’ve never let my relationship with any of the players get in the way of what I’m there to do on any given night.

Good or bad, I’m always going to call out the players for their choices.

“And can I assume these quote-unquote questions are coming from Greg and Troy?”

“It doesn’t matter who’s asking them, Rivers. What matters is they’re being asked in the first place.”

That’s code for yes.

Fucking assholes.

Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “Barrett and I—” I stop, because what am I even going to say? Am I going to deny it? It’s not like I’ve been subtle. Hell, Barrett kissed me on the ice in front of anyone who may have been watching at that practice. I can’t deny it.

I wouldn’t anyway.

Barrett deserves better.

I’d never hurt him like that.

Simon watches me for a beat, like he’s measuring whether I’ll lie, and then asks me, “How serious is it?”

My first instinct is to protect Barrett because I’ll be damned if I let anyone hurt him on my watch. “Serious enough that I’m not going to pretend it’s nothing.”

Simon exhales through his nose, like he was hoping for a different answer. “Okay. Then we need to talk about your next path here. And you’re not going to like either option.”

I cross my arms. “Try me.”

Finally making eye contact he stares me down with a direct, and if I’m being honest, cold, expression. “One: You take a reassignment. Different team, different state, effective immediately. You’ll keep your title and your pay, but you’ll be out of Anaheim by the weekend.”

Absolutely not.

“Or?”

“Or two,” he breathes. “You stay in Anaheim, but you take a demotion. You’re off the press floor, out of the locker rooms, no player access. You’d be writing filler and features from the office.”

The words land like bricks in my lap and suddenly my chest feels tight.

“Seriously? You’d make me go back to fucking fluff work? After all I’ve done for you? For this network?”

“Take it or leave it, Rivers. It’s your choice to make.”

“So those are my only choices,” I say slowly. “Uproot my life or watch my career get gutted.”

“Those are your choices,” he says, and there’s no apology in his voice. “I’ll need your answer within twenty-four hours.”

I force myself to nod like I’m calm, even though my pulse is doing double-time. “I don’t need twenty-four hours, sir. I can tell you my answer right now.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. I was hoping this would be an easy?—”

“I quit,” I tell him, tossing my press badge onto his desk. “Effectively immediately.”

Simon’s head snaps up, his jaw unhinged. “Now wait just a minute, Rivers. Let’s not get too?—”

“I have busted my ass for this network for years and you fucking know it.” My voice cuts like glass as I lean across his desk.

“I’ve earned respect with every story I’ve chased, every late night, every morning flight.

But apparently, all of that disappears the second I’m seen with someone who plays the game I’ve built my career covering. ”

“Blakely—”

“And don’t feed me the ‘optics’ line,” I spit.

“We both know what this is. If I had a damn dick in my pants like the rest of you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

You’d call it an inside scoop. You’d slap me on the back and tell me to keep my ear to the ground.

But because I’m a woman, suddenly my integrity’s in question?

My knowledge of hockey’s in question?” I shake my head with conviction. “Well, fuck that. And fuck you.”

His mouth opens, but I steamroll right over him.

“I’m not letting this job—or you—turn me into someone who apologizes for existing in a male-dominated field.

I deserve better than this boys’ club bullshit, and I’m going to get it somewhere else.

Somewhere I’m not measured against the size of my skirt or who I’m dating, but the quality of the work I turn in. ”

I straighten, pulse hammering, and head for the door. “Enjoy the press room and your shit ratings, Simon. I hope it’s everything you want without me.”

The door slams behind me, and I don’t slow down until I’m out of the building, my boxed belongings in hand and breathing fire. Knowing I need to work out my rage I call the one person I know can help me with no judgement.

“Hey Blake! What’s up, girl?” Marlee’s voice on the other end of the line is like a soothing balm on my damaged soul. She was there for me through college and has seen me through life’s ups and downs. If there’s anyone who can get me what I need right now, it’s her.

“Hey, I know it’s early. Are you, by chance, at the arena yet?”

“Actually yeah. What do you need?”

“Can you get me on the ice right now before anyone else comes in? I need to skate.”

Without even having to ask what’s wrong because she can hear it in my tone that I am not okay, she simply says, “I’ll meet you at the door.”

“Thanks, Mar. I’m on my way.”