Page 47 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

BLAKELY

I stare at the blinking cursor, my fingers hovering over the keyboard like they know the words are going to set something on fire. They will. They have to.

I’ve spent years holding my tongue, playing the game, pretending the little digs didn’t bother me.

Pretending the knowing smirks from the old boys’ club in the press box didn’t sting.

Pretending I didn’t notice when my questions were ignored in interviews, only for a male reporter to ask the same damn thing and get a full, thoughtful answer.

But tonight? I’m done pretending.

The headline comes first, sharp and unapologetic:

Breaking the Glass in the Press Box: A Woman’s View from the Ice

I type fast, like the words have been bottled up too long and finally found a crack to escape through.

I was the only woman in the Anaheim Stars press box.

I was the first, and, if I have anything to do with it, definitely not the last. But being the only one means you see things the others don’t.

You hear the whispers, the snickers, the questions about whether you’re “here for the sport or for the players.” You learn to smile through the condescension, to nod politely while someone explains the rules of the game you’ve known since childhood.

I pause, flex my fingers, and let the heat building in my chest spill out onto the page.

At Sports News Network, I was told to “toughen up,” to “take a joke,” to be grateful I was allowed in the room.

I worked harder, studied more, and outhustled everyone around me.

And still, every accomplishment came with an asterisk.

Not because my work wasn’t good enough, but because I don’t have a Y chromosome.

Yep. That’s right. I’ve been talked over, passed over, and, most recently, told my career was less important than the perception of who I might be sleeping with all because I don’t have a penis.

My stomach twists at the memory, but I keep going, my voice getting sharper with every word.

Let me be clear: my worth as a journalist isn’t defined by who I interview, who I stand next to in the locker room, or who I care about when I leave the rink.

My worth is in my work. My insight. My voice.

And if that voice makes the wrong people uncomfortable?

Good. That means it’s hitting where it should.

I lean back, chest rising and falling, reading the words like they belong to someone braver than me. But they don’t. They’re mine.

And I’m not done.

Hockey is my passion. Reporting is my craft. I will not apologize for being both a woman and damn good at my job. The game deserves better than the culture surrounding it right now. And so do the women who love it.

I hit the return key, my heart pounding as I watch the cursor dance across the screen, word by word, sentence by sentence.

It’s raw and unfiltered, a mirror reflecting the simmering rage that’s bubbled up in me far too long.

I’m ready to replace the timid silence with a voice that demands to be heard.

My voice.

But I’m not just spilling my story, I’m making a statement. I type furiously as the memories flood back, replaying the countless times I’ve been sidelined, dismissed, or assumed to be some player’s girlfriend instead of the reporter I am.

The reality is this. Being a woman in a male-dominated space doesn’t just mean facing the prejudice. It means enduring the constant reminder that my labor will be dismissed, my skills belittled, and my existence reduced to “the pretty face in the press box.”

The click of the keys feels like a revolution beneath my fingers. I want the world to know that I’m not just here to fill a quota or to be a novelty act. I’m carving out a space for myself in this industry, a space where women can stand tall and proud and claim their right to be taken seriously.

As the only female press reporter for the Anaheim Stars, I’ve faced challenges that would make lesser women turn tail and run.

But I’m not lesser. I’ve fought tooth and nail just to earn my place in this industry, and I won’t let anyone belittle my achievements by reducing them to petty gossip.

My work is not merely a footnote; it’s the headline.

I lean closer to my computer screen, fueled by the heat rising in my chest as my fingers move furiously across the screen.

Let’s talk about the real issues. The way my male colleagues treated me as if I was just another pretty face to fit into their agenda.

The way they constantly hit on me or harassed me yet nobody wanted to hear about it.

Or about the day it took one of the Anaheim players stepping in on my behalf because he’s more of a man than any of those at Sports News Network will ever be, to get them to stop their harassment.

There’s a constant undercurrent of doubt that suggests I don’t do what I do for the love of the game but for some misguided notion of romantic conquest. These people forget I’ve sweat and bled on the ice just like the Stars, though admittedly, not under a professional contract.

I’ve stood shoulder to shoulder with fellow players and felt the thrill of victory and the sting of defeat.

Every keystroke ignites something within me.

I’m on fire, every word spilling out like a confession I’ve been holding back my entire life.

Each sentence crackles with energy, the kind that lights a path through the darkness of indifference and scorn.

The weight of every condescending remark, every sideways glance from the men in the press box, fuels my determination.

I’m not just writing. I’m declaring war on a culture that tried to silence me.

I can feel the pulse of my heartbeat quickening as I type, the rhythm matching my frustration.

This is not a game and I’m not playing by anyone’s rules but my own. There’s something intoxicating about taking this power back, about refusing to be reduced to a stereotype or a footnote in someone else’s story.

This is my story.

I know I’m risking backlash, but for the first time, I’m ready to embrace it. What’s the worst they can do? Write me off? Try to discredit my work? They’ve been doing that all along. If anything, I’ll be serving up cold dishes of truth wrapped in the words they scoffed at.

My fingers fly over the keys as I craft the next line.

This isn’t just about me; it’s for every woman who’s ever felt belittled or been overlooked, dismissed, or judged solely by their gender.

It’s for every woman who has ever had her passion questioned, her expertise belittled, and her presence devalued.

I’m ready to be the voice they need.

The one that calls bullshit on the status quo and says, “No more.” I’m done being polite, done waiting for someone else to step up and advocate for change. It’s time I take the reins myself. If they want to underestimate me, let them.

I’ll use their doubt as fuel to ignite a fire they can’t extinguish.

I’ve read my article so many times in the past hour that the words blur together, but my pulse still races every time I scroll back to the top. It feels… dangerous. Necessary, but dangerous.

“Relax, babe,” Barrett says, placing three slow kisses across the back of my neck. “It’s perfect and they’re going to support you.”

“Do you really think so? Like really seriously?” My sole worry right now is whether or not our friends will hear what I have to say through this blog post and support the angle I’m going for.

I know this is my fight and it’s my voice, but I love and respect the guys on the team and their respective partners—who are also my friends—too much to publish something like this without them hearing it first.

Barrett turns his cell phone toward me so I can read his screen. “See? I’ve already called for an emergency meeting.” He sweeps Killer into his hand and then takes my hand, gesturing to my laptop. “Come on. Bring it with you.”

“Wait, where are we going?” I ask, sliding off the bar stool where I was seated.

“Upstairs to Marlee and Ledger’s. The babies are sleeping so everyone agreed to meet there.”

Marlee’s apartment is already buzzing when Barrett and I walk in. Jackets are draped over chairs, the smell of pizza and garlic knots fills the air, and the living room is crammed with the Anaheim Stars’ finest, plus their far better halves.

Harrison’s sprawled in the armchair like he owns it, Oliver is elbow-deep in the chip bowl, August’s laugh is carrying over the crowd, Bodhi’s making some point to Griffin with wild hand gestures. Scarlett, Corrigan, Layken, and Ella are scattered among them, wineglasses in hand.

“Blakely!” Marlee spots me instantly, practically dragging me toward the couch. “We’ve been waiting for you. And that.” She points to my laptop bag like it’s contraband.

Barrett leans down, murmuring just for me, “You don’t have to if you don’t want?—”

“I know.” My stomach twists. But I do have to.

Somehow, I’m herded into the middle of the room.

“You guys…” I glance around, suddenly feeling like I’ve walked into a press conference without my notes.

“I wrote something. An article. Well, a blog post really, because there’s no way I can ask SNN to print it. ”

Corrigan, who’s seated at the couch with a beer, smirks. “Sounds like this is about to get interesting.”

I open my laptopand sit on the edge of the coffee table. “It’s about being the only woman in the press box for the Stars. And about SNN.” The words taste bitter, but steady. “And the way they’ve treated me.”

“Read it,” Ledger says from behind Marlee, his tone all business, like he’s ready to coach me through this.

So, I do. I read every single word.

About the whispered jokes, the patronizing comments, and the stories they let my male colleagues run while my pitches sat ignored.

About the constant sexual harassment.

About the way my work has been dismissed or claimed by others.