Page 5 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)
The first thing I did when I cashed my signing bonus wasn’t buy a sports car or a penthouse.
I don’t need those things, nor do I feel right owning them.
The first thing I did was pay off my parents’ mortgage and my father’s medical bills.
I pleaded with them to allow me to move them to Anaheim so I could help Dad, but Mom wouldn’t have it.
Her friends are back home in Colorado. Her life is there.
She at least allowed me to hire a full-time nurse to help with Dad’s rehab after his stroke.
It hasn’t been easy, I’m sure, but they’re doing alright.
The second thing I did after cashing that paycheck was put money away for my younger brother’s future.
Where I excelled on the ice growing up, he excelled on the court.
Basketball was always his dream so I put enough away to be able to pay for his college tuition.
Lucky for him though, he got a full ride to Duke.
If he’s lucky, he’ll get himself into the NBA draft in the next couple years and then he won’t need the money I have saved. It’s there for him either way.
The last thing I did after making sure my family was set financially was start to give every spare cent I didn’t need to the places that kept my brother and me fed and standing when we were kids.
To soup kitchens like this, sure. But also, to the rec leagues and the afterschool programs that promised a warm gym and a snack bar when home was empty or tense or both.
Sometimes I think about what my old man would say if he could be here with me, seeing me with apron tied over jeans, shoveling chicken bones and scrubbing buckets with the same hands that sign million-dollar contracts.
He was a hardworking man before his stroke.
I’d like to think he’d be proud of me.
My building is half-lit and nearly silent as a tomb when I pull into my parking spot.
If there’s anything I like about living in a high-rise, it’s the way nobody gives a shit who you are, so long as you don’t make noise in the hallways or let your packages sit for more than a day in the lobby.
Not to mention, most of the people living here are professional athletes of one type or another so we get each other, our needs, our wants.
It’s a relatively respectful place to live, unless you’re one of the douche nozzles who likes to throw their money around and pretend their shit doesn’t stink.
News flash: Everyone’s shit stinks.
Shuffling up the steps toward the entrance, maybe fifteen feet from the revolving door, I spot what looks like a pile of dirty rags from a distance.
Until it moves.
It’s tiny, a little spastic, like someone’s trying to shake out a wet rag and failing, and when I step closer it makes a reedy sound, half mewl, half…something else, and then it pops up its head.
“Well look at you, buddy,” I say to the tiny orange kitten welcoming me to the door.
It’s no more than a tuft of orange fur, barely bigger than a hockey puck, and trembling with such doomed determination that my chest actually twinges.
I crouch and reach out a hand as the damn thing tries to stand.
His legs quiver, and then he promptly tips over, his little paws flailing at nothing. It’s not just cold. It’s…off.
I know that feeling.
There’s a raw, tenacity in the way it plops itself upright again, like whatever’s wrong with its wiring isn’t going to stop it from greeting every new day in this hostile parking lot. I fish in my pocket for the remnants of a protein bar, break off a corner, and offer it on my palm.
The kitten sniffs, wobbles, and then face-plants directly into my hand. I can’t help it. I laugh, and the sound bounces against the glass doors like a challenge. “Easy there, Killer.”
It tries again, more determined this time, dragging its weirdly stiff hind legs as if it’s spent its whole miserable life fighting gravity.
The paws splay out at odd angles and for a second I think the kitten’s doing an impression of me in the third period after taking two pucks to the thigh.
Then it rolls over, purrs so loud it sounds almost desperate, and nuzzles my thumb with its wet, crusty nose.
Gingerly I pick him up. He’s skin and bone and something else.
Something fundamentally busted, and I know the shape of busted better than anyone.
There’s a tremor in his limbs, and a constant twitch, like his internal mainframe was never properly installed.
I run a finger along his spine and he arches up, mewling, blue eyes huge and glassy.
“You’re a disaster, buddy,” I say as I scratch under his tiny chin. “Come on. I may not have much but anywhere is better than right here.”
The apartment is dark and cold when I step inside with my new killer friend.
I toss the keys on the counter, not bothering with lights, and eat two cold hardboiled eggs straight out of the fridge.
Then I grab a can of diced tuna and put some onto a plate, dicing it up even smaller for Killer to ingest. He cries and tries to fight me off as I dip him in the warm water in my kitchen sink for a quick bath, but he forgives me when I wrap him in a fuzzy towel and hold him against me as I click on the television and then sprawl on the couch.
“I’ll introduce you to Sports Wrap, Killer. It’s riveting entertainment. I promise.”
The crawl at the bottom of the television screen catches my eye.
It’s the local news segment, the one with the gaudy purple graphics and a lineup of “expert analysts” who all look like they’ve never skated a day in their lives.
Right in the center of the split screen is Blakely Rivers, face lit up by studio lights, lips a brutal slash of red, eyes a little too bright.
She’s not talking about me, at least not yet.
She’s roasting one of Seattle’s players, slicing through his stats and PR blather with the kind of precision that’s rare on these shows.
I turn up the volume slowly. Admittedly, I’m a little scared to hear what comes out of her mouth next, but since she doesn’t seem to be talking about me, I’m also intrigued.
“Let’s talk about the elephant in the room,” she says, and I can’t help smirking, because it’s the same tone she used with me in the press room.
Direct, relentless, zero apology. “McClacken’s penalty box meltdown wasn’t just embarrassing, it was predictable.
We’ve seen this from him before—the reckless hits, the lack of control.
When is the league going to stop treating repeat offenders like misunderstood bad boys and start holding them accountable? ”
“Well, that’s one thing we agree on sweetheart.
McClacken’s ass should’ve been kicked out of the league years ago.
” I think back to our friends on the Chicago Red Tails team and the drama they dealt with thanks to McClacken and his absurdly asshole-ish ways.
My friend, Milo Landric’s wife dated McClacken at one time and he was a fucking prick to her.
Took a swing at her and gave her a black eye from what I heard years ago.
McClacken is damn lucky Milo didn’t beat him six feet into the ground when the truth came out.
Inevitably though, the host pivots to our game and feeds Blakely a slow pitch about my “rough night between the pipes.”
“Let’s talk about Cunningham,” says the polyester suit, “because man, it’s like he forgot how to move laterally in the third period.”
“Oh, here we go,” I mumble, rolling my eyes. “Don’t listen to ’em, Killer. All lies.”
Blakely’s mouth quirks in a half-smile as she tilts her head. A piercing stab hits my chest and I wonder for a half a second if she knows I’m watching her right now.
Impossible, I know, but my pulse quickens just the same.
“I don’t think it’s amnesia, Dave,” she says to the host. “If you look at the shot charts, he was telegraphing his movements after the second goal. Portland adapted, and Cunningham didn’t.
He’s talented—maybe the best raw talent in the league—but even the best have bad nights.
I’d like to see him shake it off and get back to being the brick wall Anaheim needs.
If not…” She lets it hang, the threat implied and barbed.
“Well, there are a lot of hungry goalies in this system.”
Fucking ouch.
I click off the television and toss the remote across the coffee table and out of reach.
My jaw grinds side to side. Hungry, she said.
Like I’m a fucking old dog with arthritis, one bad run from being put down.
Shit, I’d almost respect it if it wasn’t so accurate, but also why they hell can’t she just let it go?
Why does it feel like she’s on some sort of personal war path with me?
“Fuck that. And fuck you, Rivers,” I huff, laying back on the couch with Killer asleep on my lap.
That woman knows how to slice me in half with her mouth and I don’t like it.
But what’s worse is that she always looks so damn hot doing it.
How is that fair? If she was some ogre-type of woman, it would be easy to hate her and pay her no mind, but Blakely is fucking gorgeous.
Even that I can’t deny. So, when she guts me with her comments, as true as they might be, hating her is short-lived.
I can’t seem to stop looking at her. In fact, at times, I find myself wanting to pick a fight with her just to be able to gaze at her a little longer.
She looked sexy as fuck in that interview just now in her purple suit.
The royal color really brought out the mossy color of her eyes.
Her honey-shaded hair down in soft waves. She looked powerful.
Powerful and sexy as fuck and yep, now I can’t get the vision of what she would look like in that pretty purple suit on her knees in front of me. Her hair twisted around my fist and her lips wrapped around my cock.
“Get a grip Cunningham,” I whisper as my phone buzzes on the table in front of me.
I know who it is before I even look at the screen. I’m all but certain at least a few of the guys saw Blakely’s interview. They can be relentless when it comes to public humiliation.
And especially when it’s me being humiliated.
Bodhi
Ayyyyyyy Bear
Bodhi
You see Rivers on Sports Wrap dragging your ass?
Griffin
“Brick wall” LOL. My guy you were more like a screen door the other night.
August
She said “telegraphing” but I heard “washed up”
Oliver
Bruh she’s not wrong tho
Bodhi
I heard your five-hole packed up and went on vacation
Griffin
lololol
I nearly drop the phone. These are my teammates. These are my friends. Feral, evil, bastard children, but, unfortunately, friends. I guess they’re nothing if not good to have around to keep me humble.
Oliver
Bro, did you sleep with her and forget to call or something? That felt personal.
Me
Tell me about it. And no.
Griffin
She said you move like a Zamboni with two flat tires. RIP
Ledger
I would fake mono and change my name to Kevin. Just a suggestion.
Bodhi
Dude. It’s okay to cry. Let it out. We’re here for you.
Griffin
Paging Dr. Kevorkian for a resuscitation to the net.
Oliver
Do you want us to skip warmups tomorrow so you can catch up on your lateral movement?
Ledger
I have a therapist you can borrow for the low price of one signed puck
Harrison
You’re trending on socials bro.
August
Yep You are! #SwissCheeseCunningham
Griffin
Wait I thought it was #BrickShitHouse
August
Not tonight.
August
Tonight it’s #SwissCheese
Me
What’s the matter ladies? You obsessed with my personal life now?
Harrison
Bro, you are my personal life.
Ledger
I have no other hobbies except watching your career implode on live TV. #betteryouthanme
August
Don’t listen to them, Bear. You looked *almost* human out there the other night. I was proud.
Oliver
If you want I can Venmo you for a couple bags of pucks so you can get some practice in.
Griffin
I have some leftover Swiss in my fridge, want me to drop it off at your locker? #branding
Me
Keep chirping. Just remember who pays for your post-game beers.
Bodhi
Ohhh shots fired. But seriously, you okay?
Me
Fine.
Ledger
“Fine” is depression for men, bro.
Me
I will murder all of you in your sleep.
August
Not with that lateral movement you won’t!
Griffin
OOOOH! BURN! Bro can’t even chase us through a revolving door.
Bodhi
“Not with that lateral movement” I’m scream-laughing. Corrigan is scared for her life.
Me
I hope you all get traded to Ottawa.
Harrison
I’d retire.
Oliver
Sorry man, but you have to admit, she’s got a point. Rivers is savage.
Me
Not savage. Just annoying.
Bodhi
Wait. Are you…SCARED of Blakely Rivers, bruh?
Me
I’ve played through a separated shoulder, a broken ankle, and the flu. I’m not scared of a reporter with too much mascara.
August
You’re deflecting, Bear.
Harrison
Classic goalie move.
Me
I will literally staple your tongues to the locker room door.
Griffin
Want us to come over and spoon you? Or just keep roasting your ass in the group chat?
Me
If you come over, I’ll put you through a window.
Oliver
Classic trauma response.
Bodhi
He does this. Remember last playoffs? Wouldn’t talk to us for a week after the broadcast roasted his “pigeon-toed shuffling”
Ledger
Yeah but that time it was a meme. This time it’s an actual woman with a pulse dragging him. Progress.
August
You think he’s into it?
Harrison
You mean like, masochistically?
Bodhi
Bro, it’s Bear. He’s only alive for the pain.
Me
You’re all dead to me. See you at practice.
I toss my phone onto the coffee table and chug half a bottle of water.
The truth is, I don’t care what Blakely Rivers says about me on TV.
I’ve had worse. I’ve played whole seasons with the entire league chirping my name, and there’s nothing a sports journalist can say that I haven’t thought to myself at 3 AM when the ghosts of the last five-hole goal come back to haunt me.
But the boys are right. There’s something about Rivers that gets under my skin.
I can’t stand that she’s probably sitting somewhere, legs kicked up on a battered coffee table, cackling at her own sharpness while my name trends for all the wrong reasons.
Maybe that’s the real problem: She’s not just good at her job, she’s better than me at being a cold bastard.
I drink the rest of my water, glare at the blank TV screen, and promise myself that next time, I’ll give her something to really talk about.