Page 6 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)
CHAPTER FOUR
BLAKELY
T he first thing I hear when I walk into the press room is my own name, pronounced not like I’m a person but a punchline, and I know right away it’s going to be one of those days.
“—Rivers was brutal last night. She gets off on it, doesn’t she?” That’s Greg from the Tribune, the one with the swoop of gray hair that looks like it’s been shellacked to his scalp since the nineteen seventies. He’s got a voice like a car alarm and a face to match.
“Nah, I bet she just likes to see how far she can push before Cunningham finally snaps and fucks her in the janitor’s closet,” Troy laughs.
He usually covers the Anaheim Pirates baseball team but hangs around our rink like a barnacle these days.
He’s got a permanent nacho cheese stain on his tie.
The image is so on the nose I almost laugh.
I hover just outside the doorway, out of sight, phone in hand.
There are three possible plays here. One: Make a hard entrance and obliterate these jealous assholes with my quick wit and foul mouth.
Two: Go in soft and pretend I didn’t hear a word.
Or three: Stand outside and record every word for HR, not that HR ever does jack about it.
Instead, I text Marlee, who is up in her office already getting started on the day and has been known to be better than caffeine for a rage spike.
Me
Coworkers are already speculating about Bear raw dogging me in the supply closet. Are we surprised?
Marlee
Let them talk. Eventually the rumor will be that you pegged him. At least that’s the way I see this unfolding.
Marlee
Wait, did I say that out loud?
Me
What the fuck Mar? You don’t honestly believe that.
Marlee
Well, you did obliterate the poor guy on national television last night.
Me
Okay I have all sorts of questions. 1. What makes you think my not putting up with Cunningham’s bullshit means I want to go to bed with the guy? and 2. Was my line of questioning and description of his last game play not accurate?
Marlee
Oh, it was one hundred percent accurate.
I’m not saying you were out of line at all.
Just stating the obvious. You were hot. You are hot.
You’re damn good at your job and you didn’t back down from confrontation.
If I were Big Bear, I would be both pissed off and turned on at the same time. Well done my bestie.
Me
I knew you were the one to write to this morning. You’ve always been the one to hype me up when I’m feeling a certain kind of way.
Marlee
And how is that? Flustered? A little flushed in the cheeks at the sight of a sweaty Bear in his uniform?
Me
LOL You might be trying too hard here babe. Not going to happen.
Marlee
Can I get one thing to happen?
Me
What’s that?
Marlee
Just admit that Bear Cunningham, though easily rattled, is also easy to look at.
Me
I suppose both are valid points.
Marlee
HA! Then I stand by my earlier hypothesis. Bear + Blakely = forever. If for no other reason than to ensure you’re a part of the Anaheim family with me forever and ever.
Me
LOL Keep dreaming babe. I’m sorry that you’ll be sorely disappointed.
Marlee
We’ll see. I won’t hold my breath but I’m not giving up hope. Also, don’t kill anyone in the press room today. I need a good story for my therapy session.
I take a breath and walk in, head held high and jacket crisp. Greg and Troy turn so fast I almost expect one of their vertebrae to pop.
“Morning,” I chirp, voice sweeter than the syrup they pour on the pancakes in the media lounge. “I see you two are hard at work. Should I come back after the circle jerk or is this the pregame for your next hot take?”
Greg chuckles, the sound scraping the bottom of his throat like an old plow. “Blakely, didn’t know you were in so early.”
Troy gives me the once-over, like he’s looking for bear claw marks on my throat.
“Just complimenting your work. That was a hell of a segment last night, Rivers.” His eyes flicker to my chest, maybe to gauge if I’m going to bend over and give him a sweet view of Tit Valley.
It’s either that or he’s wondering if I’m going to eat him alive on the spot.
I paste on my best camera smile and set my bag on the floor by my desk. “Glad you learned something, Troy. Maybe next time you can use your words without a side of sexual harassment, though. Just a thought.”
The tension turns gelatinous, but I can see the flare of anger, his ego bruised and wounded, under Troy’s fleshy forehead.
Good.
I hope it festers all damn day.
I turn my attention to the stack of notes and stat sheets I left on my desk last night, shoving the encounter behind me like a bad date I don’t want to relive unless absolutely necessary.
The rest of the morning grinds by with desk work.
Call sheets and a brief phone interview with a local high school coach who manages to slip in a creepy “If you ever want to talk off the record—” before I shut it down with a withering, “We’ll stick to the facts, Coach Freedman.
” I have two voicemails from my actual boss, Simon, who is mostly as supportive as a man in suspenders with a cheap looking mustache can be.
I give him a courtesy call back, listening to him hype me up for my “blistering, boundary-pushing” on-air performance and then immediately ask if I can “tone it down” for tonight’s segment, just a bit “so as not to alienate the older male demo.”
Give me a fucking break.
“Simon,” I say, rolling my eyes to the ceiling, “did you know your older male demos most searched term is ‘hockey fight’? I’m just giving the people what they want.”
There’s a pause while I imagine him blinking at his computer, deciding if this is an argument he’s brave enough to finish. “Just don’t go for blood, Blakely. But I like the edge. That’s…that’s your brand. You’re edgy.”
“My brand,” I echo, letting the phrase linger like the aftertaste of cheap wine. “Good talk, Simon.”
I boot up my laptop, reminding myself now is not the time to lose my shit over a stupid man.
There’s nothing on the schedule for another forty-five minutes, but most everyone in the room is working on their pre-game slop, a slurry of speculation and micro-dosed gossip.
I’m two sentences into my spot piece when the door swings open and a wall of man enters, dragging the temperature down by a full five degrees.
Cunningham walks in wearing a suit that you would think looks like it cost more than my entire wardrobe but oddly enough, it’s just the opposite.
His jacket pulls tight over his overly broad shoulders, the seams appearing to hold on for dear life.
The wrinkles in his faded navy suit pants tells me he definitely lives alone, because there’s not a woman alive who would allow him to go out in public dressed like that.
He clearly doesn’t know what an iron is.
Or a steamer.
Or, you know, maybe even a dry cleaner.
Still, though his suit leaves much to be desired, Marlee is right. Barrett Cunningham could wear the oldest rags known to man and still come across with enough sex appeal to give me many nights of self-inflicted happy endings.
Ugh. Why are the attractive ones always either gay, and therefore unavailable, or downright pompous dicks?
Barrett doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t scan the room or ease his way in. He just beelines for the cluster of media tables, sees me, and steers directly for my spot like he’s hunting a puck he means to smother.
And the room goes quiet. Even the click of keyboards stops.
The rest of the guys in the room sense the shift, the way a cocktail party chills when someone brings up politics or dead pets. I feel every gaze flick between us, waiting for the hit.
“Blakely,” he says, like he’s got a hair in his mouth. His voice is pure sandpaper. “Got a minute?”
I catch the smirk on Troy’s face and the way Greg’s eyebrows slide up to his hairline. They want a show. I won’t give them the satisfaction—at least, not on their terms.
I gesture to the empty chair next to me and then to his suit. “Sure. Have a seat. Looks like you survived your night in the wild.”
He doesn’t sit. Instead, he leans over me, one palm planted on my desk, the other gripping the back of my chair. He eclipses the overhead light and throws my screen into shadow, which is a pretty on-the-nose metaphor for every day I’ve spent trying to make it in this town.
“Saw your interview,” he says, jerking his chin at the stack of stat sheets under my hand. “You write and speak like you’re sharpening knives, Rivers. Got something you want to say to my face?”
It’s not a question. It’s a challenge. The kind you hear in the locker room right before someone throws the first punch.
He can’t seriously think I’m going to fall for that.
Regardless, my heartrate is rising with every passing second. I fold my hands, keeping my palms flat to the desk to hide the fact that I’m shaking, just a little. Not because I’m scared, but because adrenaline is a hell of a drug and Cunningham is a hell of a trigger.
“I thought you didn’t watch your own press.”
“I don’t.” He leans even closer, and I smell sweat and aftershave and the ghost of something expensive.
Ironic given his appearance. “But the boys do. Pretty sure I’m never living down Swiss Cheese Cunningham.
Or brick shithouse thanks to you.” He’s not smiling, but his eyes are alive, bright with a venom I recognize from a thousand highlight reels.
I don’t blink. “Maybe if you plugged that leaky five-hole, I’d have to come up with something new.”
There’s a sound behind us—someone stifling a laugh.
Troy, probably, or one of the radio guys who’d sell his own children for a TMZ scoop.
Barrett’s jaw flexes so hard it looks like it might split his face open, but he doesn’t say anything for two beats.
Instead, he sweeps a hand over my desk, sending my stack of stat sheets sliding to the floor.