Page 8 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)

CHAPTER FIVE

BARRETT

I throw the medicine ball at the wall so hard it nearly takes out the entire analog clock above the squat racks.

The rubber rebounds into my palms. I want it to hurt, but nothing does.

No matter how many reps I crank out, how many goddamn pounds I move, the burn won’t touch what’s eating me alive from the inside.

Rivers. Rivers. Rivers.

I grab the ball, squat deep, and fire it again. The crack radiates through the empty gym, echoing back at me like a dare. In my peripheral, one of the trainers turns to watch me, then looks away, like he’s embarrassed to watch a grown man try to murder a wall.

I can’t get Blakely out of my head. Not the suit or the lips or even the fuck-off glare she gave me as she called me out in the press office, her voice lacing through my thoughts in stereo.

“You think I don’t give a shit about hockey?”

The echo vibrates inside my skull, a note of rage bordering on admiration.

I can’t remember the last time someone hit back with that accuracy, and I hate— hate —how much she sticks with me.

I can’t get past the way she didn’t even flinch when I nailed her with the college comment.

I knew it was a low blow the minute I said it and yeah, I kind of wanted it to sting, but fuck me.

She didn’t back down.

Instead, she stepped in, closed the gap, and stared me down like a one-woman firing squad. “You want to come for me, Barrett, do it on the record, do it with your whole heart and your entire empty soul, and don’t you ever—ever—make the mistake of thinking I’m afraid of you.”

For a moment I wasn’t sure if I wanted to throttle Rivers or throw her against the wall and kiss her until all the snark short-circuited. Which frankly is a red-flag admission if I ever managed one.

By all means, I should be pissed off. I should be plotting my revenge for every time she eviscerates me on live TV.

But all I can think about is the way her voice broke, just a hair, at the end of our argument.

No trembling. No retreat. Just grit, pressed so tightly it nearly cut her own tongue open.

And when I looked into her eyes…really focused on them, I could see it.

That small part of her she didn’t want me to see.

That tiny shred of vulnerability that she doesn’t want to show anyone.

Because showing vulnerability in her line of work is weakness.

I get it.

And after I finally saw it in her face, the anger coupled with the hurt that I would stoop so low to purposely hurt her. Fuck. I hated myself.

She was right.

I was no better than the sexist assholes that make up the rest of the press room.

I fire the medicine ball again, this time low so it bounces off the mats and ricochets under the dumbbell rack.

I follow it, chest heaving, and squat down to dig it out.

My hands shake a little. Not from fatigue, but because the memory of her face, the way her jaw clenched and her eyes shimmered, won’t let me go.

I hurt her.

She didn’t want to admit it.

But I saw it.

And I hate myself for it.

I sink back on my heels, ball in hand, and for a second I just…sit. Let the silence crash around me.

Maybe I’m a coward after all. Isn’t that why I keep showing up here after hours or in the early morning silence, deadlifting my baggage instead of facing it? Maybe if I torch my muscles enough, I’ll find the nerve to apologize.

To her.

To myself.

Whatever.

“Do you think he’s broken?” There’s a hushed voice behind me that I recognize immediately. I look up into the mirror to see Harrison standing in the doorway with Ledger.

“Don’t know,” Ledger whispers, watching me curiously. “Is this a new meditation or something?”

Harrison shrugs a shoulder. “Your question implies that he has an old meditation and to be honest with you, Dayne, I’m not sure Cunningham has ever meditated a day in his life.”

“Lat-er-al move-ment…” Ledger stretches his words out as if he’s trying to hypnotize me. “Maybe he’s practicing the art of the think method. Like, the more he thinks about lat-er-al move-ment, the better he’ll be at it.”

“Or maybe he just has gas but doesn’t want to trust a fart.”

I snort, wipe sweat from my brow, and put the ball back onto the rack. “Just getting my money’s worth, assholes.”

Harrison smooths his hand over his beard. “Heard you had it out with Rivers again this morning.”

“What of it?”

What did he hear?

Ledger cocks his head. “Is that why you’re in here tossing a ball at the wall and then hugging it like you’re fucking sorry for hurting the poor thing?”

“Because they do make punching bags for that sort of thing, you know.” Harrison gestures toward the far corner, a sly smile creeping up his face. “I hear it’s cheaper than therapy too.”

“Don’t need therapy,” I say, planting my hands on my knees. “Just need to not see her face everywhere I look.”

Harrison grins, teeth flashing white in his field of facial hair.

“You know, the more you talk, the more you sound exactly like every romcom villain in history. You know those ones that are like enemies to lovers? Maybe you just need to admit Rivers is your kryptonite and let the chips fall, Superman.”

“Wait.” Ledger cocks his head. “How do you know all about romcom shit?”

“My ex, Harper,” he explains. “She used to love romcoms back in college. She’d make me watch them with her and I was a fucking sucker for her, so…” He shrugs.

“Yeah,” Ledger says,” and don’t forget, in those movies the guy always ends up confessing his love with a boombox on the lawn.”

Harrison deadpans, “I own a boombox.”

I flip him off and walk to the water fountain. My skin is so hot it feels like an open wound. “I don’t like Rivers. I don’t even like talking to Rivers. She’s a pain in the ass.”

“Is that what you call it?” Ledger’s smile sharpens. “Looked more like you wanted to fuck her senseless in front of the entire press corps the other night.”

I scowl, but I can’t even fake the heat.

Truth is, my body’s been tangled up in knots since the parking lot the other night, since the way she stared me down and didn’t even blink.

I want to say it’s just the thrill of competition, but I’m not that good a liar.

It’s something else. Something gnawing at the edges.

“She’s just doing her job,” Harrison says, voice almost gentle. “She’s good at it, too. It can’t be easy being the only female in the room.”

“Right?” Ledger snorts. “I mean have you seen those guys? That Troy always has shit on his clothes like he misses his mouth with every bite and don’t get me started on Greg.

Marlee says he’s a piece of work. I know Blakely has struggled with them almost daily.

They’re sexist douchebags that don’t deserve to be around her in my opinion.

She’s headstrong and stubborn but you have to admit, her questions come from a place of knowledge. She knows the game.”

I don’t want to admit Ledger’s right.

But he is.

Harrison lifts a shoulder. “Maybe you should try talking to her like she’s not the enemy, see what happens.”

Ledger picks up a kettlebell, twirling it in his palm like a basketball. “Or you could keep pretending you’re a nine-year-old little girl , and some boy is pulling your pigtails because he likes you and everyone on the playground knows it but you.”

Harrison grins, the kind that means he’s not letting this go. “Some people call it sexual tension, Teddy Bear. You might want to Google it.”

I glare, but they’re already moving to the bench press, Ledger’s voice trailing behind. “I give him two weeks before he snaps. One, if Rivers gets assigned a road trip.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. She hates me. End of story.”

“That’s the spirit!” Ledger says, then teasingly asks , “So, uh, do you hate her back, or do you just want to see what she’d look like in your jersey and nothing else?”

The question hangs in the air longer than it should. I open my mouth to fire back, but there’s something sticky about honesty, and it gums up my throat. I squeeze the water fountain pedal and let the ice-cold trickle numb my tongue.

Harrison claps me on the back so hard my teeth click. “You don’t have to answer that, Teddy Bear. Let’s just make sure you’re relaxed before tonight’s game.”

By the time I hit the rink, I’m reset, ice in my veins, every part of me dialed to kill.

It’s game day. Stars versus Storm. We need this Win.

I need this win.

The pregame skate is a blur. I let the world reduce to nothing but posts and angles, pucks coming off blades like missiles, every rebound a calculus problem I was born to solve.

The other guys chirp and razz each other, but it’s all background noise to the white-hot focus in my skull.

I take every shot that comes my way. I block every fuckin’ thing that flies at me, and by warmups, the boys are howling every time I stonewall one of their wrist shots.

“Brick wall’s back, baby!” August crows, clapping me on the shoulder as we head for the tunnel. “Missed you, Teddy Bear.”

I grunt, but my blood’s fizzing.

We line up in the dark, just behind the curtain before introductions start. The thrum of the crowd pours through the cinderblock like heartbeats. My routine is simple: pull down my mask, tap the Stars logo on the way up the tunnel, ignore the cameras, and tune out everything else.

But tonight, as I skate out for warmups, I catch a flicker of movement at the edge of the press platform.

Blakely Rivers has a mic in her hand, her mouth pressed tight, phone tilted at a deliberate angle.

For a split second her eyes jerk to me, sharp and unreadable, and I almost fuck up my first stride.

Get a fucking grip Cunningham.

She’s a press girl. Nothing more.

She’s not wearing a bold suit tonight like she was at our last game.

For some reason that surprises me. I don’t know what I expected or why her choice of clothing was even on my mind, but she’s casually dressed in a blue and gold-fitted Stars quarter-zip sweatshirt and black leggings.

She looks the part of a supporting fan and for a quick second I wonder what she would look like in my jersey.

I make it my personal mission to ignore her, which means I’m hyper-aware of every tiny shift in her posture, every angle at which she holds her phone, every time she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like she’s trying to hide behind it.

My mask is down, but I can feel her watching me, a heat at the side of my head that’s almost tactile.

I know I’m supposed to be stretching, supposed to be focused, but the urge to show off takes over. I drop into a full butterfly, my trademark move. The stretch that gets me those “freakish flexibility” comments from Sports Wrap and, if the rumor mill is correct, more than a few thirsty DMs.

I angle the stretch so I’m facing her and then grab my blocker and lean into it. I’m flexing enough thigh to make my own inner quad scream. I hold the pose, eyes up, sweat spiking at my temples, and watch her reaction.

She’s talking to a camera guy, pretending not to notice me, but every time I move, every time I drop into a full split or push laterally across the crease, her gaze snaps right back. There’s a split second where she doesn’t even realize she’s been made but I see her.

I notice.

At first I think I’m imagining it, but then Ledger, who is skating lazy circles near the blue line, coasts over and confirms, “She’s watching you, man.”

“I know,” I mutter. “She must be conducting an experiment. How many times can you humiliate Cunningham in a single fiscal year.”

Ledger barks a laugh. “Whatever it is, you got her attention, man. Don’t pretend you don’t like it.” He grins. “Maybe she finally found your good angle.”

I snort and force myself not to look at her again, but my brain has already banked the image. Rivers with her face set hard, cheeks flushed, watching my every move like she’s one shift away from striding down to the ice and calling me out herself.

If that’s how you want to play, sweetheart. Game on.

We destroy Seattle. I mean, demolish them.

Six-nil by the end of the second and my personal shutout streak intact all the way into the dying seconds of the third.

I slide into my best version of focus, the kind that drowns out the crowd and all the bullshit that lives in my head.

Even the in-game chirping from the other side is background noise.

After the buzzer, my teammates mob me. I lean into the heap letting them pile on, yell in my ear, and shriek over my shoulder, because tonight, I earned it.

Tonight, nobody talks about my five-hole or the Zamboni shuffle or Swiss goddamn cheese.

Tonight, I’m the wall they all can trust. Tonight, I’m not the guy haunted by a girl in heels and a mean right hook of a voice.

Maybe, just maybe, I killed the noise long enough that I can coast on this for a day or two.

We file off the ice and into the tunnel, sweat and adrenaline and a weird, giddy relief mixing in my veins. I can finally let myself breathe.

Or not.

The surreal feeling doesn’t last. Not when I unpeel my mask feeling the rush of cooler air on my face and see her again.

This time she’s already in interview position, flanked by a camera crew and the sense that everyone in the world is watching.

I tell myself to keep walking, to take the victory lap with the guys because fuck her, but of course she calls out to me.

“Cunningham! You got a second?”