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BARRETT

“ For fuck’s sake, Blackstone! Make it greasy and shove it in deep!”

There’s three minutes left in the third period and the scoreboard is fucking glaring down at me, mocking me with every passing second on the clock.

4–3.

I’m sweating bullets under my cage, my pads are heavy like concrete, and every muscle in my body is tense and ready.

Portland circles my net like sharks—fast and hungry.

They’re out for blood tonight. And my teammates?

Fucking gassed, sloppy and late on every coverage.

And I’m no better having let the puck through to the net more times than I care to talk about.

But the game isn’t over until it’s over. We could tie it up and take us into overtime.

We could take the win.

I try to bark at my defensemen but it’s like I’m yelling underwater and nobody can hear me.

And then it happens.

A fucking turnover at the blue line.

A clean breakaway.

Portland has possession and their forward, Andre Dirkovich, who I’ll forever refer to as Dick-ovich is fast. Too fucking fast. He cuts right and then drags the puck left waiting just long enough for me to bite. I see his game as he’s playing it.

I know exactly what he’s going to try to do.

He’s going for my five-hole.

Fucker!

I drop to the ice and flare my pads but it’s like I’m dropping through sludge.

I’m too damn slow.

The horn sounds and the puck slams into the back of the net with a sickening thud.

5–3.

The crowd erupts. Well, part of the crowd. The away jerseys are everywhere tonight, like a sea of green swallowing us whole in one gigantic tidal wave. And they’re losing their damn minds.

I stay down on one knee for a second too long, staring at the red light still glowing behind me like it’s the sun itself.

When I right myself my heart pounds against my gear as I pick up the Gatorade bottle behind the net during the timeout.

I rip open my cage and slam back the cold liquid as I’m joined by Ollenberg and Meers.

They both see the rage all over my face so neither one of them says a word.

“Why the hell are we collapsing into the slot like it’s a goddamn fire drill?” I growl, chest heaving. “What is this— beer league ?”

They don’t look at me. They never do when I’m like this. Too intense. Too loud. Too honest.

Coach mutters something vague about keeping heads up but I tune it out looking for anyone to blame but myself.

We finish the game in a fog. Final score: 5–4. Close enough to sting, but not close enough to feel like hope.

The lights in the press room always feel too bright after a loss.

Like they’re designed to make you sweat under the weight of your own mistakes.

I tug the brim of my cap lower, jaw clenched so tight I can feel it in my molars.

I hate doing press interviews. Correction.

I loathe them. I rarely do them but when Coach tells me I’m up this time and doesn’t let me bullshit my way out, I have no choice.

I still smell like the rink, like the sting of ice spray and… fucking frustration.

There’s no doubt I lost this game.

Yeah, the guys played like shit but they were scoring.

I’m the one who let Portland through one time after another.

I’m the one who failed them.

This loss is on me and I know it.

Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it though, yet here I am after pulling the short straw for the press room shit show.

I step up to the mic, eyes scanning the room.

Yep, it’s the same tired faces staring back at me with most likely the same rehearsed questions.

But then my eyes fall on a new face. Someone I’ve seen around the arena because she’s a friend of Marlee’s but because I have yet to sit a press conference since she started here, I haven’t had the pleasure of her questioning.

Her name is Blakely Rivers.

She stands dead center like she’s claimed the whole room with nothing but heels and confidence. From what I’ve heard, Rivers is the only female reporter to ever make it into the press room.

I can see why.

She’s fucking hot.

She’s tall and curvy with the body of an athlete that I can appreciate.

Her red mouth is curled in a smirk, hair slicked back like a Bond villain and her gaze is sharp as a skate.

There are women who try to look powerful, and then there are women who can end you with a stare.

She’s the latter, and I decide instantly that I don’t like her.

Marlee says she’s tough as nails but Marlee’s also one of her best friends so I know she’s blowing a little smoke to make her Ms. Rivers look good.

Ledger says he calls on her first to make sure she gets the chance to ask her questions before any of the other assholes in the room, but I also know Ledger would do anything Marlee asks of him because he’s that fucking whipped where she’s concerned.

If she’s in this press room than far be it for me to treat her any differently from the other assholes in the room. At least I’ll have something hot to look at while she asks me the same questions any of these other bozos asks on a normal day.

She raises her hand before any of the old dudes can say a word and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes at her overachieving attitude.

Hermione Granger anyone?

The mic crackles as I say hello and gesture to Blakely. “Yeah, you…with the lipstick.”

Her voice rings out—smooth, unapologetic, zero tremor. “Barrett, do you feel like maybe tonight you were a little too slow tracking the puck laterally? Especially on that third goal?”

What the fuck?

She went straight for the jugular.

Nobody’s ever asked me that before.

She must’ve talked to one of the trainers.

If she’d asked about defensive coverage or stick placement I could have given a canned answer, but no, she comes for the kill right out the gate.

Where are the softball questions like, “What happened out there?” or “What was different out there tonight from your usual strong nights?”

The sound I release from my mouth isn’t quite a sigh, but it’s close. I lean into the mic locking eyes with her. “You mean when my defense hung me out to dry and I became Portland’s favorite pinata?”

A few low laughs echo through the room but I don’t give a shit. I know I’m throwing my team under the bus. I know I’ll get hell for it later but fuck it. I’m barely holding back the irritation clawing at my throat. The last thing I want to do is admit I was the biggest loser of the night.

But Blakely doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even blink.

“I mean the one where your right pad didn’t seal post. Again.”

My grip tightens on the podium as her mix of analysis and accusation lobs like a puck straight to my gut.

She knew exactly where to aim.

“Appreciate the coaching, Rivers,” I say coolly. “I’ll be sure to review your film before our next game.”

“No need,” she says, casually flipping a page on her notepad. “I already reviewed yours . Last three games. Same issue, same side.” Her bright green eyes lift and lock with mine in a piercing stare. “Is this a technique problem or a confidence one?”

Where does she get off?

What the hell is her problem?

I wish I could step away from this fucking podium and close the distance between us. Wish I could walk straight into her space until the room vanishes around us and give her a piece of my mind.

But that would be wildly unprofessional and Coach would have my ass.

Not to mention I would come across to the viewing public like the sexist goalie on the team. I can see those headlines now.

With the cameras still rolling, all I can see is her.

Her calculating eyes.

Her lipstick like warpaint.

The way she didn’t emote with my pause.

“Are you trying to make this personal, Rivers?”

She doesn’t move. Just arches an eyebrow. “Not at all, but you do make it so easy.”

I should be pissed. I should walk away from her audacity, but there’s something in the way she talks back to me—not with contempt, but challenge.

It does something to me.

“You could’ve asked about the glove save in the second,” I murmur, letting the hint of a smirk tug at his mouth. “You know. The cool highlight reel stuff.”

She tilts her head slightly. “That’s not my job. I’m not here to stroke your ego, Mr. Cunningham.”

“No.” My eyes flick down to her lips before I catch myself. “But you sure know how to get under my skin.”

Her smile is slight, but wicked. Almost dangerous. “Then I guess I should thank you for allowing me to live there rent-free.”

Fuck.

She’s good.

But I’ll be damned if I let her win.

I laugh under my breath, stepping back before I do something stupid.

“Well,” I throw one last glance her way. “Hope you like it hot. Next game? I’m coming back on fire.”

“Good.” She nods biting the tip of her pen. “Then I’ll finally have something nice to write about you.”

You can hear a pin drop as all the air is sucked out through the collective gasps of every male reporter in the room.

The smirk that hits my face though is a surprise to them.

By all means I could be pissed. I could roll my eyes.

I could scoff at her assertive confidence.

I could say a few things that would make me look like a complete dick.

But I don’t. My smirk isn’t about our win or loss tonight.

It’s about her.

Fucking Blakely Rivers.

I’ll let her win this little battle for now, but she absolutely will not win the war.

WHAT IF I HATE YOU releases on September 17 th