Page 1 of What If I Hate You
CHAPTER ONE
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 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 into 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 go to 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 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, 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 on 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 on my face so neither 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 lightsin 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 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.
