Page 100 of What If I Hate You
BLAKELY
I’m not supposed to care this much.
Not while I’m standing behind the plexiglass with my press badge clipped to my jacket and my notes app open on my phone like I’m actually focused on game stats instead of the six-foot goalie who just deflected a slapshot like it was child’s play.
Barrett drops into his butterfly like it’s instinct, fluid and precise. Just like I saw him practice. I’ve seen dozens of goalies in my career but watching him is like watching the game reinvent itself in real time. It’s unfair how good he is. Even more unfair how good he looks doing it.
I catch myself smiling and immediately wipe the expression from my face.
Professional, Blakely.
Be professional.
You're here to report, not swoon.
Still, when the puck rebounds and he dives to cover it, glove outstretched like a damn superhero, my body jerks forward before I can stop it. A guy beside me—some intern for another outlet—lets out a cheer and I barely restrain myself from joining in. My fingers twitch like they want to clap but I shove them into my pockets.
It’s a close game, 2–1 in our favor, and the tension on the ice is a living thing. We only barely won our game last week against the Red Tails and we lost to the Vikings last night so the Stars need to be at the top of their game today. So far so good. I can tell Barrett’s locked in and laser-focused with his jaw tight behind his mask, legs moving in perfect rhythm as the opposing team circles the net like vultures. He’s a wall, and God help me, I would give anything to be the girl who gets to break him down after the final buzzer.
But I can’t.
Not here.
Not now.
My boss could be watching from just about anywhere and I’m sure he’s waiting to read my post-game article. The other reporters already think I got this job because of my face instead of my brain. And when they got wind that Barrett kissed me on the ice in front of the whole team, well, let’s just say I’ve gotten the look of dissatisfaction, or dare I say jealousy, more times than I can count. It’s not great for my credibility that I’m involved with one of the players, but I’m damn good at my job. I know how to be neutral when it comes to the press and Barrett would tell anyone that I never go easy on him.
So, I continue to take notes. Pretend I’m focused on shot counts and power plays while I try not to bite my lip every time Barrett flexes his glove hand. I write “solid defense” when what I want to write isHe looks like he’s made of granite and warpaint and sex appeal and I kind of want him to make me squirt all over that glove.
The buzzer blares, ending the second period, and Barrett skates off the ice, tossing his helmet back to shake out his hair. He glances up—just once—and his eyes find mine through the glass. For a fraction of a second, he smiles.
And damn it.
I smile back.
“You’re not exactly hiding it,” a voice says to my left.
I jerk like I’ve been caught stealing. Spinning, I find Devon Marks, veteran sports writer forThe L.A. Tribune, leaning against the wall with a smirk on his face and a coffee cup that somehow survived the first two periods of chaos.
“Not hiding what?” I ask, all innocence, though my voice lands somewhere between breathy and busted.
He arches a brow and sips his coffee. “The look you’re giving Cunningham like he’s the second coming of Fleury. Hell, I haven’t seen someone that fixated on a five-hole since my ex got bored during quarantine.”
My mouth opens and then closes and then I shrug as nonchalantly as possible.
“Whatever. I’m just watching the game.”
“Sure.” He nods sagely, as if I’ve confessed to tax fraud. “With your cheeks all flushed and that dreamy ‘he’s-so-strong’ gaze? Blakely, if you’re gonna fall for one of these guys, at least try to look bored while doing it.”
“I’mnotfalling for him,” I hiss, shifting my clipboard like a shield between us.
I’ve already fallen.
“I’m reporting. It’s my job. I’ve already got half a piece written in my notes.”
“Oh good,” he deadpans. “Can’t wait to read about Cunningham’s stick work and how he moved with the grace of a Greek god, all while saving your heart and the game.”
I narrow my eyes. “Give me a break, Devon.”
