Page 101 of What If I Hate You
He lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m not your editor. I’m just saying…you know, the ‘heart eyes’ thing. People notice. This industry doesn’t do nuance. It does scandal.”
He’s not wrong. And that pisses me off more than anything.
“Thanks for the advice,” I mutter, already turning back toward the rink.
Devon stays beside me, quiet for a moment. Then adds, “For what it’s worth, I think it’s kinda badass. Loving a guy in the league, I mean. Just… protect yourself. You’ve worked too damn hard. We all know it. Some just don’t want to admit it.”
I nod, throat tight. “Thanks.”
Barrett reappears on the ice for the next period, mask back on, stretching near the net, but I don’t look at him.
Not yet.
My fingers twitch for the keys on my phone, and my heart pounds in time with every beat of the arena music. Devon wandered off, probably to write something brilliant and cynical and I stay right where I am. Straddling the line, because maybe I’m not just reporting on the story anymore.
Maybe I’m in it.
Following the Anaheim win, I high-tail it to the Vikings’ locker room to prepare my questions for whatever players I’ll get the opportunity to talk to tonight. When we see him strut in, I square my shoulders, clipboard in hand, and wedge myself into the knot of reporters crowding Ryan Carver’s stall. He’s fresh from the shower, hair plastered back, towel riding dangerously low on his hips like he’s auditioning for some bargain-bin cologne ad. Cameras click, mics push forward, and I slide between two beat writers to get my phone ready.
“Ryan,” I begin, tone crisp, “you had a strong defensive presence tonight, but the penalty kill in the second period…what fell apart there?”
His smirk is slow and oily, like he’s been waiting for this. “Well, aren’t you a pretty face. Where you from, princess?”
Wanting nothing more than to roll my eyes in disdain, I plaster a fake smile on my face and answer, “Apologies. I’m Blakely Rivers with Sports News Network.”
Carver nods with a smirk. “Ah. Anaheim sends the pretty faces to ask the big scary hockey questions, huh?”
The chuckle from one of his teammates behind him isn’t subtle.
Asshole.
“I’m here for your perspective on the penalty kill,” I reply, voice flat enough to cut glass.
Carver leans back against the locker, deliberately spreading out like he owns the place. His legs separating enough that he’s clearly trying to flaunt his dick in front of me in front of all these men as if I would be the least bit affected. He points at me, nodding as if recalling everything he’s ever heard about sports reporters. “I’ve heard about you.” He folds his arms over his chest. “You know, maybe you’d get the game better if you weren’t so busy keeping the attention of one of your Star boys.” He tips his chin at me, grin full of teeth.
A couple of reporters glance at each other, and the air shifts the way it does right before a bar fight breaks out. My stomach twists, but my face is stone.
“Funny,” I say, slow and sharp, “I always thought the penalty kill was about shutting down an offense, not broadcasting your insecurities to the press.”
That earns a muffled laugh from a guy on my left, but Carver just lets out a dry chuckle, clearly deciding he’s too big to be touched. “Sure thing, honey. Whatever you say.”
I click off the recorder on my phone, step back, and let someone else feed his ego. My cheeks are hot. Not with embarrassment, but with the kind of heat that makes me want to carve this guy up in print, listing every single play he fucked up tonight until he wishes he’d kept his mouth shut. But I remind myself I’m not here to start a war.
Not today, anyway.
The Stars locker room area is a hum of post-game chatter, the smell of sweat and victory thick in the air. August files out into the hall first on a search for Ella.
“She was on level three at the photo-op,” I tell him as I stare at my phone hastily typing my notes.
“Thanks Rivers,” he says on his way down the hall.
I linger a few more minutes in the hallway hoping Barrett will step out but I know he does a lot of post-game cool-downs and stretches.
“Hey Blakely!” Ledger is all smiles when he finally steps out of the locker room freshly showered and dressed. “How you doing?”
“Oh, I’m great, Ledge,” I lie. “Congrats on the win.” I give him a high-five for good measure.
“Thanks. Did you see that assist I had in the second?”
