Page 103 of What If I Hate You
“Only bad press I care about is someone talking about you,” he says quietly.
My heart stumbles a beat, and for a moment, I forget we’re in a crowded hallway full of reporters and players.
“You won tonight,” I murmur. “That’s what matters. Let me win this one.”
He studies me for another long second before he finally nods, though I can tell it’s costing him. “Fine. But if he so much as looks at you wrong next time, I’m dropping the gloves before the puck even hits the ice.”
“Okay. Deal. Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah just let me grab my bag and we can get out of here.” Barrett heads back into the locker room, leaving me to wait in the hallway. As I’m flipping through my photos of tonight’s game, particularly ones of Barrett I took making a few excellent saves, a text comes in from my boss.
Simon
Stop by my office in the morning
No hello, no punctuation, no “please.” Just a directive, like he’s summoning me to the principal’s office.
I stare at the text, my stomach doing a weird little lurch as I run through the possibilities of what he could want.
One: He wants to talk about my latest feature on Barrett’s shutout. It got good traction online, but maybe he hated the lead.
Two: He finally caught wind of the fact that Barrett and I… are something. And now I’m about to get the “conflict of interest” speech.
Three: Someone in the press box complained about me. Again.
Or four—the longshot—he’s finally ready to give me the promotion I’ve been grinding for.
Right.
And maybe after that, Barrett will propose marriage mid-game.
I type back a quick text.
Me
Sure thing!
What else am I going to say?
Hey boss, can you give me a hint about the subject of this meeting?
Should I bring donuts?
Or maybe a resignation letter?
The locker room doors swing open and more of the guys filter out, hair damp, suits crisp, ties slightly loosened. Barrett’s one of the last walking out with his duffle bag over his shoulder, his gaze finding me immediately. He smiles and my stomach does that lurch thing again, but for an entirely different reason. I pocket my phone and push off the wall, tucking my nerves about tomorrow morning into the same mental box where I keep overdue bills and annual dentist appointments.
Right now, I’ve got something—someone—way better to focus on.
The Sports News Networkoffice smells like burnt coffee and too much printer toner. I pass a couple of interns wrestling with a stack of video equipment and give them a distracted smile before knocking on Simon’s open door.
He’s at his desk, glasses low on his nose, typing like he’s trying to punish the keyboard. Without looking up, he says, “Close the door, Rivers.”
Notgood morning, nothow was the game last night. My stomach sinks a little lower. I do as I’m told and slide into the chair across from him.
He finally leans back, folds his hands, and fixes me with the kind of look that usually precedes bad news or a lecture.
“Look, I’m just going to cut to the chase here because you deserve that.”
