Page 104 of What If I Hate You
Uh oh.
This can’t be good.
“There have been… whispers.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Whispers?”
“About you,” he says, tapping a pen against the desk, “and Barrett Cunningham.”
Son of a fucking bitch.
My throat goes dry, but I keep my voice even. “People whisper about a lot of things, Simon.”
“Don’t play cute with me, Blakely. You’ve been seen with him outside the rink. The press box chatter’s been…pointed to say the least. And before you say it, yes, I know you’re a damn good reporter. But perception matters. Integrity matters. And right now, there are questions about both.”
“Questions.” I nod as if I completely understand even though I don’t. I don’t understand one bit because I am damn good at my job. That’s a fact. And I’ve never let my relationship with any of the players get in the way of what I’m there to do on any given night. Good or bad, I’m always going to call out the players for their choices. “And can I assume these quote-unquotequestionsare coming from Greg and Troy?”
“It doesn’t matter who’s asking them, Rivers. What matters is they’re being asked in the first place.”
That’s code for yes.
Fucking assholes.
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “Barrett and I—” I stop, because what am I even going to say? Am I going to deny it? It’s not like I’ve been subtle. Hell, Barrett kissed me on the ice in front of anyone who may have been watching at that practice. I can’t deny it.
I wouldn’t anyway.
Barrett deserves better.
I’d never hurt him like that.
Simon watches me for a beat, like he’s measuring whether I’ll lie, and then asks me, “How serious is it?”
My first instinct is to protect Barrett because I’ll be damned if I let anyone hurt him on my watch. “Serious enough that I’m not going to pretend it’s nothing.”
Simon exhales through his nose, like he was hoping for a different answer. “Okay. Then we need to talk about your next path here. And you’re not going to like either option.”
I cross my arms. “Try me.”
Finally making eye contact he stares me down with a direct, and if I’m being honest, cold, expression. “One: You take a reassignment. Different team, different state, effective immediately. You’ll keep your title and your pay, but you’ll be out of Anaheim by the weekend.”
Absolutely not.
“Or?”
“Or two,” he breathes. “You stay in Anaheim, but you take a demotion. You’re off the press floor, out of the locker rooms, no player access. You’d be writing filler and features from the office.”
The words land like bricks in my lap and suddenly my chest feels tight.
“Seriously? You’d make me go back to fucking fluff work? After all I’ve done for you? For this network?”
“Take it or leave it, Rivers. It’s your choice to make.”
“So those are my only choices,” I say slowly. “Uproot my life or watch my career get gutted.”
“Those are your choices,” he says, and there’s no apology in his voice. “I’ll need your answer within twenty-four hours.”
I force myself to nod like I’m calm, even though my pulse is doing double-time. “I don’t need twenty-four hours, sir. I can tell you my answer right now.”
