Page 17 of What If I Hate You
But it doesn’t matter. In precisely six hours, I’ll be back in front of the cameras, this time for the Stars pregame segment. Maybe I’ll go light on the lipstick just to twist the knife. Or maybe I’ll wear two shades, just to see if Barrett Cunningham can handle the cognitive dissonance.
CHAPTER FIVE
BARRETT
Ithrow the medicine ball at the wall so hard it nearly takes out the entire analog clock above the squat racks. The rubber rebounds into my palms. I want it to hurt, but nothing does. No matter how many reps I crank out, how many goddamn pounds I move, the burn won’t touch what’s eating me alive from the inside.
Rivers. Rivers. Rivers.
I grab the ball, squat deep, and fire it again. The crack radiates through the empty gym, echoing back at me like a dare. In my peripheral, one of the trainers turns to watch me, then looks away, like he’s embarrassed to watch a grown man try to murder a wall.
I can’t get Blakely out of my head. Not the suit or the lips or even the fuck-off glare she gave me as she called me out in the press office, her voice lacing through my thoughts in stereo.
“You think I don’t give a shit about hockey?”
The echo vibrates inside my skull, a note of rage bordering on admiration. I can’t remember the last time someone hit back with that accuracy, and I hate—hate—how much she sticks with me. I can’t get past the way she didn’t even flinch when I nailed her with the college comment. I knew it was a low blow theminute I said it and yeah, I kind of wanted it to sting, but fuck me.
She didn’t back down.
Instead, she stepped in, closed the gap, and stared me down like a one-woman firing squad.“You want to come for me, Barrett, do it on the record, do it with your whole heart and your entire empty soul, and don’t you ever—ever—make the mistake of thinking I’m afraid of you.”
For a moment I wasn’t sure if I wanted to throttle Rivers or throw her against the wall and kiss her until all the snark short-circuited. Which frankly is a red-flag admission if I ever managed one.
By all means, I should be pissed off. I should be plotting my revenge for every time she eviscerates me on live TV. But all I can think about is the way her voice broke, just a hair, at the end of our argument. No trembling. No retreat. Just grit, pressed so tightly it nearly cut her own tongue open. And when I looked into her eyes…really focused on them, I could see it. That small part of her she didn’t want me to see. That tiny shred of vulnerability that she doesn’t want to show anyone.
Because showing vulnerability in her line of work is weakness.
I get it.
And after I finally saw it in her face, the anger coupled with the hurt that I would stoop so low to purposely hurt her. Fuck. I hated myself.
She was right.
I was no better than the sexist assholes that make up the rest of the press room.
I fire the medicine ball again, this time low so it bounces off the mats and ricochets under the dumbbell rack. I follow it, chest heaving, and squat down to dig it out. My hands shake a little.Not from fatigue, but because the memory of her face, the way her jaw clenched and her eyes shimmered, won’t let me go.
I hurt her.
She didn’t want to admit it.
But I saw it.
And I hate myself for it.
I sink back on my heels, ball in hand, and for a second I just…sit. Let the silence crash around me.
Maybe I’m a coward after all. Isn’t that why I keep showing up here after hours or in the early morning silence, deadlifting my baggage instead of facing it? Maybe if I torch my muscles enough, I’ll find the nerve to apologize.
To her.
To myself.
Whatever.
“Do you think he’s broken?” There’s a hushed voice behind me that I recognize immediately. I look up into the mirror to see Harrison standing in the doorway with Ledger.
“Don’t know,” Ledger whispers, watching me curiously. “Is this a new meditation or something?”
