Page 2 of What If I Hate You
I’m the one who let Portland through again and again.
I’m the one who failed them.
This loss is on me and I know it.
Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it though, yet here I am.
I step up to the mic, eyes scanning the room. Yep, it’s the same tired faces staring back at me with most likely the same rehearsed questions. But then my eyes fall on a new face. Someone I’ve seen around the arena because she’s a friend of Marlee’s but since I have yet to do a press conference this season, I haven’t had the pleasure of her questioning.
Her name is Blakely Rivers.
She stands dead center like she’s claimed the whole room with nothing but heels and confidence. The only female reporter to ever make it into the press room and I can see why. She’s fucking hot.
Her form-fitting blue dress hugs every curve, showing off a banging figure, while caramel-colored waves tumble over her shoulders in perfect style. Makeup flawless, confidence blazing—Ella would call it on-point—and I’d be lying if I said she doesn’t radiate beauty. All eyes are drawn to her, including mine. In a room filled with one rich man dressed in a designer suit afteranother, Blakely Rivers is like a flame, untouchable but alluring just the same.
Marlee says she’s tough as nails but Marlee’s also one of her best friends so I know she’s blowing a little smoke to make Ms. Rivers look good. Ledger says he calls on her first to make sure she gets the chance to ask her questions before any of the other assholes in the room. I also know Ledger would do anything Marlee asks of him because he’s that fucking whipped where she’s concerned.
Whatever. I guess I can play that game too.
At least I’ll have something hot to look at while she asks me the same questions any of these other bozos asks on a normal day.
The mic crackles as I say hello and gesture to Blakely. “Yeah, you…with the lipstick.”
The guys in the room chuckle but Blakely doesn’t react. Her face is stoic as she begins.
“Barrett.” Her voice rings out, crisp and sharp. “Do you feel like maybe tonight you were a little too slow tracking the puck laterally? Especially on that third goal?”
What the fuck?
She went straight for the jugular.
Nobody’s ever asked me that before.
She must’ve talked to one of the trainers.
Where are the softball questions like, “What happened out there?” or “What was different out there tonight from your usual strong nights?”
The sound I release from my mouth isn’t quite a sigh, but it’s close. Then I lock eyes with her.
“You mean the goal where our defense left me out to dry?”
A few low laughs echo through the room but I don’t give a shit. I know I’m throwing my team under the bus. I know I’ll get hell for it later but fuck it. I’m barely holding back the irritationclawing at my throat. The last thing I want to do is admit I was the biggest loser of the night.
But Blakely doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even blink.
“I mean the one where your right pad didn’t seal post. Again.”
My grip tightens on the podium as her mix of analysis and accusation lobs like a puck straight to my gut.
She knew exactly where to aim.
“Appreciate the coaching, Rivers,” I say coolly. “I’ll be sure to review your film before our next game.”
“No need,” she says, casually flipping a page on her notepad. “I already reviewedyours. Last three games. Same issue, same side.” Her bright green eyes lift and lock with mine in a piercing stare. “So, is this a technique problem or a confidence one?”
Where does she get off?
What the hell is her problem?
