Page 21 of What If I Hate You
Even Robert, my camera operator, mouths “holy shit” before offering me a quick thumbs-up like I just won the Nobel Prize for Verbal Warfare. A few straggler reporters in the vicinity huddle together, eyes darting between me and the closed door Barrett just disappeared behind. I hear Troy’s voice somewhere in the distance saying, “You see that? She’s got him on a leash.”
The camera crew dissolves around me and even the post-game chaos thins out, but my head’s still spinning from every calculated syllable the man just delivered.
I should feel smug. And I do. I got Barrett Cunningham to blink first. But something about the way he looked at me, like I was the only thing worth focusing on in the whole damn arena,sets off a chain reaction inside me that’s part pride, part panic, and wholly something else.
I practically float back to the media room, and it’s only when I see my reflection in the glass door that I realize I’m grinning. Like an idiot. Like a girl with a crush, which is neither on brand for me nor allowed, though rules about workplace relationships don’t seem to be enforced around here given the rest of the team and their chosen partners.
Marlee Remington, my best friend, heads the Events and Operations department and she and Ledger Dayne have three kids together. August Blackstone is married to Ella and she’s the team’s mascot. Layken heads up the charity office for the Stars and she’s married to Griffin Ollenberg and hell, Bodhi Roche is with Corrigan Hicks, the coach’s daughter. I suppose the guys like to keep their women close around here.
And although I don’t want to admit it, there’s a part of me, a teeny tiny part, way, way, way, deep down that wouldn’t mind getting a little closer to Barrett Cunningham. I clamp down on the very thought and try to push it out of my mind, but the sting of his last words lingers, hot and electric, as I flop down at my desk to start dashing off bullet points for my next segment on Sports Wrap.
“I think you’d be surprised what I can handle.”
I wonder if he’d handle me the way he handled that puck in the third period; with a possessiveness that left no doubt, not even a sliver, about who controlled the space. I wonder if his hands, wide and veined, would close around my wrists, pinning me to a mattress or to a wall. The press of his body a warning shot and a promise all at once.
Obviously this is a sign that I need to either A, drink water, or B, break something heavy and ceramic so I can clean up the mess and feel like a productive member of society.
There’s just something about Barrett that feels so deliberate, so braced and locked, that I find myself wanting to see what would happen if I saw another side to him, if he in fact has a softer side, or better yet if he really saw me.
Blakely Rivers.
The single independent female who has a passion for sports reporting and all that entails, but who also wouldn’t mind having someone to come home to who would wrap his arms around her, make her feel desired, loved, and respected and if she’s lucky, fuck her till the sun comes up.
That doesn’t happen though with the line of work I’m in.
I mean sure, they’d probably all fuck me till the sun came up if I asked them to.
Also, ew.
But I’ll never have their respect.
I get it.
The men around here might understand that I know hockey because I’ve played hockey, but to them women’s hockey is nothing like men’s hockey. Not in the slightest. So, no matter how hard I push, no matter how relentless I am to prove myself in this career, I’ll never have the one thing all the rest of my colleagues and players have.
A penis.
To them I’m nothing but the pretty girl who obviously slept with someone or provided some quality, intimate favors to get this gig. Because evidently my tits carry voodoo magic.
Who knew?
Honestly, I just find Barrett Cunningham intriguing. He’s not the flashy professional athlete that some of the other guys are. He’s not into high fashion. That I could tell by the suit he had on earlier. He doesn’t drive an overly expensive car. He’s broody all the time, even in the few instances where I’ve seen him off the ice. After our first encounter in the press roomsomething about him latched onto me and now I find myself wishing I could peel back his armor and see what might be left underneath. I want to know if Barrett is just a myth of his own making, or if there’s actually a pulse under all the muscle and mood.
I’m barelyat my desk at Sports News Network a week later when I hear the the familiar quick tap of dress loafers down the hall signaling either an HR intervention or my boss. Braced for a scolding about my on-air decorum, I turn to the doorway just as Simon barrels toward me, his expression pinched and frantic as if he’s been mainlining straight espresso since five this morning.
“Blakely! Good, you’re here.” He clutches a folder like it’s a life raft. “Walk with me.” He doesn’t wait for my answer, just pivots and expects me to fall in step, which I do, if only because I’m curious whether I’m about to get fired or promoted.
Please don’t fire me.
Cunningham will have a field day.
He slaps the folder against his palm. “I need a favor. Actually, more than a favor. An assignment. You’re traveling with the team for the away games this week. In fact—” he stops so abruptly I nearly run into him. “The plane leaves at seven sharp tomorrow morning. You’re on it. Full access. Locker room, press room, breakfast buffet at whatever godforsaken hotel can accommodate thirty men who all eat their body weight in waffles.” He looks at me like he expects protest, but honestly, it’s the best news I’ve had in weeks.
“The network wants more behind-the-scenes content and you’re the only one the guys haven’t gotten banned from thelocker room yet. Consider it a compliment, Rivers.” He shrugs with a slight cringe. “Or a sentence, I guess.”
I manage to keep a straight face, careful not to let on that I’m already mapping road trip outfit strategy and wondering if there’s a Starbucks on the way to the airport. “Roger that, boss. Are there parameters, or do you just want me to record every instance of them dropping their towels in the locker room until the FCC fines us for indecency?”
The very idea of being inside the locker room has me both extremely excited and tremendously nervous.
