Page 24 of What If I Hate You
“How super sweet of you, Griffin,” she says. “It’s so nice to see that some of you big burly guys actually have a soul underneath all that padding.” Her eyes shift quickly to me and I know damn well that comment was meant for me.
I roll my eyes with a huff and pull my headphones onto my head, pretending to ignore her.
Finally, the door to the plane closes and we slowly taxi out of the gate to the runway. This is our cue to get out of these clothes so we can be comfortable for the four-hour flight. Within seconds, the aisle becomes a technicolor strip club of half-naked hockey players shucking off suit jackets, yanking off ties, and squirming out of their collared shirts with all the grace of a preschool classroom. The rookies try to change in their seats, but the vets make a spectacle of it, standing in the aisle and hurlingtheir dress pants into the overhead bins like they’re tossing hats after a hat trick.
I stand, grateful for any excuse to get out of my dress clothes. I’ll step out of my dress pants and am two buttons into my shirt when I notice Blakely standing in the aisle across from me, unzipping her carry-on with military precision. She’s pretending to fish something out of her bag, but her eyes are not-so-casually glued to my hands as I work my way down the row of buttons.
You’d think a woman who’s made a career out of not blinking would be better at hiding her tells. She’s totally staring.
I don’t say a word. I just keep stripping. With deliberate slowness, I peel my shirt off in one smooth motion. A small, almost imperceptible hitch betrays her.
Ha!
I knew it!
She fumbles the zipper of her carry-on, her eyes flicking up to my chest before she makes a show of plucking out her phone and
She’s blushing. Maybe not full-on, but there’s definitely color in her cheeks. I let it ride, feeding the moment with a calculated flex as I reach into the overhead bin for my joggers, the shirtless stretch making my torso angle toward her just enough to confirm what I already suspected. For all her icy control, Blakely Rivers is not immune.
I let her have a good, long look before I pull the joggers on over black compression shorts. She honestly looks like she’s trying to solve a math equation and can’t decide if she likes the answer. I want to laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I give her a nod. “Like what you see, Rivers?”
She tosses her hair, the aviators coming down just enough to reveal a flash of green eyes and a smirk so sharp it could slice through steel. “I’ll let your PR agent know you’re branching out to adult modeling. Maybe then people will remember your abs instead of your save percentage.”
The guys erupt. Rivers slides into her seat diagonally in front of me and boots up her laptop, the screen already covered in color-coded notes. She’s all business now, a human firewall, but every so often I catch her stealing glances my way, quick as a wrist shot. She can try to play it cool, but I know what I saw.
Ledger, never content to let a moment die, leans across the aisle and whispers, “She definitely wants to see your highlight reel, and I don’t mean hockey.”
I flip him off and pretend to sleep, but somehow the hum in my body never quite resets to zero. For the whole flight my brain runs the numbers a hundred times, playing through every micro interaction since the parking lot: the near-miss, the almost-smile, the steady thread of challenge braided with something that feels suspiciously like interest. I keep tabs on her while pretending not to, watching the way she types with her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed in pure concentration. Watching the way she laughs at whatever Marlee whispers in her ear, or the way she shoves her laptop aside to help Ella with some godawful Pinterest board she’s building for a mascot party.
Halfway to Portland, Rivers gets up to stretch and walks up the aisle. I see her pause at the galley, just past the curtain, debating whether to brave the bathroom or stage a moment of civilian normalcy in a world of monstrous male appetite. I don’t know why, but I go after her. Not fast, not direct. Just a lumbering amble toward the back, like I’m hunting for snacks. There’s already a stack of granola bars and plain bagels on the counter, and Blakely’s standing there with one hip braced against the sink, arms crossed, staring out the little porthole window.
She clocks me in the reflection and doesn’t flinch. “Are you stalking me, Cunningham? Or did you just hear the siren song of the free biscotti?”
I grab a bottle of water and pop the cap, letting the silence drag out until she turns her body. “I could ask you the same thing, Rivers. You’ve been eyeing me all morning. Is it the abs, or are you praying I’ll do team yoga and tear a hamstring?”
Her jaw ticks, and she rolls her eyes but she’s smiling a little. “I’d never wish injury on a player. That’s bad luck. I’m just making observations. Journalism stuff. You know, what I get paid for.”
I lean a shoulder against the wall, folding my arms, not caring that I’ve still got barely more than a t-shirt on and my hair’s a mess from changing in a fuselage stampede. “You always keep such detailed notes on the team’s abs, or am I a special case?”
She shakes her head, but she’s not really annoyed. Not even close. “You’re a special case all right. My editor thinks you’re a ratings magnet, which is sad for journalism but great for your agent. So, congratulations, I guess.” She picks at her thumbnail, glancing past me at the closed bathroom door. “But between us, yes, I have a spreadsheet on who skips core day.”
The silence blooms at thirty thousand feet. It’s oddly comfortable. I watch the shadows play across her cheek, and I can’t stop myself from saying, “You ever get tired of having to be the sharpest person in the room?”
She turns back to the window, then shrugs. “Would be nice if it worked. Usually, I just end up being the pretty one.” There’s no bitterness in her words this time. Just the resigned honesty of someone who’s done this dance too many times to care about tripping anymore. For a split second, I feel guilty. Harrison’s comment from a few days ago about her being good at her job rings through my ears.
“What about you?” she asks, taking a bite of her granola bar. “Ever get tired of being the junkyard dog, just biting whoever walks by?”
I let the question linger, rolling it over in my head.
Junkyard dog.
That’s good.
Nearly accurate in some senses.
Though I think I’m more like Killer the kitten.
I almost want to answer for real, but the habit of a lifetime snaps into place before I get close. “What, you want me to start handing out hugs and motivational posters?”
