Page 26 of What If I Hate You
Not a chance.
August Blackstone—glassy-eyed, post-game hero—leans across with a lopsided grin. “Rivers! I got a question for you.” His wife, Ella, elbows him but he’s already launched. “If you had to pick one of us to survive a zombie apocalypse with, who would it be? And don’t say Ella, because she’ll just leave the rest of us for dead.”
Ella winks. “Damn right I would!”
“That’s easy. I’d pick Ledger. The man’s got tiny humans. Tell me that’s not apocalypse training in itself.”
Ledger, deep in a craft IPA that looks more like pond water than beer, slams the table in delight. “YES! That’s what I’ve been saying!” His eyes shine with the vindication of a dad who just got permission to eat goldfish crackers at the dinner table. “You try waking up every two hours to tend to a flock of crying children then look me in the eye and tell me you couldn’t take on a necrotic horde.”
The zombie conversation devolves instantly into a contest about who in the group could most credibly fashion a weapon out of bar coasters, and by the time the second pitcher lands, half the team is in on it, everyone shouting over each other and pantomiming elaborate home defense strategies with straws and empty glasses. I ease back into the booth, shoulders relaxing for the first time in ages, and let the chaos wash over me. It’s nice, for once, to just exist in the periphery.
Marlee, Ella, and I take advantage of a small clearing next to our table to dance to “Living On a Prayer”. We’re probably nothing but sweat and joy but they were right. I needed a night to unwind. We’re deep in a side conversation about the stupid things we did in college when some guy in a plaid shirt and a backwards hat approaches me. The stranger leans in, his cologne wafting over us like a hostile takeover.
“Hey, you’re Blakely, right? The TV one?” His voice is all charm and confidence, but I catch the warble of nerves underneath. “Saw you on Sports Wrap. You were savage. Gotta say, it makes hockey a hell of a lot more interesting when you call the players out on their shit.” He does a quick gesture with his head toward where the guys are seated. Some watching, some not.
I blink. I’ve gotten this opening before, the ‘let’s see if the lady on TV will banter with me’ approach, but this guy at least has the decency to not start with a comment about my legs or my lipstick. “Thanks,” I say, polite but cool. “I try to keep it lively.”
He grins, teeth blinding in the dim bar light. “You want a shot? On me. My buddies and I have a bet you can drink us under the table.” He gestures to where two more guys, presumably his friends, hover, obviously waiting for a signal.
I laugh, genuinely surprised. “You’re on. But you’re not the first to lose that bet.” I glance toward the cluster of hockey players, and it’s almost comical how quickly Barrett clocks theexchange from his end of the booth. His glare is so sharp I can feel it from here, but I play it cool. Nothing’s going to ruin my night. Certainly not Barrett Cunningham.
The server pours me a shot and hands it to me and then I clink glasses with the plaid-shirt guy, pretty sure his name is Dylan, and toss it back without flinching. His friends whoop like children at the circus.
“Damn,” Dylan says, eyebrows up, “you don’t even make a face.”
I shrug, trying not to laugh at his awe. “That’s because I’m not a lightweight.”
His gaze lingers a second too long on my mouth. “Nah, I can see that.”
The words are nowhere near as gross as they could be, and I appreciate the effort. I’ll consider it a compliment that someone in this godforsaken bar wants to flirt with me. But out of the corner of my eye, I see Barrett rise from the booth. He’s headed for the restroom, maybe, or maybe he’s just looking for air, because when he gets close enough to pass me he slows, and his eyes land hard and cold on Dylan’s hand, which is resting on the bar not two inches from my own.
Barrett’s voice is low, meant for me, but the whole table could hear if they cared. “You slumming it tonight, Rivers? Or just collecting applications for a new segment?”
I arch a brow, summoning my inner bitch goddess. “Why, you want to buy me a drink?” There’s an edge to it, but also a dare. He can take it or leave it.
He holds my stare a beat too long, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Looks like you’ve got plenty of company already. I hope I don’t have to remind you not to accept drinks from strangers.”
Dylan, the plaid-shirt wonder, picks up on the tension, but mistakes Barrett’s mood for some kind of inside joke. “Yo, is thisguy giving you a hard time?” he asks me, all bravado and lager courage.
I can’t help the laugh that spills out of me. “Who, this guy?” I ask, hitching my thumb at Barrett. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse,” I say, but Barrett hasn’t moved, and he’s not smiling. The air thickens around us.
Then, Dylan’s friend, a redhead with a dental plan and a fantasy football addiction, pipes up. “Wait, is this the goalie? The one you annihilated on TV?” He leans in toward Barrett, voice dropping to a hiss. “Man, you do not look that soft in person.” He gestures up and down his frame, which is still looming and, honestly, mildly terrifying.
Barrett’s knuckles go taut, and for a half-second, I think he’s going to break the bar in half with his bare hands. Instead, he bends at the waist to look Redhead square in the eye and says, voice syrupy with menace, “You know, most people don’t start shit with a guy whose job is to eat slapshots for a living.”
Jesus Christ, Cunningham.
Redhead leans back, startled. “All good, man. Just, uh, saying you’re bigger in person.”
Barrett shifts his focus to me, the intensity in his eyes now somewhere between an electrical fire and an animal tranquilized but still fighting. “You sure you’re enjoying the company, Rivers?” he asks, like he’s giving me a final exit before the bomb detonates. Why he thinks he needs to be my keeper all of a sudden is beyond me.
Cock block is more like it.
Where does he get off anyway?
I don’t flinch. “I’m perfectly capable of handling myself, Cunningham, but it’s cute you think you need to step in.”
He stands there a beat. My pulse pounds in my ears, but I force my eyes to stay steady. “You done?”
