Page 36 of What If I Hate You
Blakely Rivers will find my weak spot and stick her perfectly pointed heel in it until she’s ripped me to shreds all over again.
Let’s just get this over with.
The press room is already a circus by the time I get most of my uniform off and get in there. Cincinnati’s beat writers fill every seat, while our crew is two-deep at the back, and the TV lights are so hot I can feel sweat trickle down my neck before I even sit. I anchor the end of the row, elbows tight, hoping I still stink enough to keep the reporters from getting too close.
August fields the first volley of questions like a pro, all smiles and “team effort” cliches. Griffin tosses in a few chirps about the Scavengers’ power play being softer than a basket of kittens. This gets the usual snickers and sets the tone for the rest of the session. I check out for a minute, let the drone of questionsand clipped answers wash over me. I’m already half out of my own skull, replaying every second of the last two minutes, when Blakely Rivers takes the floor.
She’s wearing a tailored blazer in Stars blue along with her typical black leggings and fuck-me heels. Her eyes are bright with caffeine and the kind of predatory intelligence that only comes from living with a chip on your shoulder since puberty. She doesn’t start with me—thank Christ—but instead zeroes in on Griffin, lobbing him a question so pointed it almost draws blood.
“Griffin, you had four blocks tonight, but you let play collapse behind your net late in the third. Was that a breakdown in communication, or are you just getting slow out there?”
There’s an audible snort from the back row. Most reporters toss softballs. Rivers chucks Molotov cocktails and expects you to juggle them without catching fire. Griffin blanches, then rallies. “Bit of both, to be honest. But I’ll defer to you on the communication. You’re the one who always seems to have the best words, Rivers.” He fucking winks at her and she smiles back at him. Then she flicks a pen in acknowledgment and moves on, skewering Oliver on a question about his faceoff losses, and hammering Harrison with a stat about his penalty minutes doubling since the beginning of the season.
I can’t help watching her work. Listening to what she’s asking the guys, her voice is clear, never shrill, every question loaded with enough fact check to scare a Supreme Court nominee. The other “reporters” in the room stick to their scripts, but Rivers changes the game. She’s ruthless, and she’s right.
She always is.
She finally turns to me and the oxygen in the whole room seems to get sucked out through a pinhole in the ceiling. Even my asshole puckers at what’s about to happen.
Fuck, she’s scarier than Coach Hicks when he found out Bodhi was fucking his daughter.
“Cunningham, that glove save in the final minute—what were you thinking, going full stretch when you had no backside coverage?”
I blink at her. The question is raw, but not cruel. She’s not out for blood, she’s out for the truth. I respect it, even when it’s aimed at my jugular.
“It’s instinct,” I say, voice raked with exhaustion. “You don’t have time to think. You just do. If you hesitate, you’re dead. I saw the play developing and figured I’d rather eat puck than regret not going for it.”
The reporters scribble, but Rivers doesn’t even flinch. “You worried about overcommitting? It looked like you left your right post wide open for the backdoor tap-in.”
No matter how much I have disliked talking to Rivers in the press room, or anyone else for that matter, one thing is for sure, Blakely Rivers knows hockey. She gets the game. Every rule, every nuance. Every decision that needs to be made, she gets it.
I fixate on her, refusing to look away. “Nah. I trust my defense. They’ve got my ass covered. If I get scored on, I’d rather it be because I went down swinging, not because I sat on my heels.”
She tilts her chin, and for one heartbeat, I swear she’s more impressed than pissed. “So, you’re saying it’s better to risk everything than play it safe?”
Her brow lifts just a pinch and I see the challenge in the way she stares me down, but also her question brings back the conversation we shared in the arena parking lot a while back.
“You want a softer question, go ask a blogger with pink hair and a ring light. I don’t play it safe.”
“You don’t play it safe? That’s your thing, huh?”
“Yeah that’s my thing.”
And now I’m not so sure her question is about hockey anymore; nevertheless, I give the only answer I can confidently give because I’m the fucking goalie of the Anaheim Stars.
“Every time.”
She nods. “Thanks, Cunningham.” She flips the page on her notepad and angles the mic back to the next guy, but I catch the smallest curve of her mouth before she does. Not a smile, exactly, more like a secret handshake if you know how to look.
Eventually the press moves on to the next topic, and I sit there, body still tingling from the adrenaline, and my mind stuck on the way she asked her question, so direct, so fucking honest. No fluff, no bullshit. Just hockey, pure and brutal. I respect the hell out of that, which is the most dangerous thing about Rivers.
After our interviews, the boys rib me as we start to exit the press room but it’s different tonight. Lighter, almost. I know some of the guys keep tabs on my little war with Rivers, so when they catch me glancing her way as she packs up her shit, there’s a round of winks and elbow nudges.
I ignore them.
They can chirp all they want. I’m just glad there’s nothing to be embarrassed about for once. I even let myself enjoy the walk-off. I earned it.
A break in the crowd gives me a line of sight to Rivers, who’s cornered by three of Cincinnati’s beat rats, all middle-aged white guys with receding hairlines. They’ve got her boxed in where she’s finishing up her notes. The men are not subtle and their behavior makes the hairs on my arm stand up. They’re ogling her, but not the way you ogle a rival. It’s the lazy, dismissive, who-let-the-girl-into-the-big-boy’s-room kind of stare, and it sets my teeth on edge. It also makes me feel like shit because I wasn’t any nicer to her in that bathroom the other night.
