Page 53 of What If I Hate You
She smiles, her eyes still red-rimmed but brighter now. "And the great Barrett Cunningham, terror of the crease, just…gives it to him."
"What can I say? He's got my number." I shrug, trying to play it casual when there's nothing casual about any of this. Blakely Rivers is sitting on my floor, holding my special needs kitten, looking like she belongs here.
"I would have never pegged you for a cat person," she says, letting Killer climb up her arm to perch on her shoulder. "Especially not the type to rescue a little killer like this."
I watch as Killer nuzzles against her neck, his tiny orange paws kneading at her collarbone and for a moment, I’m actuallyjealous of the four-legged cotton ball. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Rivers."
"Clearly." She tilts her head, studying me with those sharp eyes that never miss a thing. "So, what else is Barrett Cunningham hiding from the world? Secret knitting hobby? Do you scrapbook?"
I snort, moving to the fridge. "Want something to drink? I've got water, beer, or…" I pause, realizing how pathetic my offerings sound. "Actually, that's it. Water or beer."
"Beer," she says without hesitation. "After today, I need alcohol more than I need hydration.”
I grab two bottles from the fridge, pop them open, and hand her one. She accepts it one-handed while making sure Killer doesn’t fall from her shoulders. He’s purring so loud he sounds like a tiny motorcycle.
"So," she says, taking a sip and wincing slightly at the bitter taste. "You rescue broken things. Is that your thing?"
The question hits deeper than she probably intended. I take a long pull from my beer, buying time. "Maybe. Or maybe broken things just find me."
"Like me tonight?" Her voice is quieter now, more vulnerable than I've ever heard.
"You're not broken, Blakely." I move closer, settling on the floor across from her. "You're just tired of fighting assholes who don't deserve to breathe the same air as you."
She looks down at Killer, who's now batting at a strand of her hair that's fallen loose from her ponytail. "Sometimes it feels the same."
"It's not." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "Broken things can't do what you did tonight. Can't walk into a room full of jackasses and ask the questions nobody else has the balls to ask. Can't take a hit like that and still stand up straight."
She's quiet for a long moment, just stroking Killer's fur. When she finally looks up, there's something raw in her expression. "You know what the worst part is? It's not even the insults anymore. It's that I'm starting to believe maybe they're right. Maybe I don't belong."
"Bullshit." The word comes out harder than I intended, and Killer startles slightly in her arms. “You belong in that press room more than any of those other assholes in there. You know your shit, Blakely, and you’ve been throwing genius punches since day one.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"It's supposed to be the truth." I watch as she runs her finger along Killer's spine, the kitten arching into her touch. "You scare the shit out of me in that press room, Rivers. But every question you ask, every time you call me out, you make me better. Even when I hate it."
She meets my eyes. "And here I thought you just wanted to throttle me."
"Oh, I do. But not in the way you think."
Her eyes flick up to mine, darkening at the edges. "Careful, Cunningham. I'm not exactly in a place to be played with right now."
"I'm not playing." I set my beer down and lean forward. "Haven't been for a while."
The air between us shifts, electric and dangerous. Killer, oblivious to the tension, tumbles from her lap and wobbles over to attack my shoelace with ferocious determination. Her cheeks flush pink at my words, and she ducks her head, focusing on Killer who's now attempting to climb her like she's a tree.
"I can't believe you have a cat," she says, clearly changing the subject. "This feels like the kind of secret that could ruin your whole tough-guy image."
"Maybe I don't care about that image as much as everyone thinks," I say, watching her fingers trail through Killer's fur.
She glances up, studying me with that penetrating reporter's gaze. "So, what do you care about, Bear? Because I'm starting to think there's a whole other person underneath all that scowling and growling."
The nickname catches me off guard. She's never called me Bear before. It's always been Cunningham or Barrett, sharp and professional. Bear is what my friends call me, what the team calls me. It sounds different coming from her.
It’s nice.
I like it.
Killer chooses this moment to wobble dramatically across the floor between us, breaking the tension with his uncoordinated flop. We both laugh, and something shifts in the air.
