Page 66 of What If I Hate You
I finally look at him, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. "What I want…" I start, then falter when I see his vulnerability peeking through. The truth is, I don't know what I want. Or maybe I do, and that's what terrifies me.
"That's what I thought," he says, his voice suddenly flat again. He turns away, running a hand through his hair. "Look, we don't have to make this weird. Last night was…" He pauses, searching for the right word but then he doesn’t finish his sentence and now I wonder what he’s not saying.
Does he regret it?
Was it not that good for him?
Was I not good enough?
“But I get it. You have your career to think about."
"And you have yours," I counter, crossing my arms over my chest and trying my best not to tear up. The bruises he left on my body pulse with a dull ache that reminds me of everything we did. "God forbid anyone finds out the great Barrett Cunningham slept with the annoying reporter who's been making his life hell."
His head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "Is that what you think this is about?"
"Isn't it?" I fire back, my voice sharper than I intended. "Come on, Bear. We both know how this looks. The femalereporter who can't keep it professional, sleeping with the players she's supposed to be covering objectively."
"That's not—" He starts, then stops, jaw clenching. "You really think that little of me? That I'd see you that way?"
The hurt in his voice catches me off guard, but I'm too deep in defensive mode to back down now. "I don't know what to think. Five minutes ago, you were holding me like I mattered, and now you're practically shoving me out the door."
"I'm not shoving you anywhere," he growls, taking a step closer. "I'm trying to give you an out before you decide you made a mistake."
"An out?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "How generous of you, Bear. Really. Nothing says, 'great night' like being offered an escape route before the coffee's even cold."
His eyes flash with something that looks like pain, but I'm too worked up to care. "That's not what I meant."
"No? Then what did you mean?" I step closer, close enough to see the conflict warring in his dark eyes. "Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you're trying to convince yourself this was a mistake before I get the chance to."
"Maybe it was." The words come out harsh, cutting, and I actually flinch.
There it is. The truth I was waiting for.
Something cold settles in my chest, heavy and familiar. It's the same feeling I get every time someone dismisses me in a press room or the locker room. The sting of rejection that's become so familiar I should be numb to it by now.
"Great," I say, my voice artificially bright as I grab my bag. "Now that we've established that, I'll get out of your hair. Thanks for the coffee."
I turn to leave, dignity wrapped around me like armor, when his hand catches my wrist. The touch is gentle but firm, stopping me in my tracks.
"Blakely, wait." His voice has lost its edge, replaced with something softer, almost pleading. "I didn't mean?—"
"Yes, you did." I don't turn around. I can’t bear to see the pity in his eyes. "It's fine, Barrett. Really. We're both adults, remember? No harm done."
Except to my barely-hanging-on ego.
“I’ll see you around.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BARRETT
Me
SOS! I need help!
Frustration practically seeps from my pores as I hastily throw on some clothes and absentmindedly drop a spoonful of food into Killer’s bowl. It’s been three days. Three long, agonizing days off in a row thanks to the major hurricane currently battering the east coast. Three days of cancelled games equals three days that could have been spent balls deep inside the intoxicating allure of Blakely Rivers, savoring every inch of her captivating presence. Yet, instead, it’s been three endless days of isolation and solitary workouts, where I’m tormented by my own feelings.
And now I’m at my wit’s end.
