Page 71 of What If I Hate You
"I need to fix this," I say, determination replacing the knot of anxiety in my stomach. "I need to talk to her."
"Good." Marlee nods approvingly and then winces. "But maybe don't ambush her at work. That'll just make things worse."
"So, what do I do?" I ask, looking around the table. "How do I get her to even—Wait.”
“Do you feel like maybe tonight you were a little too slow tracking the puck laterally?”
“Your right pad didn’t seal post. Again.”
“Last three games. Same issue, same side.”
“He was telegraphing his movements after the second goal.”
“Is this a technique problem or a confidence one?”
That’s it!
“I think I’ve got an idea.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
BLAKELY
Barrett Cunningham stands at the edge of the crease, a six-foot-five wall of muscle and attitude, and all I can think about is how those hands felt gripping my thighs four nights ago. I force my eyes back to my notes, ignoring the flush creeping up my neck. Coach Hicks called an extra practice this morning and the team is in full swing. The rink is filled with the rhythmic scrape of skates and the hollow thwack of pucks hitting the boards. I'm tucked away in my usual spot in press row, third seat from the left, where the lighting is decent for my pre-game prep work. I can’t help but notice I’m the only reporter sitting in on practice today.
Where the hell are the guys?
Why should I care?
They snooze, they lose.
Guess I get the inside scoop this time. A reward for checking my damn email. My fingers hover over my tablet, trying to focus on the segment I'm supposed to be writing about defensive strategies, but my traitorous eyes keep drifting back to him.
Four days since I walked out of his apartment. Four days of radio silence. Four days of replaying that morning on a torturous loop, wondering if I imagined the whole night before it.
I haven't slept worth a damn, my body still remembering the feel of his hands, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. Not to mention what we did on his kitchen floor. I've been trying to convince myself it didn't mean anything, that I'm a professional who can compartmentalize, but my body betrays me every time he moves in his crease.
"You planning to actually write something, or just stare at Cunningham's ass all morning?" Marlee slides into the seat beside me, coffee in hand.
"I'm working," I mutter, though my notebook remains stubbornly blank.
"Uh-huh." She smirks, sipping her coffee. "That's why you've written exactly zero words in the last twenty minutes."
I'm about to fire back a witty retort when a voice booms across the ice.
"Rivers!"
My head snaps up. Barrett is staring directly at me from the net, hockey stick planted in front of him like a medieval staff. The entire practice seems to freeze. Players are whispering among themselves, trainers have stopped moving. Even Coach Hicks folds his arms across his chest, his brows arched.
“Oh, God, what is he doing?” I whisper to Marlee. She merely shrugs and takes another sip of her coffee.
"You played in college, right?" Barrett calls out, his voice echoing through the arena.
I feel every eye in the place turn to me. My throat goes dry. "You know I did," I shout back, trying to keep my voice steady. "Why?"
Barrett jerks his head toward the bench. "There's a pair of skates in the equipment room. I need your help.”
Heat floods my face as everyone stares at me and my heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
