Page 72 of What If I Hate You
"What?" I manage to croak out, my voice embarrassingly high. "I don't think that's?—"
"I'm having trouble with my lateral movement," he continues, as if this is a perfectly normal request. "You’ve said so yourself. I need someone who knows what they're doing to help me fix it. Someone who can really challenge me."
“That’s what you have an entire coaching staff for, Cunningham,” I say gesturing to the bench where several coaches and trainers stand by confused.
“They don’t see me like you do, though,” Barrett calls back, impatience edging his voice. “You coming or what?”
Marlee elbows me hard in the ribs. "Go," she whispers urgently.
"Are you insane?" I hiss back. "I can't just go out there," I protest, but Barrett's already beckoning to me with that infuriating crook of his finger, the same one he used four nights ago to make me come undone. The memory hits me like a physical blow.
"Rivers!" he bellows again. "Five minutes. Equipment room."
Coach Hicks is now looking between Barrett and me, his expression somewhere between confused and intrigued. I'm painfully aware of the other players watching, some outright smirking.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter, but I'm already gathering my notes and shoving them into my bag. "I'm a reporter, not a skating coach."
"Yet you're going," Marlee points out with a knowing grin like this is the most entertaining thing she’s seen all week.
I shoot her a death glare. "Because he's making a scene."
"Uh-huh. Sure."
I should say no.
I should walk right out of the arena and slam the locker room door behind me.
But I don’t.
Because I’m an idiot.
And because something in his voice—not cocky or sarcastic, but hopeful, almost boyish—makes my stubborn feet move.
I storm down the corridor toward the equipment room, fury and something else—something I refuse to name—churning in my stomach. The nerve of him.
The absolute audacity to call me out like that in front of everyone.
The equipment room smells like sweat, rubber, and whatever industrial cleaner they use that never quite masks the funk of hockey gear. A pair of women's skates sits on the bench, brand new and already laced, and beside them, a pair of gloves, a pair of sweatpants in a medium size—my size—to pull over my leggings, and a Stars team hoodie with Barrett’s last name on the back.
How did he even know I’d be wearing leggings today?
"You've got to be kidding me," I groan.
This wasn't a spontaneous request.
Barrett planned this.
I should walk out. I should march back to press row and pretend this never happened. But my fingers are already tracing the name on the back of the hoodie, CUNNINGHAM, and something stubborn and defiant flares in my chest. He wants to make a spectacle. Fine. I'll show him exactly what he's been missing.
I change quickly, yanking the sweatpants over my leggings and pulling the hoodie over my head. His name stretches across my shoulders like a claim. The skates fit perfectly because of course they do. I finish lacing them with practiced fingers, muscle memory from years on the ice taking over despite my rage. When I step onto the ice, the familiar bite of cold air hits my face, and my body remembers what to do before my braincatches up. I glide forward, the satisfying scrape of metal on ice bringing back a flood of memories, early morning practices, late-night games, the smell of Zamboni-fresh ice.
"Took you long enough," Barrett calls from his crease, and I swear I detect a hint of nervousness beneath his usual cockiness.
I skate toward him, my legs finding their rhythm despite years away from competitive play. "So, what exactly is this about, Cunningham?" I ask when I reach him, voice low enough that only he can hear me.
He tosses me a stick—a player's stick, not a goalie's paddle—and nods toward a pile of pucks at the blue line. "Exactly what I said. I need help with my lateral movement. You've mentioned it in three separate post-game analyses."
"You pay attention to my analyses?" I blink, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
