Page 8 of What If I Hate You
“I don’t need to talk to them,” she shoots back. “I got eyes. And a gut. And my gut says you ain’t the type who’s happy going home to an empty place every night.”
I pause, tray in hand, and shrug. “Maybe I’m not.”
She tilts her head, waiting. “So?”
I glance down at the rag in my hand, then back at her, a smirk tugging at my mouth. “Let’s just say… I might have my eye on someone.” It’s not the whole truth but it’s not a lie either. I haven’t stopped thinking about Blakely Rivers since we last spoke in the arena parking lot. I don’t know why. By all means I should hate her. I’m definitely not pleased with her but atthe same time, there’s something about her that won’t leave me alone.
Carla’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh-ho. The goalie’s human after all.”
“Don’t spread it around,” I warn, pointing the rag at her. “I’ve got to keep people guessing.”
She chuckles, shaking her head as she grabs another pan. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me, Cunningham. But whoever she is? She better be ready for all that heart you’re hiding behind those pads.”
I don’t answer. I just let the smirk stay because she’s not wrong. Contrary to what others think, I do have a heart and I do care a lot about other people.
Carla heads back to the dining room and I take my towel and follow her out to the floor. Kids laugh; a few people nod as I pass. No one asks for autographs. No one treats me like anything special.
And honestly? That’s just how I like it.
Here, I’m not Barrett Cunningham, star goalie for the Anaheim Stars. Here, I’m just Bear. I’m just a guy with two hands, a full heart, and the time to make someone’s day a little easier.
I can live with that.
Hell, Ineedthat.
I end up outside by the dumpsters, leaning against the brick, my sleeves still tacky from someone’s spilled juice. I close my eyes and listen to the clatter of pans and the scrape of chairs from inside. These are the kinds of noises I understand. I like the regularity of them, the fact that no one expects anything other than a job done right. I like the anonymity.
I grew up on places like this. Hand-me-downs, church basement meals, off-brand canned soup. I remember the way people’s eyes slid off of you when you showed up for the freedinner, or the way the hot lunch lady at school would slip you an extra roll like it was contraband. I never wanted to stand out. I especially didn’t want to be the center of any kind of attention, good, bad, or otherwise.
Most of the guys on the team live for the spotlight. Or they did before they settled down and got married. In years past though, they couldn’t get enough of the Vegas clubs, the red carpets, the endless lines of fans who’d knife their own grandmother for a lock of hair or a drop of sweat. Me? If I could play in a helmet with blackout glass and skip the post-game interview altogether, I’d sign that contract with blood.
Not that I don’t appreciate what the game has given me. The money is nice, I guess, but I don’t need it. At least not as much as they keep giving me. It’s a bit ridiculous how much money I’m paid to guard a net from a small rubber puck for a few months out of the year. I don’t feel like I really deserve it. Sure, I work hard and I’m great at what I do most nights, but there are others in this world who would kill to have even a tenth of what I’m bringing in. It’s definitely not the money that gets me going. It’s the quiet. The silence of the arena when you’re the only one taking up space inside it. It’s the way the rink feels at five in the morning before the Zamboni’s even started, when it’s just me and the sound of my own breath echoing off the glass. That’s the closest I ever get to peace.
The first thing I did when I cashed my signing bonus wasn’t buy a sports car or a penthouse. I don’t need those things, nor do I feel right owning them. The first thing I did was pay off my parents’ mortgage and my father’s medical bills. I pleaded with them to allow me to move them to Anaheim so I could help Dad, but Mom wouldn’t have it. Her friends are back home in Colorado. Her life is there. She at least allowed me to hire a full-time nurse to help with Dad’s rehab after his stroke. It hasn’t been easy, I’m sure, but they’re doing alright.
The second thing I did after cashing that paycheck was put money away for my younger brother’s future. Where I excelled on the ice growing up, he excelled on the court. Basketball was always his dream so I put enough away to be able to pay for his college tuition. Lucky for him though, he got a full ride to Duke. If he’s lucky, he’ll get himself into the NBA draft in the next couple years and then he won’t need the money I have saved. It’s there for him either way.
The last thing I did after making sure my family was set financially was start to give every spare cent I didn’t need to the places that kept my brother and me fed and standing when we were kids. To soup kitchens like this, sure. But also, to the rec leagues and the afterschool programs that promised a warm gym and a snack bar when home was empty or tense or both. Sometimes I think about what my old man would say if he could be here with me, seeing me with apron tied over jeans, shoveling chicken bones and scrubbing buckets with the same hands that sign million-dollar contracts.
He was a hardworking man before his stroke.
I’d like to think he’d be proud of me.
My building is half-lit and nearly silent as a tomb when I pull into my parking spot. If there’s anything I like about living in a high-rise, it’s the way nobody gives a shit who you are, so long as you don’t make noise in the hallways or let your packages sit for more than a day in the lobby. Not to mention, most of the people living here are professional athletes of one type or another so we get each other, our needs, our wants. It’s a relatively respectful place to live, unless you’re one of the douche nozzles who likes to throw their money around and pretend their shit doesn’t stink.
News flash: Everyone’s shit stinks.
Shuffling up the steps toward the entrance, maybe fifteen feet from the revolving door, I spot what looks like a pile of dirty rags from a distance.
Until it moves.
It’s tiny, a little spastic, like someone’s trying to shake out a wet rag and failing, and when I step closer it makes a reedy sound, half mewl, half…something else, and then it pops up its head.
“Well look at you, buddy,” I say to the tiny orange kitten welcoming me to the door.
It’s no more than a tuft of orange fur, barely bigger than a hockey puck, and trembling with such doomed determination that my chest actually twinges. I crouch and reach out a hand as the damn thing tries to stand. His legs quiver, and then he promptly tips over, his little paws flailing at nothing. It’s not just cold. It’s…off.
I know that feeling.
