Page 83 of What If I Hate You
“Snooping through my drawers, I see?” The corner of Barrett’s mouth lifts and he licks his lips like he could devour me all over again.
“You never know, Cunningham,” I tease. “I’m always looking for the inside scoop.”
He laughs. “I promise you won’t find it in my underwear drawer.”
“Are you kidding?” I ask him playfully. “I can tell all the ladies out there, who think you’re God’s gift to sex symbols, exactly what kind of underwear you sport on any given day.”
“Have at it, I guess,” he chuckles. “If that’s what the ladies out there really want to know. But you better also tell them I’m off the market.”
“Oh?”
Something about his confession fills my chest with pride.
“You’re the only one to ever wear my underwear, Rivers.” He winks at me and then hands me one of the beers in his hand. “This is the full Barrett Cunningham post-sex experience,” he says like it’s a love language. “Mind-blowing orgasm, followed by room-temperature carbs and mild sports commentary.”
“Wow,” I deadpan, accepting the beer. “No wonder you’re single.”
He shoots me a grin as he drops onto the couch beside me. “Harsh. And I’m not single anymore. Your pussy made sure of that.”
Why does his comment make me want to smile?
We eat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the TV playing low in the background. Eventually, I glance over at him.“So, what’s the verdict? Do you think you’re getting traded at the end of your contract, or are the rumors just media panic?”
He shrugs, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s always media panic. They see one loss and think it’s the apocalypse. But I don’t think I’m going anywhere. Coach pulled me aside yesterday, told me to ignore the noise. Said I’m his guy.”
I nod, swallowing a bite. “Youarehis guy. You're the best goalie in the league when you’re not trying to fistfight defensemen mid-game.”
He smirks. “That was ages ago and that guy hooked my ankle. Besides, I didn’t actually hit him.”
“You almost did,” I point out. “I venture a guess the look on your face gave every PR manager in the building a heart attack.”
He grins wider. “That’s just how I flirt.”
I roll my eyes and take another bite. “You need therapy.”
He leans in close, pizza still in hand. “I’ve got something better than therapy.”
“What?”
“You.” He says it so casually, like it’s obvious. Like it’s already a fact.
And just like that, my heart does that stupid lurching thing again.
I shake my head, flustered, grinning despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”
He bumps my shoulder with his. “Yeah. But you like me anyway.”
I do.
God help me, I really, really do.
Barrett nudgesa bowl of popcorn toward me as we lounge on his couch, legs tangled, the late-night game playing on mute. His arm is slung behind me, fingers lazily curling a piece of my hair like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
"You don’t talk much about playing hockey in college, but you’ve mentioned it enough times," he says, voice casual but laced with curiosity. His eyes flick to mine. "Were you any good?"
I snort. “Define good.”
He smirks. “Let me guess, center? Fast, feisty, definitely chirpy.”
