Page 84 of What If I Hate You
“You’re four for four,” I say, tossing a kernel into my mouth. “I was that annoying forward who talked trash and skated like she had something to prove.”
Barrett grins like he expected that answer. “Yeah, that tracks. Still your entire personality.”
“Rude,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.
“Did you really stop playing just because you don’t have a dick like you said before? Because it seems like you really love the sport and I can’t see you quitting like that. Well, not without a fight anyway.”
That one hits a little deeper.
I shrug and glance down at the hem of his hoodie—now mine for the night—bunched around my knees. “You’re right. I didn’t quit because I wanted to. I tore up my knee sophomore year and came back slower. I still played, but it wasn’t the same. By senior year, I knew I wasn’t going pro, and journalism…it gave me a whole different kind of fire. It was my major anyway and I really enjoyed it. I figured if I couldn’t play, I could still immerse myself in the game. I could still talk about it…live it, you know?”
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just brushes his fingers lightly over my shoulder.
“Do you miss it?” he asks.
“Sometimes,” I admit. “Mostly the adrenaline rush. The chaos. That feeling like I knew exactly who I was on the ice. And the locker room. The girls. That bond. You don’t get that anywhere else. I’m sure you know that feeling.”
He nods, and his eyes soften. “Yeah. I do get that.”
“I figured you did. You have that same look when you’re out there. Like everything makes sense.”
He holds my gaze, then smirks. “So, you chirped refs too, huh?”
“Only when they deserved it,” I say sweetly. “There was this one guy in the Boston league who couldn’t tell a high stick from his shoelaces.”
Barrett laughs, low and warm. “God, I wish I could’ve seen you play.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What, to scout my five-hole protection?”
“I mean,” he says, voice dropping as he leans in, “I’ve already tested that in other ways.”
I shove him, laughing, but he catches my wrist and pulls me closer, kissing me soft and slow. It’s the kind of kiss that says he’s proud of me. That he sees something more than the sports reporter sitting next to him in his hoodie. That maybe he can picture the version of me I used to be, chasing pucks and perfection and thinking I had to earn my place.
The creditsof whatever show we weren’t really watching roll across the screen, the room quiet except for the occasional creak of the building settling and the soft purr of Killer resting on the top of the couch behind us. I’m tucked against Barrett’s side, my legs stretched across his lap, his hand tracing lazy circles on the bare skin of my thigh where his hoodie has ridden up.
He’s quiet. Thoughtful. For a man who’s always so confident in the chaos—press rooms, locker rooms, on the ice—he gets oddly fidgety when it’s just the two of us and something real is trying to surface.
“You doing that thing where you’re pretending to watch but you’ve actually been staring at the same corner of the screen for five minutes?” I tease gently.
He huffs a breath and smiles. “Maybe.”
I shift slightly, propping my chin on his chest so I can see his face. “Penny for your thoughts, Cunningham.”
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and avoids eye contact for a second too long. “You uh…you doing anything tomorrow?”
I narrow my eyes. “That depends. Are you looking for more locker room chaos or something?”
He laughs under his breath. “No. I was actually thinking something more dangerous.”
“Oh?”
“I was thinking…” He shifts, and the nerves that flash across his face almost make me sit up. “I need some new stuff. For the apartment. Like…I don’t know. Plants or a lamp or something. It should feel less like a sad single guy cave who doesn’t like to spend his money in here. And I want to make it more comfortable…” His eyes fall to mine. “For you.”
I blink.
“Are you asking me to go…home decor shopping with you?”
He winces. “Is that weird?”
