Page 9 of What If I Hate You
There’s a raw, tenacity in the way it plops itself upright again, like whatever’s wrong with its wiring isn’t going to stop it from greeting every new day in this hostile parking lot. I fish in my pocket for the remnants of a protein bar, break off a corner, and offer it on my palm.
The kitten sniffs, wobbles, and then face-plants directly into my hand. I can’t help it. I laugh, and the sound bounces against the glass doors like a challenge. “Easy there, Killer.”
It tries again, more determined this time, dragging its weirdly stiff hind legs as if it’s spent its whole miserable life fighting gravity. The paws splay out at odd angles and for a second I think the kitten’s doing an impression of me in the third period after taking two pucks to the thigh. Then it rolls over, purrs so loud it sounds almost desperate, and nuzzles my thumb with its wet, crusty nose.
Gingerly I pick him up. He’s skin and bone and something else. Something fundamentally busted, and I know the shape of busted better than anyone. There’s a tremor in his limbs, and a constant twitch, like his internal mainframe was never properlyinstalled. I run a finger along his spine and he arches up, mewling, blue eyes huge and glassy.
“You’re a disaster, buddy,” I say as I scratch under his tiny chin. “Come on. I may not have much but anywhere is better than right here.”
The apartment is dark and cold when I step inside with my new killer friend. I toss the keys on the counter, not bothering with lights, and eat two cold hardboiled eggs straight out of the fridge. Then I grab a can of diced tuna and put some onto a plate, dicing it up even smaller for Killer to ingest. He cries and tries to fight me off as I dip him in the warm water in my kitchen sink for a quick bath, but he forgives me when I wrap him in a fuzzy towel and hold him against me as I click on the television and then sprawl on the couch.
“I’ll introduce you to Sports Wrap, Killer. It’s riveting entertainment. I promise.”
The crawl at the bottom of the television screen catches my eye. It’s the local news segment, the one with the gaudy purple graphics and a lineup of “expert analysts” who all look like they’ve never skated a day in their lives. Right in the center of the split screen is Blakely Rivers, face lit up by studio lights, lips a brutal slash of red, eyes a little too bright.
She’s not talking about me, at least not yet. She’s roasting one of Seattle’s players, slicing through his stats and PR blather with the kind of precision that’s rare on these shows. I turn up the volume slowly. Admittedly, I’m a little scared to hear what comes out of her mouth next, but since she doesn’t seem to be talking about me, I’m also intrigued.
“Let’s talk about the elephant in the room,” she says, and I can’t help smirking, because it’s the same tone she used with me in the press room. Direct, relentless, zero apology. “McClacken’s penalty box meltdown wasn’t just embarrassing, it was predictable. We’ve seen this from him before—the recklesshits, the lack of control. When is the league going to stop treating repeat offenders like misunderstood bad boys and start holding them accountable?”
“Well, that’s one thing we agree on sweetheart. McClacken’s ass should’ve been kicked out of the league years ago.” I think back to our friends on the Chicago Red Tails team and the drama they dealt with thanks to McClacken and his absurdly asshole-ish ways. My friend, Milo Landric’s wife dated McClacken at one time and he was a fucking prick to her. Took a swing at her and gave her a black eye from what I heard years ago. McClacken is damn lucky Milo didn’t beat him six feet into the ground when the truth came out.
Inevitably though, the host pivots to our game and feeds Blakely a slow pitch about my “rough night between the pipes.”
“Let’s talk about Cunningham,” says the polyester suit, “because man, it’s like he forgot how to move laterally in the third period.”
“Oh, here we go,” I mumble, rolling my eyes. “Don’t listen to ’em, Killer. All lies.”
Blakely’s mouth quirks in a half-smile as she tilts her head. A piercing stab hits my chest and I wonder for a half a second if she knows I’m watching her right now.
Impossible, I know, but my pulse quickens just the same.
“I don’t think it’s amnesia, Dave,” she says to the host. “If you look at the shot charts, he was telegraphing his movements after the second goal. Portland adapted, and Cunningham didn’t. He’s talented—maybe the best raw talent in the league—but even the best have bad nights. I’d like to see him shake it off and get back to being the brick wall Anaheim needs. If not…” She lets it hang, the threat implied and barbed. “Well, there are a lot of hungry goalies in this system.”
Fucking ouch.
I click off the television and toss the remote across the coffee table and out of reach. My jaw grinds side to side. Hungry, she said. Like I’m a fucking old dog with arthritis, one bad run from being put down. Shit, I’d almost respect it if it wasn’t so accurate, but also why they hell can’t she just let it go?
Why does it feel like she’s on some sort of personal war path with me?
“Fuck that. And fuck you, Rivers,” I huff, laying back on the couch with Killer asleep on my lap. That woman knows how to slice me in half with her mouth and I don’t like it. But what’s worse is that she always looks so damn hot doing it. How is that fair? If she was some ogre-type of woman, it would be easy to hate her and pay her no mind, but Blakely is fucking gorgeous. Even that I can’t deny. So, when she guts me with her comments, as true as they might be, hating her is short-lived. I can’t seem to stop looking at her. In fact, at times, I find myself wanting to pick a fight with her just to be able to gaze at her a little longer. She looked sexy as fuck in that interview just now in her purple suit. The royal color really brought out the mossy color of her eyes. Her honey-shaded hair down in soft waves. She looked powerful.
Powerful and sexy as fuck and yep, now I can’t get the vision of what she would look like in that pretty purple suit on her knees in front of me. Her hair twisted around my fist and her lips wrapped around my cock.
“Get a grip Cunningham,” I whisper as my phone buzzes on the table in front of me.
I know who it is before I even look at the screen. I’m all but certain at least a few of the guys saw Blakely’s interview. They can be relentless when it comes to public humiliation.
And especially when it’s me being humiliated.
Bodhi
Ayyyyyyy Bear
Bodhi
You see Rivers on Sports Wrap dragging your ass?
Griffin
