Page 102 of What If I Hate You
“Of course! How could I have missed it? And nice save off your skate in the third, by the way. That was a stellar play.”
He winks and gives me his cheesiest grin. “What can I say? When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.”
Laughing at his goofiness, I shake my head. “Is Bear coming out any time soon?”
His eyes narrow as he thinks and then he says, “Ice bath. He may be a few minutes.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
I’ve got my phone in one hand, notes from the game in the other, trying to shake off the irritation still buzzing under my skin from my run-in with Carver when I turn back to walk to my desk. I’m halfway to the media exit when I hear, “Blakely.”
I turn, and Barrett is striding toward me, hair still damp from his shower, baseball cap turned backward, and that post-win energy radiating off him. He’s grinning until he sees my face.
“What happened?” he asks immediately, his voice dropping low like we’re already in private.
“Nothing,” I say too quickly. My walls go up on instinct. “Just a post-game interview.” I try to wrap my arms around him to give him a congratulatory hug but he stops me.
“With who?” His jaw flexes.
I hesitate, because I know exactly what’s about to happen if I tell him. “Nobody. It’s cool. All good.”
“With who?” His eyes search mine.
“Bear, it’s fine.”
“Blakely…”
Fuck he’s not giving in.
“Carver.”
“Ryan Carver?”
I nod.
His expression goes flat.
“Barrett—”
“What did he say?”
I sigh, shoving my phone into my bag. “It doesn’t matter. He made a comment, I shut it down, end of story.”
His gaze hardens, and for a second I swear I see that twitch in his hands he gets before dropping his gloves on the ice. “What kind of comment?”
“The kind that assumes I don’t know anything about hockey.” I pause. “And the kind that…implied I was more interested in getting close to Anaheim players than reporting on the game.”
There’s a beat of silence before Barrett’s mouth twists into something dark. “Mother fucking son of a bitch. I’ll kill him.”
“Barrett.” I plant a hand on his chest before he can take another step. “You will not. You’ve already had enough problems this season without adding assault in the tunnel.”
His chest is solid and warm under my palm, his heartbeat thrumming hard. “He doesn’t get to talk to you like that.”
I tilt my chin up. “You’re right. He doesn’t. And I handled it. You don’t need to fight my battles.”
His eyes flick over my face, softer now, but still simmering. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
I huff out a breath, fighting the smile threatening to break through. “Barrett Cunningham, the human wrecking ball of hockey and bad press.”
