Page 117 of What If I Hate You
I lean closer to my computer screen, fueled by the heat rising in my chest as my fingers move furiously across the screen.
Let’s talk about the real issues. The way my male colleagues treated me as if I was just another pretty face to fit into their agenda. The way they constantly hit on me or harassed me yet nobody wanted to hear about it. Or about the day it took one of the Anaheim players stepping in on my behalf because he’s more of a man than any of those at Sports News Network will ever be, to get them to stop their harassment. There’s a constant undercurrent of doubt that suggests I don’t do what I do for the love of the game but for some misguided notion of romantic conquest. These people forget I’ve sweat and bled on the ice just like the Stars, though admittedly, not under a professional contract. I’ve stood shoulder to shoulder with fellow players and felt the thrill of victory and the sting of defeat.
Every keystroke ignites something within me. I’m on fire, every word spilling out like a confession I’ve been holding back my entire life. Each sentence crackles with energy, the kind that lights a path through the darkness of indifference and scorn. The weight of every condescending remark, every sideways glance from the men in the press box, fuels my determination. I’m not just writing. I’m declaring war on a culture that tried to silence me.
I can feel the pulse of my heartbeat quickening as I type, the rhythm matching my frustration.
This is not a game and I’m not playing by anyone’s rules but my own. There’s something intoxicating about taking this power back, about refusing to be reduced to a stereotype or a footnote in someone else’s story.
This is my story.
I know I’m risking backlash, but for the first time, I’m ready to embrace it. What’s the worst they can do? Write me off? Try to discredit my work? They’ve been doing that all along. If anything, I’ll be serving up cold dishes of truth wrapped in the words they scoffed at.
My fingers fly over the keys as I craft the next line. This isn’t just about me; it’s for every woman who’s ever felt belittled or been overlooked, dismissed, or judged solely by their gender. It’s for every woman who has ever had her passion questioned, her expertise belittled, and her presence devalued.
I’m ready to be the voice they need.
The one that calls bullshit on the status quo and says, “No more.” I’m done being polite, done waiting for someone else to step up and advocate for change. It’s time I take the reins myself. If they want to underestimate me, let them.
I’ll use their doubt as fuel to ignite a fire they can’t extinguish.
I’ve readmy article so many times in the past hour that the words blur together, but my pulse still races every time I scroll back to the top. It feels… dangerous. Necessary, but dangerous.
“Relax, babe,” Barrett says, placing three slow kisses across the back of my neck. “It’s perfect and they’re going to support you.”
“Do you really think so? Like really seriously?” My sole worry right now is whether or not our friends will hear what I have to say through this blog post and support the angle I’m going for. I know this is my fight and it’s my voice, but I love and respect the guys on the team and their respective partners—who are also myfriends—too much to publish something like this without them hearing it first.
Barrett turns his cell phone toward me so I can read his screen. “See? I’ve already called for an emergency meeting.” He sweeps Killer into his hand and then takes my hand, gesturing to my laptop. “Come on. Bring it with you.”
“Wait, where are we going?” I ask, sliding off the bar stool where I was seated.
“Upstairs to Marlee and Ledger’s. The babies are sleeping so everyone agreed to meet there.”
Marlee’s apartment is already buzzing when Barrett and I walk in. Jackets are draped over chairs, the smell of pizza and garlic knots fills the air, and the living room is crammed with the Anaheim Stars’ finest, plus their far better halves.
Harrison’s sprawled in the armchair like he owns it, Oliver is elbow-deep in the chip bowl, August’s laugh is carrying over the crowd, Bodhi’s making some point to Griffin with wild hand gestures. Scarlett, Corrigan, Layken, and Ella are scattered among them, wineglasses in hand.
“Blakely!” Marlee spots me instantly, practically dragging me toward the couch. “We’ve been waiting for you. And that.” She points to my laptop bag like it’s contraband.
Barrett leans down, murmuring just for me, “You don’t have to if you don’t want?—”
“I know.” My stomach twists. But I do have to. Somehow, I’m herded into the middle of the room. “You guys…” I glance around, suddenly feeling like I’ve walked into a press conference without my notes. “I wrote something. An article. Well, a blog post really, because there’s no way I can ask SNN to print it.”
Corrigan, who’s seated at the couch with a beer, smirks. “Sounds like this is about to get interesting.”
I open my laptopand sit on the edge of the coffee table. “It’s about being the only woman in the press box for the Stars. Andabout SNN.” The words taste bitter, but steady. “And the way they’ve treated me.”
“Read it,” Ledger says from behind Marlee, his tone all business, like he’s ready to coach me through this.
So, I do. I read every single word.
About the whispered jokes, the patronizing comments, and the stories they let my male colleagues run while my pitches sat ignored.
About the constant sexual harassment.
About the way my work has been dismissed or claimed by others.
About the unspoken message that I should be grateful to be here at all.
