Page 116 of What If I Hate You
God, I love this woman with my whole heart.
The sound of her breathing calms me as I pull her tighter against me, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The weight of her body draped over mine is a grounding force, a tether to the reality that we’re no longer just rivals but two souls who have collided in the most extraordinary way.
I can’t help but smile, knowing I’ve unlocked something deeper within her, something fierce and beautiful. I brush my fingers through her hair, relishing the softness of it against my skin.
“You okay?” I whisper, my voice a mixture of tenderness and lingering need. I know the battle she’s fought to get to this point, and now I want her to feel safe, wrapped in this cocoon we’ve created.
“Never better,” she murmurs, lifting her head to meet my gaze. There’s a glow in her eyes that cuts through the haze of post-coital bliss, a spark that reminds me how fiercely she fights for what she believes in. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, a smile breaking across my face as I cradle her cheek in my palm. “More than okay.”
And it’s true.
This moment, this crazy whirlwind of emotions and heat, has carved out a space deep inside me that I didn’t know existed. She’s filled it with everything I didn’t know I needed, and now I can’t imagine my life without her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
BLAKELY
Istare at the blinking cursor, my fingers hovering over the keyboard like they know the words are going to set something on fire. They will. They have to.
I’ve spent years holding my tongue, playing the game, pretending the little digs didn’t bother me. Pretending the knowing smirks from the old boys’ club in the press box didn’t sting. Pretending I didn’t notice when my questions were ignored in interviews, only for a male reporter to ask the same damn thing and get a full, thoughtful answer.
But tonight? I’m done pretending.
The headline comes first, sharp and unapologetic:
Breaking the Glass in the Press Box: A Woman’s View from the Ice
I type fast, like the words have been bottled up too long and finally found a crack to escape through.
I was the only woman in the Anaheim Stars press box. I was the first, and, if I have anything to do with it, definitely not the last. But being the only one means you see thingsthe others don’t. You hear the whispers, the snickers, the questions about whether you’re “here for the sport or for the players.” You learn to smile through the condescension, to nod politely while someone explains the rules of the game you’ve known since childhood.
I pause, flex my fingers, and let the heat building in my chest spill out onto the page.
At Sports News Network, I was told to “toughen up,” to “take a joke,” to be grateful I was allowed in the room. I worked harder, studied more, and outhustled everyone around me. And still, every accomplishment came with an asterisk. Not because my work wasn’t good enough, but because I don’t have a Y chromosome. Yep. That’s right. I’ve been talked over, passed over, and, most recently, told my career was less important than the perception of who I might be sleeping with all because I don’t have a penis.
My stomach twists at the memory, but I keep going, my voice getting sharper with every word.
Let me be clear: my worth as a journalist isn’t defined by who I interview, who I stand next to in the locker room, or who I care about when I leave the rink. My worth is in my work. My insight. My voice. And if that voice makes the wrong people uncomfortable? Good. That means it’s hitting where it should.
I lean back, chest rising and falling, reading the words like they belong to someone braver than me. But they don’t. They’re mine.
And I’m not done.
Hockey is my passion. Reporting is my craft. I will not apologize for being both a woman and damn good at my job. The game deserves better than the culture surrounding it right now. And so do the women who love it.
I hit the return key, my heart pounding as I watch the cursor dance across the screen, word by word, sentence by sentence. It’s raw and unfiltered, a mirror reflecting the simmering rage that’s bubbled up in me far too long. I’m ready to replace the timid silence with a voice that demands to be heard.
My voice.
But I’m not just spilling my story, I’m making a statement. I type furiously as the memories flood back, replaying the countless times I’ve been sidelined, dismissed, or assumed to be some player’s girlfriend instead of the reporter I am.
The reality is this. Being a woman in a male-dominated space doesn’t just mean facing the prejudice. It means enduring the constant reminder that my labor will be dismissed, my skills belittled, and my existence reduced to “the pretty face in the press box.”
The click of the keys feels like a revolution beneath my fingers. I want the world to know that I’m not just here to fill a quota or to be a novelty act. I’m carving out a space for myself in this industry, a space where women can stand tall and proud and claim their right to be taken seriously.
As the only female press reporter for the Anaheim Stars, I’ve faced challenges that would make lesser women turn tail and run. But I’m not lesser. I’ve fought tooth and nail just to earn my place in this industry, and I won’t let anyone belittle my achievements by reducing them to petty gossip. My work is not merely a footnote; it’s the headline.
