Page 119 of What If I Hate You
CHAPTER THIRTY
BARRETT
The guys are scattered across the locker room, half-dressed after practice, phones in hand. But for once, they’re not checking game stats or fantasy scores. They’re reading Blakely’s post.
“She just nuked Sports News Network from orbit,” Oliver says, whistling low.
“Yeah, and it’s beautiful,” Griffin adds, grinning at his phone. “Check the comments. People are eating it up.”
I’ve already read it three times. My chest is tight in a way that has nothing to do with the workout I just finished. Every word is her. Bold, fearless, and painfully honest about the crap she’s endured being the only woman in the press box. She didn’t hold back on her network, either. She called out the double standards, the casual sexism, the condescension. And she did it without losing the love she has for the sport or the respect she shows to the players. She also made sure to compliment the Anaheim Stars franchise for not giving in to sexism in the workplace and for respecting her for her ability to press the players on their plays and decisions as she sees them without prejudice.
That’s what makes this post so damn good. That’s what makes it her.
My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s Marlee calling from upstairs. I answer, still watching the comments scroll like wildfire.
“Hey Mar. What’s up? Are you reading these comments? Our girl is on fire!”
“Barrett…” Her voice is hushed and quick and immediately my smile falls.
Oh fuck.
“She’s here,” Marlee says on the other line. “Blakely’s here. Outside my office. You might want to get up here.”
I’m already running, pushing past the locker room door in nothing but a pair of warm-up shorts and no shirt, my phone pressed tightly against my ear.
“Fuck, Marlee. Is she in trouble?”
“Just get up here. She needs you.”
“Shit,” I mumble, feeling my heart drop into my chest. “I’m on my way.”
By the time I get upstairs to Marlee’s office I’m nearly out of breath but I spot my girl standing by the window. Her phone is held in one hand, the other is pressed over her mouth.
“Blakely?” I say her name quietly but with the internal resolve to make sure she knows she’s done nothing wrong. However, SNN spins this, I’ll be damned if I let them take her down. I’ll call every fucking lawyer on this side of the country to take down the assholes at that piece of shit network.
She finally turns from the window, her eyes huge and red as if she’s been crying.
Fucking hell.
Who do I have to kill?
“What’s wrong?” My stomach twists until she looks at me—really looks—and then her lips part.
“They offered me a job.” Her voice is breathless, disbelieving.
My brows furrow as I watch her expression turn from one of shock to one of pure joy. “Who offered you a job?”
“The Anaheim Stars want me as their full-time broadcast commentator,” she explains, squealing softly with excitement. It’s almost as if she’s scared to say it out loud in case it’s not really true.
“Wait…what?”
She’s not in trouble?
I glance at Marlee standing against the door with her arms over her chest, her lips folded in to keep from laughing. She slips me a wink and a helpless shrug.
What the fuck?
“I know!” Blakely shrieks, waving her hands in front of her face like she’s willing herself not to cry. “The Stars offered me exclusive coverage for the franchise. And because,” she waves a hand between us, cheeks flushing, “our relationship is public, they’re letting me keep full editorial integrity. I’ll still have independence and I’ll still be able to call the games as I see them.”
