Page 19 of What If I Hate You
By the timeI hit the rink, I’m reset, ice in my veins, every part of me dialed to kill.
It’s game day. Stars versus Storm. We need this Win.
I need this win.
The pregame skate is a blur. I let the world reduce to nothing but posts and angles, pucks coming off blades like missiles, every rebound a calculus problem I was born to solve. The other guys chirp and razz each other, but it’s all background noise to the white-hot focus in my skull. I take every shot that comes my way. I block every fuckin’ thing that flies at me, and by warmups, the boys are howling every time I stonewall one of their wrist shots.
“Brick wall’s back, baby!” August crows, clapping me on the shoulder as we head for the tunnel. “Missed you, Teddy Bear.”
I grunt, but my blood’s fizzing.
We line up in the dark, just behind the curtain before introductions start. The thrum of the crowd pours through the cinderblock like heartbeats. My routine is simple: pull down my mask, tap the Stars logo on the way up the tunnel, ignore the cameras, and tune out everything else.
But tonight, as I skate out for warmups, I catch a flicker of movement at the edge of the press platform. Blakely Rivers has a mic in her hand, her mouth pressed tight, phone tilted at a deliberate angle. For a split second her eyes jerk to me, sharp and unreadable, and I almost fuck up my first stride.
Get a fucking grip Cunningham.
She’s a press girl. Nothing more.
She’s not wearing a bold suit tonight like she was at our last game. For some reason that surprises me. I don’t know what I expected or why her choice of clothing was even on my mind, but she’s casually dressed in a blue and gold-fitted Stars quarter-zip sweatshirt and black leggings. She looks the part of a supporting fan and for a quick second I wonder what she would look like in my jersey.
I make it my personal mission to ignore her, which means I’m hyper-aware of every tiny shift in her posture, every angle at which she holds her phone, every time she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like she’s trying to hide behind it. My mask is down, but I can feel her watching me, a heat at the side of my head that’s almost tactile.
I know I’m supposed to be stretching, supposed to be focused, but the urge to show off takes over. I drop into a full butterfly, my trademark move. The stretch that gets me those “freakish flexibility” comments from Sports Wrap and, if the rumor mill is correct, more than a few thirsty DMs.
I angle the stretch so I’m facing her and then grab my blocker and lean into it. I’m flexing enough thigh to make my own inner quad scream. I hold the pose, eyes up, sweat spiking at my temples, and watch her reaction.
She’s talking to a camera guy, pretending not to notice me, but every time I move, every time I drop into a full split or push laterally across the crease, her gaze snaps right back. There’s a split second where she doesn’t even realize she’s been made but I see her.
I notice.
At first I think I’m imagining it, but then Ledger, who is skating lazy circles near the blue line, coasts over and confirms, “She’s watching you, man.”
“I know,” I mutter. “She must be conducting an experiment. How many times can you humiliate Cunningham in a single fiscal year.”
Ledger barks a laugh. “Whatever it is, you got her attention, man. Don’t pretend you don’t like it.” He grins. “Maybe she finally found your good angle.”
I snort and force myself not to look at her again, but my brain has already banked the image. Rivers with her face set hard, cheeks flushed, watching my every move like she’s one shift away from striding down to the ice and calling me out herself.
If that’s how you want to play, sweetheart. Game on.
We destroy Seattle. I mean, demolish them. Six-nil by the end of the second and my personal shutout streak intact all the way into the dying seconds of the third. I slide into my best version of focus, the kind that drowns out the crowd and all the bullshit that lives in my head. Even the in-game chirping from the other side is background noise.
After the buzzer, my teammates mob me. I lean into the heap letting them pile on, yell in my ear, and shriek over my shoulder, because tonight, I earned it. Tonight, nobody talks about my five-hole or the Zamboni shuffle or Swiss goddamn cheese. Tonight, I’m the wall they all can trust. Tonight, I’m not the guy haunted by a girl in heels and a mean right hook of a voice. Maybe, just maybe, I killed the noise long enough that I can coast on this for a day or two.
We file off the ice and into the tunnel, sweat and adrenaline and a weird, giddy relief mixing in my veins. I can finally let myself breathe.
Or not.
The surreal feeling doesn’t last. Not when I unpeel my mask feeling the rush of cooler air on my face and see her again. This time she’s already in interview position, flanked by a camera crew and the sense that everyone in the world is watching. Itell myself to keep walking, to take the victory lap with the guys because fuck her, but of course she calls out to me.
“Cunningham! You got a second?”
CHAPTER SIX
BLAKELY
Inever ask easy questions first. That’s how you get men like Barrett Cunningham to talk. You catch them with their helmets off, their guard still leaking adrenaline and sweat. You start with a jab, not a massage. So, when he tries to ignore me and keeps walking, I sidle up to him in the corridor, and don’t even bother with pleasantries.
