Page 20 of What If I Hate You
“Did you expect to shut them out tonight, or are you just as surprised your legs held up for three periods straight?”
He halts so suddenly that the camera guy almost collides into him, lens first. There's an untamed, electric energy radiating from him, cheeks flushed crimson, hair sticking to his forehead in damp strands. His dark chocolate eyes lock onto mine, intense and probing, as though he's trying to decide whether I'm here to unravel his secrets or savor his story.
“Hi to you too, Rivers,” he grunts. He’s so close I can count every blood vessel in his eyes, and maybe he knows it, because he lifts his chin the way feral dogs do before a fight. I smile back, trying to kill him with kindness.
Or at least a cheap smile.
Ignoring the press of bodies behind us, I lift my mic. “That was a solid game tonight. A few days ago, you were barely holding it together, I see you finally took my advice.”
He blinks once, slow, the way a man does when he’s deciding whether to eat glass or say something he’ll regret later. “Advice?” His voice, if possible, is more gravel than usual. “Pretty sure all you’ve given me is one reminder after another that my five-hole’s wider than the 405.”
A couple of other cameras go up. Someone’s recording on their phone, probably hoping I’ll go viral by publicly neutering a man twice my size. This is dangerous territory, and I love it.
“I’m just saying, sometimes a little constructive criticism goes a long way. Or did you suddenly get shy about feedback?” I keep the smile, but I don’t blink.
That’s the trick: never blink first.
He stares at me for three full seconds, jaw muscles rolling under the helmet of sweat. I see the calculation, the urge to mock or detonate or, maybe, just walk away. Then he does something I’ve never seen him do.
He laughs.
It’s not loud. Not even the camera mics will catch it. But it’s real enough that, for exactly one second, I glimpse the person inside the bear suit. The one who isn’t just a headline or an angry press subject.
“You know, Rivers, I never figured you for the gentle encouragement type.”
I lean in, just enough to kick the tension up a notch. “You’re right. I’m not. But I do believe in calling out bullshit when I see it, and tonight,” I shrug, “well, I guess you didn’t stink up the joint.”
For a second, he takes the compliment at face value. Then he cocks his head and gives me a look so shrewd it makes my scalptingle. “That supposed to be a compliment, Rivers? Or are you trying to get ahead of the next time I screw up?”
“Both,” I answer deadpan, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my kindness.
He closes the gap between us, reducing the six inches to a mere three, and suddenly, I'm acutely aware of the magnetic pull Barrett Cunningham exerts. It's as if he can envelop an entire room or stretch a fleeting moment with just his presence, a lingering shadow and the seductive lilt of his voice. He glances down at my mouth. Not long, but enough to log it.
“If you want to be the one to personally discipline me after every bad game, Rivers, you’ll need to clear your schedule,” he says, and it takes me a half-beat to realize he’s not making a joke for the camera. He’s making it just for me.
I’m about to volley back because, come on, that’s my whole reason for living, when he leans in, lowering his voice so only I can hear it. “Or are you just dying to check my five-hole for yourself?”
It’s not lewd, not exactly, but somehow it’s a thousand percent more obscene than if he’d said it straight. My throat goes dry for a moment, and I force myself not to look away. Not to let him see that when he wants to, he can knock me completely off axis.
I’m not about to give him the pleasure.
I set my jaw and raise my face to his. “That depends, Barrett. You think you could handle the scrutiny?”
He holds my gaze, dead-on, no blinking. For a second, the mask drops. There’s hunger there, and a dare, but also a sliver of what looks almost like relief. Maybe he’s just glad I didn’t fold. Maybe this is what we do, trade barbs instead of numbers, slaps instead of touches, these fleeting collisions where the only thing getting scored between us is pride.
“I think you’d be surprised what I can handle,” he says quietly, and for a second there’s no one else. Not the news crew, not the security guard pretending not to eavesdrop, not even the half-drunk fans hollering down the hall. I feel the weight of his full attention like a fist against my chest. It would be easy to take a step back, reset the balance, but I don’t. I hold.
“I can’t wait to find out,” I say. And this time I can’t help my smile. A real honest to goodness smile, the one that pries through power suits and broadcast makeup and says you can’t break me.
Not now.
Not ever.
It knocks him off center for just a moment. And then the helmet comes back on, the professional mask, and he steps back, leaving behind a void that smells faintly of sweat and ozone and perhaps a little of victory.
I know a win when I score one.
For a full three seconds after Barrett walks away, the hallway is quiet. I’m left standing here, teeth sunk into my lower lip, pulse throbbing in places I don’t want to admit.
