Page 3 of What If I Hate You
I wish I could step away from this fucking podium and close the distance between us. Wish I could walk straight into her space until the room vanishes around us and give her a piece of my mind.
But that would be wildly unprofessional and Coach would have my ass.
Not to mention I would come across to the viewing public like the sexist goalie on the team. I can see those headlines now.
With the cameras still rolling, all I can see isher.
Hercalculating eyes.
Her lipstick like warpaint.
The way she didn’t emote with my pause.
“Are you trying to make this personal, Rivers?”
She doesn’t move. Just arches an eyebrow. “Not at all, but you do make it so easy.”
I should be pissed. I should walk away from her audacity, but there’s something in the way she talks back to me, not with contempt, but with challenge.
It does something to me.
“You could’ve asked about the glove save in the second,” I murmur, letting the hint of a smirk tug at my mouth. “You know. The cool highlight reel stuff.”
She tilts her head slightly. “That’s not my job. I’m not here to stroke your ego, Mr. Cunningham.”
You could stroke something else if you want.
“No.” My eyes flick down to her lips before I catch myself. “But you sure know how to get under my skin.”
Her smile is small, but wicked. Almost dangerous. “Then I guess I should thank you for allowing me to live there rent-free.”
Fuck.
She’s good.
But I’ll be damned if I let her win.
I laugh under my breath, stepping back before I do something stupid.
“Well,” I throw one last glance her way, “hope you like it hot. Next game? I’m coming back on fire.”
“Good.” She nods, biting the tip of her pen. “Then I’ll finally have something nice to write about you.”
You can hear a pin drop as all the air is sucked out through the collective gasps of every male reporter in the room. The smirk that hits my face though is a surprise to them. By all means I could be pissed. I could roll my eyes. I could scoff at her assertive confidence. I could say a few things that would make me look like a complete dick. But I don’t. My smirk isn’t about our win or loss tonight.
It’s about her.
Fucking Blakely Rivers.
The locker roomlooks is a mess. There’s gear everywhere, jerseys balled up and chucked at the walls, Blackstone’s nursing a split lip with an ice pack and a bottle of something that’s most definitely not Gatorade. The rest of the guys are packing up in silence, several pointedly not making eye contact with me.
I drop onto the bench so hard the metal legs screech, then throw my gloves like they’re the problem. Ollenberg looks up from the bench where he’s seated.
“Press conference looked like it went well, Bear.”
I glare at him. “Yeah, real fucking well. You catch her question?”
“Rivers?” He grins, the bastard. “Which one? The one where she said you had a shit five-hole, or the one where she asked if you’re losing your nerve?”
