Page 48 of What If I Hate You
BLAKELY
Some days you just know you’re going to get pantsed by fate before you even step out of bed.
I woke up late.
Not just late, but late, late. The kind of late that makes me want to hurl my phone across my room and scream into a pillow. I’ve missed the pre-game skate and the morning press availability. No one texted. No one called. Because why would they? I’m supposed to be on top of my game and the guys all hate me anyway. They’d do anything for a leg up in the press room.
“Fuck!”
I scramble out of bed, rushing through a dry shampoo job that should be illegal and throwing on the first blazer I can find that doesn’t smell like anxiety and exhaustion. The zipper on my boot catches and is stuck halfway up so I go with it and pretend it’s the latest fashion craze. I spill coffee on my notes in the car on the drive over, and I drop my goddamn press pass in a parking lot puddle that soaks through my partially zipped footwear. By the time I make it to the arena, I’m two hours behind and one passive-aggressive comment away from homicide.
And of course, it comes.
Right on cue.
“Didn’t think you’d show today, Rivers,” Greg mutters as I pass. “Figured you needed extra time to do your pretty hair and all.”
I respond with a dry laugh and a tight smile.
Mother fucking asshole.
Still, it stings. More than I want it to. It’s not the first time someone’s treated me like I don’t belong here, and it won’t be the last. But today, I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.
The real punch lands later, though, in the press room following tonight’s game.
We won. They lost.
And the guy at the podium knows it.
Eli Mercer, the starting goalie for Miami, sits there like he’s chewing glass. He’s got a towel draped around his neck and the kind of jaw tension that says “don’t ask me anything stupid.” He’s already snapped at one reporter, and now the room’s quiet. No one wants to set him off again.
But I’m not here to play it safe.
I’m the risk taker among the crowd, so I raise my hand. “Blakely Rivers, Sports News Network.”
His eyes flick toward me. Slow. Uninterested. In fact, his left brow lifts slowly as if he’s asking what the hell I’m even doing in the room.
Yeah, asshole. I know.
“Eli, your save percentage was strong through the first two periods, but things started to fall apart in the third. Was that a fatigue issue, or a breakdown with your defense?”
Clean. Fair. Backed by the numbers. Iknowit's a good question. I’ve asked the same question to Barrett when he’s had a bad night.
Mercer stares at me and then he laughs.
“Maybe stick to questions about the mascot, sweetheart.”
A couple of the older reporters chuckle. One clears his throat to cover it. I feel a flash of heat crawl up my neck, but I don’t blink.
I’ve been called worse.
I’veenduredworse.
“Well, you stopped thirty shots tonight but the three you let in made all the difference, so what happened on those plays?”
Eli rolls his eyes and audibly scoffs into the microphone. “You know what, princess, I bet you can figure out what happened on those three plays for yourself. Why don’t you try asking me a real question next time.”
I nod like he didn’t just shove me off a cliff in front of a room full of colleagues, but I feel it. The heat climbing up my throat. My skin going red. I smile.
