Page 51 of What If I Hate You
“I see you,” he says softly. “Even when I pretend not to. Even when I pretend you’re just a pain in my ass.”
I turn to look at him, surprised by how serious his face is, how naked it looks, stripped of sarcasm and swagger.
“You’re smart,” he says. “And brave. And you don’t back down. You fucking know the game of hockey and that scares the hell out of me, because I’ve never had to be better before. I’ve never had to really answer to someone else before. Not until you showed up and called me on my bullshit. On my weaknesses. You weren’t afraid to show me that I’m not perfect and I didn’t like it.”
My breath stutters. The bathroom feels too quiet. Too intimate.
“But that didn’t make it any less true.” He lifts a hand and gently tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek lightly.
“I hate that I had a part in making you cry.”
“I didn’t cry,” I whisper, refusing to admit weakness now.
He nods, his voice almost a breath. “Okay. Then I hate that I made younotcry.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or scream or punch him.
But I don’t do any of those things.
And when he opens his arms—slowly, cautiously, like I might bolt or punch him in his chest—I don’t move.
I just…lean in a little.
It costs me something, I’m sure.
But it gives me something, too.
He wraps his arms around me, big and warm and real. The smell of musky cologne mixed with the faint scent of sweat, like a combination of leather and a warm summer breeze fills my senses. The familiar aroma of fabric softener and shower gel lingers in the air as well.
And for the first time, I let myself lean a little more. I let myself believe, just for a second, that I don’t have to hold the whole damn sports world up by myself.
Barrett holds me—not like I’m weak, but like I matter. Like I’m seen.
And maybe, just maybe, I’m not alone.
“I want to show you something,” he finally says after a moment. “Will you come with me?”
His voice is soft and when I lean back to look at him, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes.
“Where are we going?”
“Trust me.” The corner of his mouth pulls up with a sympathetic smile. “I promise it’ll make you smile and if it doesn’t…” He shrugs and winks at me. “Maybe you really don’t have a soul.”
I slap his bicep weakly. “Barrett Cunningham, I am not a soulless person contrary to whatever you might believe.”
“I don’t really believe it, Rivers.” He takes my hand and squeezes it lightly, leading me from the bathroom. “Come on.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BARRETT
Inever planned on being the kind of guy who owns a kitten. I also never planned on inviting Blakely Rivers to my house either, but here we are driving from the arena, the quietness of my SUV only interrupted by Blakely’s occasional sniffles. She’s pulled herself together since walking out of the bathroom but her eyes are still rimmed red, mascara smudged at the corner like war wounds. I can’t stop looking at her, worried that if I look away too long, she’ll shatter all over again.
“Your place better not be some bachelor pad nightmare,” she finally says, breaking the silence as we pull into my building’s underground parking garage. “I’m expecting at least three protein powder containers repurposed as planters.”
I snort, grateful for the return of a little of her sass. “Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t even own plants to have in a planter.”
We take the elevator up only two levels and then I lead her to my apartment door. She stands to the side looking skeptical as hell while I fumble with my keys like some nervous teenager.
