Page 52 of What If I Hate You
"So, this is where the great Barrett Cunningham lives," she says, eyeing the modest apartment door with obvious surprise. "I expected something more…"
"Flashy?" I finish for her. "I guess I’m 0 for 2 tonight then,” I say as I push open the door.
She follows me inside, taking in the simple furnishings, the plain walls with just a few framed photos mostly of my family and some team shots. Nothing ostentatious. Nothing that screams I make seven figures a year stopping pucks for a living.
"It's…"
"Normal?" I offer, setting my keys on the counter. "I don't need much."
Blakely steps farther into the apartment, scanning everything—the worn leather couch, the modest TV, the kitchen with basic appliances and a single coffee mug in the sink. No signed memorabilia displayed like trophies. Just a space that looks lived-in and deliberately understated. I watch her cataloging it all, probably filing away details for some future article.
"Actually, I was going to say clean," she says, arms crossed defensively over her chest. "You have a cleaning service or something?"
I rub the back of my neck. "No, I just…don't like mess."
“Hmm.” She nods “It’s nice.”
Does she really think it’s nice or is she just being kind?
“Thank you.”
She sets her briefcase bag and purse down on the small dining table in the kitchen area and then turns to me. “So, you promised me something that would make me smile. So far it's just a surprisingly un-douchey apartment."
Her teasing smirk makes me relax a little and then as if right on cue, a small chirp sounds from somewhere near the kitchen, and Blakely's head whips around. "What was that?"
"That," I say, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness, "is what I wanted to show you."
The small, high-pitched sound happens again and Blakely’s eyes grow huge when a tiny orange tabby kitten with comically large ears tries to scamper across the hardwood floor but flops over several times.
"Oh, my God! Is that?—"
"Killer," I say, feeling my face heat up as the kitten weaves between my ankles. "Found him outside in front of the door several weeks ago. Little bugger was a hot mess. I couldn’t just leave him out there so…he’s with me now.”
Blakely’s entire demeanor transforms. Her shoulders fall, her eyes soften, and her mouth hangs open. She drops to her knees without hesitation, all pretense of coolness abandoned.
"Killer? You named a two-pound ball of fluff Killer?" Her voice rises to that soft, high-pitched tone people use with babies and small animals.
Killer approaches her with a cautious wobble, tiny tail quivering straight up like an antenna. When he reaches her outstretched fingers, he sniffs once, then immediately headbutts her hand with surprising force.
"Jesus," she laughs, genuinely laughs, and something in my chest loosens at the sound. "He's a little battering ram."
"Hence the name," I say, watching her scoop him up. "You should see what he does to my shoelaces."
She cradles him against her and something inside me feels like it’s cracking wide open. Killer starts making biscuits on her blazer and she chuckles softly, her finger smoothing over his soft little head. “Killer. You’re about as deadly as a cotton ball, aren’t you little guy?” She lifts her eyes to meet mine and catches me staring at her.
I don’t even feel bad that I was caught. I can’t help it. She’s beautiful like this. “He seemed off when I found him, you know? Not totally broken. Just a little…bent. Kind of struck a chordwith me and I figured maybe…you know, you’d see him for what he is, too.”
She doesn’t respond to what I just said but I see it register in her face. “Why does he wobble when he walks?”
“Uh, the vet said it’s called cerebellar hyperplasia. It’s a neurological condition that effects their coordination and balance so he falls a good bit.” I smile. “Especially when he tries to run. It’s fucking cute every time.”
“And he can live with this condition for his whole life?” she asks, her expression worrisome.
I nod. “Yep. Vet said he’s otherwise perfectly happy and should live a long and happy life.”
"Happy," she echoes, scratching under Killer's chin as he purrs loud enough to rival the building's HVAC system. "You ever think about that? How animals don't get hung up on their limitations like we do?"
I lean against the counter, watching her cradle my ridiculous little cat. "Every damn day. Kid's got no idea he's different. Just wakes up, knocks shit over, and demands breakfast like he's king of the jungle."
