Page 54 of What If I Hate You
It’s lighter now, easier.
"He's got impeccable timing," I mutter, taking another sip of beer.
"Like owner, like cat," Blakely says, her voice teasing but softer than I've ever heard it. She leans back against the base of the kitchen cabinets, stretching her legs out in front of her. "So, this is where the monster of the crease comes to hide from the world, huh?"
"I don't hide," I say automatically, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears.
"Says the millionaire living in a perfectly normal apartment with practically nothing in it." She gestures around.
I toss back my beer and give an easy shrug. “Like I said, I’m just one man. I don’t need much. Why spend money on frivolous shit I don’t need?”
Her brows furrow. “Uh, because you’re a multi-millionaire professional athlete and you deserve all the fun fancy things you heart desires.”
“But what if what I desire doesn’t need to be fancy? We get paid way too much money to do what we do. I get paid millions to play keep-away with little rubber disks and a stick in my hand.” I take another long pull of my beer, watching her face as she processes what I’ve said. “That money can help a lot of people. Money doesn’t buy the things that matter.”
I want to tell her that what I desire, what interests me the most, is sitting right here on my floor, cradling my cat and looking at me like I'm a puzzle she's trying to solve. But I can't say that. Not yet.
Her expression shifts, curiosity replacing her earlier teasing.
“What do you mean by that?”
After watching her break down tonight, after seeing her vulnerability, it feels wrong to keep hiding from her. At the very least, I owe her a small snippet of who I really am.
"I grew up poor, Blakely. Like, government cheese and hand-me-down clothes poor.”
Her face falls. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” I nod, understanding her shock. “My mom worked three jobs just to keep the lights on, and my dad…" I pause. “He worked his ass off too until he had a stroke. Then his medical bills became the priority. My brother and I did all we could to keep the family strong, but we had goals too. Big dreams.”
She watches me silently. No judgement. Only space.
"I was lucky to get my shot at hockey. And my brother…” I shake my head. “He’s a wiz on the court. The kid could be the next LeBron James if he tries hard enough.”
“Oh wow. That’s great. He’s in school?”
I nod. “Yeah. He’s on the east coast. Got himself a full basketball scholarship.”
“I bet you’re really proud of him.”
“Yeah. So, when I got drafted, when the money started coming in, I kept thinking about all the families back homestill struggling the way we did. Still choosing between heat and groceries."
Killer wobbles over and climbs into my lap, his tiny claws digging into my jeans as he settles. I scratch behind his ears absently.
"So, you send money back," she says quietly. It's not a question.
"Every month. Anonymous donations to the food bank, the youth hockey league, utility assistance programs. I bought the rink where I learned to play and made sure no kid gets turned away for lack of funds. I put money away for my brother too." I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise I can see building in her eyes. "It's nothing, really. And it's not like I need a mansion to be happy."
Her eyes soften as she looks at me, and I feel uncomfortably exposed. I'm not used to talking about this stuff. Not with anyone.
"It's not nothing, Bear," she says quietly. "It's… it's everything to those families."
I shrug again, focusing on Killer who's purring in my lap. "I just don't like to talk about it."
"Why not?" She leans forward, reporter instincts clearly kicking in. "That's the kind of story people should hear. The good guys behind the game."
"Because it's not about me," I say firmly. "The minute it becomes about me, it becomes some PR stunt. Some feel-good piece about the 'generous athlete.' That's not why I do it."
The silence between us stretches, filled only by Killer's rumbling purrs. I've never told anyone this stuff. Not the press, not even most of my teammates. Harrison knows bits and pieces, but not the whole story. Yet here I am, spilling my guts to the one person who could put it all in print tomorrow if she wanted to.
