Page 74 of What If I Hate You
His eyes follow me with an intensity that I can’t describe but makes my cheeks flush just the same. “It’s not just physical commitment, Rivers. It’s mental.”
“What do you mean?”
He pulls himself upright and lifts his mask. “The thing about hockey is, when you get too rigid and too locked up, you lose the ability to adjust when someone comes at you fast.”
“Right.” I nod. “So, lower your center. Commit to the movement and trust your instincts instead of your fear.”
He nods his head slowly, his eyes holding mine as he quietly asks, “Is that advice just for goaltending?”
Suddenly I’m not so sure we’re talking about hockey at all.
My stomach flips and something in my chest flutters. The rink suddenly feels smaller, the noise of the team fading to nothing. I swallow hard. “I’m not here to fix your emotional damage, Barrett,” I answer softly.
“No,” he agrees, shaking his head and skating toward me. “But I am.” He comes to a stop just a few feet away. Not quite close enough to touch me, but close enough for me to see the sincerity in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Blakely.”
“For what?”
As if I don’t know what he’s apologizing for.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, and I hate how my stomach flips in response. "For letting you walk out of my apartment four days ago," he answers. "For all the things I didn't say. For making you feel like a mistake when you're anything but."
I swallow, my fingers tightening around my stick. "Barrett?—"
He leans closer, the scent of his sweat and that damn cologne making it hard to remember why I was so angry. "I was scared, Blakely. I still am. I'm scared of what that night meant for both of us," he explains, gesturing between us. "Of how real it felt. Of how real it still feels for me. I'm terrified of how much I actually care about you."
My throat tightens. Part of me wants to skate away, protect myself from another disappointment.
"Barrett—"
"No, just…just let me finish." He peels off his gloves and drops them on the ice, fingertips grazing my arm. When I flinch, he drops his hand and pushes back. "I'm sorry. This is me saying the words and meaning every single one. I’m sorry for how I made you feel. For not fighting harder to make it rightthe second the words came out of my mouth. What I said was in poor taste and not at all what I meant. I reacted without thinking and I was a complete insensitive asshole. But I'm here now. And I'm…I’m asking.” He takes a deep breath, sincerity in the way he holds my gaze. “I’m asking for another chance, off the ice. With you.”
My heart pounds in my chest.
He's not perfect.
God, he's so far from it.
But this vulnerability, this effort, it's more than I ever expected from him.
And maybe…just maybe…he's worth the risk of getting hurt. Maybe this is…a start.
"I need to know, Barrett," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, "Is this just about getting me out of your system? If it is, that’s fine. You can be honest, but I can't?—"
"No." His answer is immediate, firm. "This isn't about getting you out of my system. It's about letting you in."
The words hit me with more force than any slapshot. I stare at him, searching his face for any sign of insincerity, but all I see is raw, unfiltered honesty.
And it terrifies me.
"You can't just…" I gesture vaguely around us, at the team, at the rink, at the absurdity of this whole situation. "You can't ambush me at practice and expect everything to be fixed with an apology."
"I know." He nods, his mask now completely pushed back, revealing his face fully. "But I needed to get your attention.”
"You couldn't have just texted me like a normal person?" I ask, though the fight is already draining out of my voice.
"Would you have answered?" His question is quiet, honest, and it hits deeper than I want to admit.
I wouldn't have.
