Page 75 of What If I Hate You
I would’ve ignored his calls and deleted his messages.
"That's what I thought," he says when I don't respond. "So, I had to get creative."
"Creative," I repeat, gesturing at the ice around us. "You call this creative? You basically forced me into a public spectacle. You’re using up team practice time for…for this."
"I call it desperate," he admits, and the raw honesty in his voice makes my breath catch. "I've been going out of my mind for four days, Blakely. I can't eat, can't sleep, can't stop thinking about you. And I didn't know how else to get you to hear me out."
His words hang between us, sincere and raw. I've spent four days convincing myself that night meant nothing to him, that I was just a convenient body, a moment of weakness. But the desperation in his eyes tells a different story.
"The guys know, don't they?" I ask, gesturing toward the team, who are pretending not to watch us while very obviously watching us.
Barrett's lips twitch. "They knew how I felt about you long before I did."
"And how exactly do you feel about me, Cunningham?" I challenge, needing to hear him say it, needing the words out loud where I can't dismiss them as my imagination.
He glances around at our audience, then back to me. "You want me to do this here? Now?”
I stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You're the one who made this a public spectacle, Bear. Don't get shy now."
Something shifts in his expression. A flicker of determination that makes my stomach flip. His tongue slides against his bottom lip and then he says, “Fine. You want to know how I feel about you?”
Before I have the chance to answer him he drops his stick on the ice with a clatter that echoes through the suddenly too-quiet arena and then closes the distance between us with one purposeful stride. His eyes hold my gaze, his hands cup my face, and his mouth crashes against mine. The kiss is nothing like our private encounters. It’s not desperate or frantic. This time it’s deliberate and possessive.
A public declaration.
I freeze for a split second, acutely aware of the collective gasp from the team, the clatter of sticks hitting the ice, and Griffin's unmistakable whoop of approval. But then Barrett's thumb strokes my cheek, and I melt against him, my gloved hands clutching the front of his practice jersey.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark and serious. "I'm fucking crazy about you, Blakely Rivers," he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I have been since the first time you ripped apart my game in the press room. Now will you please put me out of my goddamn misery and tell me you’ll go out with me?” He leans his forehead against mine and murmurs, “Because between you and me, watching you skate around my crease with my name on your back is making parts of me very uncomfortable.”
I just barely stifle a laugh, my eyes focusing on his as he takes my hand.
“Go out with me, Blakely. Please.”
“So, you’re saying it’s better to risk everything than play it safe.”My own press question floats through my mind as I inhale a deep breath.
Something inside me tells me that Barrett Cunningham is worth every single risk I could take.
“Okay, Bear,” I say gently. “I’ll go out with you.”
“Thank fucking Christ.” He smiles and then sweeps me up in his arms. He kisses my lips and then carries me off the ice, but not before he spins around on his skates and announces, “Thanks guys. I appreciate the help. That’s a wrap.”
My brows furrow and my mouth falls open as I give Barrett a crazed and confused look.
“What’s going on? Don’t you guys need to practice?”
“Nah.” He chuckles softly as he steps off the ice, still carrying me in his arms. “There was no extra practice. The guys were just doing me a favor.”
What?
“Wait. You planned this? This whole thing?” My voice rises in pitch as I consider the lengths this man will go. And for what?
For me?
“Yep. I told you, I panicked. And then I knew I needed to get you out on the ice. It’s the only place I knew you would listen to me and I needed you to hear me.” He carries me into the locker room where he sets me on the bench in front of his dressing cubby. Surprisingly my shoes are right next to his.
“You even had Hicks in on this plan?”
Barrett smirks as he shrugs. “What can I say? Once his daughter fell in love with Roche he saw the importance of us all being a family. Now he wants us to all find love and settle down. He thinks we play better that way.”
