Page 147 of What if It's Us

He’s going for my five-hole.

Fucker!

I drop to the ice and flare my pads but it’s like I’m dropping through sludge.

I’m too damn slow.

The horn sounds and the puck slams into the back of the net with a sickening thud.

5–3.

The crowd erupts. Well, part of the crowd. The away jerseys are everywhere tonight, like a sea of green swallowing us whole in one gigantic tidal wave. And they’re losing their damn minds.

I stay down on one knee for a second too long, staring at the red light still glowing behind me like it’s the sun itself. When I right myself my heart pounds against my gear as I pick up the Gatorade bottle behind the net during the timeout. I rip open my cage and slam back the cold liquid as I’m joined by Ollenberg and Meers. They both see the rage all over my face so neither one of them says a word.

“Why the hell are we collapsing into the slot like it’s a goddamn fire drill?” I growl, chest heaving. “What is this—beer league?”

They don’t look at me. They never do when I’m like this. Too intense. Too loud. Too honest.

Coach mutters something vague about keeping heads up but I tune it out looking for anyone to blame but myself.

We finish the game in a fog. Final score: 5–4. Close enough to sting, but not close enough to feel like hope.

The lightsin the press room always feel too bright after a loss. Like they’re designed to make you sweat under the weight of your own mistakes. I tug the brim of my cap lower, jaw clenched so tight I can feel it in my molars. I hate doing press interviews. Correction. I loathe them. I rarely do them but when Coach tells me I’m up this time and doesn’t let me bullshit my way out, I have no choice. I still smell like the rink, like the sting of ice spray and…fucking frustration.

There’s no doubt I lost this game.

Yeah, the guys played like shit but they were scoring.

I’m the one who let Portland through one time after another.

I’m the one who failed them.

This loss is on me and I know it.

Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it though, yet here I am after pulling the short straw for the press room shit show.

I step up to the mic, eyes scanning the room. Yep, it’s the same tired faces staring back at me with most likely the same rehearsed questions. But then my eyes fall on a new face. Someone I’ve seen around the arena because she’s a friend of Marlee’s but because I have yet to sit a press conference since she started here, I haven’t had the pleasure of her questioning.

Her name is Blakely Rivers.

She stands dead center like she’s claimed the whole room with nothing but heels and confidence. From what I’ve heard, Rivers is the only female reporter to ever make it into the press room.

I can see why.

She’s fucking hot.

She’s tall and curvy with the body of an athlete that I can appreciate. Her red mouth is curled in a smirk, hair slicked back like a Bond villain and her gaze is sharp as a skate. There are women who try to look powerful, and then there are women who can end you with a stare. She’s the latter, and I decide instantly that I don’t like her. Marlee says she’s tough as nails but Marlee’s also one of her best friends so I know she’s blowing a little smoke to make her Ms. Rivers look good. Ledger says he calls on her first to make sure she gets the chance to ask her questions before any of the other assholes in the room, but I also know Ledger would do anything Marlee asks of him because he’s that fucking whipped where she’s concerned.

If she’s in this press room than far be it for me to treat her any differently from the other assholes in the room. At least I’ll have something hot to look at while she asks me the same questions any of these other bozos asks on a normal day.

She raises her hand before any of the old dudes can say a word and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes at her overachieving attitude.

Hermione Granger anyone?

The mic crackles as I say hello and gesture to Blakely. “Yeah, you…with the lipstick.”

Hervoice rings out—smooth, unapologetic, zero tremor. “Barrett, do you feel like maybe tonight you were a little too slow tracking the puck laterally? Especially on that third goal?”

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