Page 148 of What if It's Us

What the fuck?

She went straight for the jugular.

Nobody’s ever asked me that before.

She must’ve talked to one of the trainers.

If she’d asked about defensive coverage or stick placement I could have given a canned answer, but no, she comes for the kill right out the gate.

Where are the softball questions like,“What happened out there?”or“What was different out there tonight from your usual strong nights?”

The sound I release from my mouth isn’t quite a sigh, but it’s close. I lean into the mic locking eyes with her. “You mean when my defense hung me out to dry and I became Portland’s favorite piñata?”

A few low laughs echo through the room but I don’t give a shit. I know I’m throwing my team under the bus. I know I’ll get hell for it later but fuck it. I’m barely holding back the irritation clawing at my throat. The last thing I want to do is admit I was the biggest loser of the night.

But Blakely doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even blink.

“I mean the one where your right pad didn’t seal post. Again.”

My grip tightens on the podium as her mix of analysis and accusation lobs like a puck straight to my gut.

She knew exactly where to aim.

“Appreciate the coaching, Rivers,” I say coolly. “I’ll be sure to review your film before our next game.”

“No need,” she says, casually flipping a page on her notepad. “I already reviewedyours. Last three games. Same issue, same side.” Her bright green eyes lift and lock with mine in a piercing stare. “Is this a technique problem or a confidence one?”

Where does she get off?

What the hell is her problem?

I wish I could step away from this fucking podium and close the distance between us. Wish I could walk straight into her space until the room vanishes around us and give her a piece of my mind.

But that would be wildly unprofessional and Coach would have my ass.

Not to mention I would come across to the viewing public like the sexist goalie on the team. I can see those headlines now.

With the cameras still rolling, all I can see isher.

Hercalculating eyes.

Her lipstick like warpaint.

The way she didn’t emote with my pause.

“Are you trying to make this personal, Rivers?”

She doesn’t move. Just arches an eyebrow. “Not at all, but you do make it so easy.”

I should be pissed. I should walk away from her audacity, but there’s something in the way she talks back to me—not with contempt, but challenge.

It does something to me.

“You could’ve asked about the glove save in the second,” I murmur, letting the hint of a smirk tug at his mouth. “You know. The cool highlight reel stuff.”

She tilts her head slightly. “That’s not my job. I’m not here to stroke your ego, Mr. Cunningham.”

“No.” My eyes flick down to her lips before I catch myself. “But you sure know how to get under my skin.”

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