Bleacher Report (2) (The Rookie Hawkeyes Series)

I fiddle with the hem of my sweater, my nerves buzzing like I’m about to walk into a final exam unprepared. It’s ridiculous. I’ve survived press scrums and radio interviews and a million awkward first dates. But nothing quite compares to the stomach-knotting anxiety of driving to my mom’s house with Hunter Reed behind the wheel.

He’s casual about it, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other flipping through radio stations like he owns the airwaves. We’ve been driving for almost twenty minutes, and the silence has been…comfortable, mostly. Until he pauses on a classic rock station, and I immediately reach over and change it to an indie folk channel.

Hunter glances at me sideways, smirking. “Seriously? What is this? Sleepy banjo music?”

I grin and prepare for the war about to rage over the radio. “Excuse me, but I am the passenger princess. That means I control the music.”

He huffs a laugh, checking over his shoulder before switching lanes smoothly. “Passenger what?”

“Passenger princess,” I repeat, teasing him like he’s dense. “My dad used to call me that on long drives to tennis tournaments. I got to pick the music, the temperature, the snack stops—full control. He said it was only fair since I was the one doing all the winning.”

His smirk softens, and he shoots me a quick glance before focusing back on the road. “You two were close.”

I swallow around the lump that always forms when I talk about him. “Yeah. Some days it’s really hard to accept that he’s gone. I keep thinking he’s going to call any second to ask me what he should get mom for their anniversary, but then my phone never rings.”

The smile fades from Hunter’s face, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. “He sounds like a good dad.”

“He was,” I murmur, turning my gaze out the window. “I miss him every day. Especially when something exciting happens and I want to call him…or around the holidays.”

Silence settles over us again, heavier this time. I glance at him, trying to shake it off. “Do you ever wish you would have grown up with a dad?”

His thumb taps against the steering wheel three times, then stops. “Sure. But my mom did her best.”

The answer is short, clipped. His entire posture shifts—shoulders rigid, jaw clenched. It’s clear that’s all I’m getting, so I let it go.

I reach for the climate control dial and crank it up a degree, flashing him a playful smile. “So, you’re not going to bite my hand off if I turn it to seventy-two?”

That earns me a real smile, the corner of his mouth twitching like he can’t help himself. “Nah. You’re my passenger princess now.” A stupid little flutter takes up residence in my chest at the way he says it—like it’s a title he’s happy to give me. I shove the feeling down before it can root itself too deep. “Just don’t make me sweat through this button-up before I meet your mom for the first time. First impressions are important, and I have no idea what you told her about our first meeting. I might have some damage control to do.”

“She’s already in love with you. She and Jesse watch every televised game you’re on.”

Hunter just laughs and shakes his head. “Good to know.”

And for the first time since we left my place, the weight pressing on my chest lightens.

The second we step inside my mom’s house, it smells like cinnamon, roasted turkey, and the faint trace of the lemon cleaner she always uses when company’s coming over. It’s warm and chaotic—the way every holiday gathering has been since I was a kid.

Mom’s already at the door, wiping her hands on her apron as she grins at us. “There you are! I thought you two got lost.”

Before I can respond, Hunter holds out a hand. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Collins.”

My mom blinks at him like she wasn’t expecting manners from a six-foot-two, muscled hockey player, then shakes his hand warmly. “None of that Mrs. Collins business. Call me Shari.”

I glance over at Hunter, catching the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

A soft whirl cuts through the noise behind us, and I turn just in time to see Jesse rolling toward us, a wide grin on his face.

“Hunter Reed’s coming to Thanksgiving? No way! No one told me,” Jesse’s eyes light up like it’s Christmas morning.

Hunter’s entire face softens, and he crouches down so he’s eye-level with Jesse without hesitation. “You must be Jesse. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Jesse beams, immediately launching into a ramble about his favorite players and how he’s working on his wrist shot. Before I know it, Hunter’s asking about Jesse’s wheelchair modifications and if he’s ever tried adaptive sled hockey. He doesn’t even blink at the chair, like it’s just another part of Jesse’s gear.

By the time we make it to the living room, Jesse’s already out of the chair, sitting cross-legged on the floor while Hunter shows him how to properly hold a hockey stick using the old ones my mom keeps tucked in the hall closet from past Christmases.

It hits me then, like a sucker punch to the chest—how easy he makes this look. How quickly he slipped into my family like he’s always belonged here.

My mom stands beside me, her hands on her hips as she watches them. “He’s good with Jesse,” she says softly.

“Yeah,” I agree, folding my arms tight across my chest. “He really is.”

Too good.

Which is dangerous.

Because I know exactly how temporary this is.

After a bathroom break, I step back into the kitchen, and the sound of laughter hits me.

I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene.

Hunter’s at the counter with Jesse propped beside him in his chair, both of them peeling potatoes under my mom’s supervision. Mom’s laughing so hard she’s wiping tears from her eyes, and Jesse’s grin is huge, like he’s never heard anything funnier in his life.

“I swear to God, Shari,” Hunter is saying, “if I had a dollar for every time Aleksi Mäkelin’s skincare routine has held up team meetings, I wouldn’t need my player salary.”

“That man does not use night cream,” my mom giggles.

“He travels with an entire toiletry bag dedicated to moisturizers,” Hunter replies with a straight face. “And another one for serums. It’s a problem.”

Jesse snorts, nearly dropping a slippery peeled potato.

I lean against the doorframe, watching this ridiculously domestic scene unfold. Hunter’s sleeves are rolled up, there’s a streak of potato peel on his wrist, the ink of his tattoos just barely visible, and he looks so damn at home that it’s almost disorienting.

Mom catches sight of me hovering in the doorway. “Hey! You and Abby can set the table. I’ve got these two wrapped around my finger already.”

Abby breezes past me, nudging my shoulder as she passes. “Come on, lovebird. Let’s go.”

I roll my eyes but follow her anyway, casting one last glance back at the kitchen.

Hunter says something I can’t hear, but whatever it is makes Jesse laugh so hard he nearly tips backward in his chair.

That sound is the best thing I’ve heard in a long, long time.

Abby tosses a stack of napkins onto the dining table as I follow behind her, grabbing plates from the cabinet. The laughter still drifts from the kitchen, Hunter’s voice blending in like he’s been part of this family for years instead of hours.

Abby sets a fork down and glances at me. “So…how’s it going?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

She shrugs, arranging silverware like she’s not prying. “You know. Living with a hot hockey player. Sharing a bed. Fake dating him in front of the entire city.”

I blow out a breath, setting plates around the table. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” She snorts. “That man is currently peeling potatoes in Mom’s kitchen and making Jesse laugh so hard he’s about to fall out of his chair, and you’re telling me it’s fine?”

I glance back toward the kitchen, where the three of them are still talking, the rhythm easy and natural. Too natural.

Abby bumps her shoulder into mine, dropping her voice. “I’m just saying…if you don’t want him, I think Mom might finally be ready for a boyfriend.”

I roll my eyes and wad up one of the napkins, lobbing it at her head. “Stop.”

She laughs but sobers quickly when she catches my expression. “You know I’m kidding, right?”

“Yeah.” I press my lips together, smoothing out another napkin. “It’s just…he fits here better than I expected. But he’s temporary.”noveldrama

Abby doesn’t argue. She doesn’t have to.

We both know that’s the part that’s going to hurt.

Dinner is loud and warm, exactly like it always is at Mom’s house. It still doesn’t mask the fact that my dad isn’t here and that my brother Will is still overseas, but this Thanksgiving is turning out to be better than I anticipated it would be.

Abby is making snarky comments about the sweet potatoes being too sweet, Jesse keeps trying to sneak extra rolls when no one’s looking, and Mom is laughing at everything like she hasn’t had a reason to smile this big in years.

But when Mom finally taps her fork against her glass and says, “All right, before dessert—what’s everyone thankful for?” the whole room quiets.

Jesse starts first, grinning shyly as he says, “I’m thankful for my family. And that Dad gets to come home in a few months.”

Abby says she’s thankful for Jesse and Mom, and for strong coffee on her night shifts at the hospital.

When it’s Hunter’s turn, he clears his throat, eyes flicking over to me.

“I’m thankful,” he starts, voice deceptively casual, “for my passenger princess. Because apparently, I’ve been driving around my whole life without knowing the right temperature setting.”

There’s a beat of silence before the table bursts into laughter.

But me? I freeze.

Because I feel her eyes on me. Mom’s. Sharp, knowing.

She doesn’t say anything, but when I glance over, she’s wearing a small smile that says she heard every word and understood exactly what it meant.

Under the table, Hunter’s hand slips onto my thigh, his fingers giving it a playful squeeze like he’s in on the joke.

And even though I know it’s fake, my heart doesn’t seem to get the message.

It has me wondering about our second interview, and whether I’m willing to risk making Hunter upset for the ratings I need.

Oh God…am I falling for my fake boyfriend?

After dinner, we’re all full and sleepy, lounging around the living room while Jesse wheels himself in and out, bouncing between conversation and trying to snag extra dessert without anyone noticing.

Hunter’s been glued to Jesse’s side most of the night—not in a forced way, but like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Watching them makes something soft settle low in my chest, and I keep reminding myself this isn’t real.

Once I get my network deal and Bethany moves back to New Jersey, taking her trade deal with her, this all ends. Doesn’t it?

When we finally say our goodnights, Mom hugs me tight and whispers in my ear, “You’ve got a good one there.”

I don’t even bother correcting her. Not tonight.

Hunter crouches down next to Jesse’s chair. “Hey, buddy. Next time you want to come to a game, you let me know. I’ll have a set of tickets waiting for you at will-call.”

Jesse’s eyes light up, wide and round. “Like, forever?”

Hunter chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “Not forever,” I jump in quickly, knowing full well how Jesse latches onto things. “Hunter plays in different cities. We don’t know how long he’ll be—”

Hunter cuts me off gently, his gaze never leaving Jesse’s. “As long as I’m playing, and wherever I’m playing, you’ll have a home game ticket. Deal?”

Jesse beams like Hunter just handed him the Stanley Cup. “Deal.”

I glance over at Abby, and she’s giving me that look again. The one that says, this man is perfect.

Except he’s not.

He wouldn’t even be here tonight if we weren’t pretending.

“And if your aunt is nice to you,” Hunter adds with a wink, “maybe she can tag along too.”

I roll my eyes. “Cute.”

But my heart thumps anyway.

The drive home is quiet.

Not awkward quiet—just that kind of full, satisfied quiet you get after a long day surrounded by family and too much food.

Outside, the streets are nearly empty, the outskirts of Seattle still asleep in its post-holiday haze. Inside the truck, the heat hums low, the dashboard lights casting a soft glow across Hunter’s profile.

He hasn’t turned on the radio this time. Maybe he’s too full of turkey and pie. Maybe he’s lost in thought like I am.

I stare out the window, the cool glass pressed against my temple, replaying the night in my head—Jesse’s smile, Mom’s laugh, the way Hunter fit so easily into all of it.

It’s dangerous, how good he is at this. How natural it felt having him there. How easy it was to forget it was all fake.

His hand moves, resting casually on the center console, fingers tapping against the leather.

I glance over.

He catches me looking and flashes that damn crooked grin like he knows exactly what I’ve been thinking.

My stomach does a little flip.

‘Thanks for coming tonight,’ I say, breaking the silence.

Hunter keeps his eyes on the road but his voice softens. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it.’

That’s the problem.

He’s too convincing.

And I can’t afford to forget why he’s here.

By the time we get back to the townhouse, my limbs feel like lead, my stomach still too full from two helpings of pie, and my brain buzzing with everything I don’t want to think about—how easy it would be to want more of this.

Hunter carries the leftover container of pie into the kitchen while I shuffle down the hall, already tugging my hair tie loose.

When I come back out, he’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when he hears me and gives me a soft, tired smile.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

I cross to the bedroom and disappear into the bathroom to change, brushing my teeth and washing off my makeup like it’s any other night. Like I haven’t spent the whole day pretending he’s my boyfriend.

When I finally crawl into bed, the pillow wall is back, but it doesn’t feel like much of a barrier anymore.

Hunter flips the light off and slides under the covers, turning onto his side to face me.

“I’ll be gone tomorrow,” he says quietly, voice rough with exhaustion.

My stomach dips. “Your away game?”

He nods. “Yeah. We’re flying out after morning skate. Three games. Back late next week.”

“Okay,” I say, rolling onto my side to mirror him. “Good luck.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, softer, “Thanks, Collins.”

When I close my eyes, it’s the first time I notice how cold the other side of the pillow wall already feels.

This is fake. He’s temporary.

And I absolutely, definitely, should not want him.

The next morning, I wake up relieved to find myself on my own side of the bed. No drool. No sprawling. No photographic evidence of my unconscious crimes against the pillow wall. Progress.

But there’s something sitting on my bedside table.

A neon pink sticky note shaped like a French Bulldog.

Of course.

I sit up and peel it off the lamp.

P —

There’s a delivery coming to the townhouse at two p.m.

Also, I’ve hidden your favorite mug. If you follow the clues, you’ll find a reward.

Good luck.

Love, your boyfriend.

I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t pop out of my skull.

He hid my mug?

And signed it “your boyfriend?”

I can practically hear the smirk in his voice as if he were saying it out loud. Dripping with sarcasm. So proud of himself he probably flexed while writing it.

Still…a little something flutters in my stomach. Because he’s not even here—he left early this morning for the road trip—but this? This stupid little scavenger hunt?

It means he thought about me before leaving.

His words from the podcast flicker through my head: “I only prank people I like.”

I throw off my covers with a groan that’s equal parts annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Okay, Reed. Let’s see what kind of nonsense you left behind.”

My feet are barely on the hardwood before I’m heading straight for the kitchen, toward the drying rack by the sink. That’s where my mug lives.

That’s where I always leave it.

Of course, it’s gone.

But another Frenchie sticky note waits in its place, stuck to the faucet.

Cold mornings and your favorite peppermint tea.

You always start your day right here,

but I’m holding your mug hostage.

If you want it back, go check the place

where we turned a heating pad and Thai food into our first truce.

I blink.

The couch.

I jog back to the living room, already grinning.

Another note is under the throw blanket, wedged between the cushions with ruthless accuracy and curled at the edges.

You laughed, you snacked, and you definitely tried to hog the blanket.

But your mug’s not here.

Try the place where I keep things hot…and mildly spicy.

Bonus points if you find leftover noodles.

Oh my god.

The fridge?

I half-sprint back to the kitchen.

I yank open the fridge door. There’s a half-empty container of pad thai shoved in the back—and taped to it?

Another pink note.

Not just leftovers—this is where peace offerings live.

But your mug is still MIA. If you’re desperate,

check the place you go when things get really steamy…

like flat hair and melting mascara steamy.

“Seriously?”

He left a clue in the bathroom?

I tug the bathroom door open and find the note taped to the shampoo bottle like it’s been mocking me all morning.

Not here either. I’m not that cruel.

But you’re so close. You once said this place held all your secrets.

Better check the drawer where your secrets actually live.

Secrets.

My nightstand drawer?

He better not have touched my vibrator.

I pull open the drawer slowly, half-expecting glitter to explode in my face.

No glitter. Just a folded note on top of my usual stash of Advil and emergency chocolate.

Didn’t find what you were looking for? Sorry, sweetheart.

But I left your precious mug somewhere that means something—to you and

me—our first fight. Go where the stories live.

The studio.

I break into a jog down the hall.

There it is.

Sitting front and center on my desk like it owns the place. My white ceramic “Microphones & Mayhem” mug, flanked by my soundboard and the leftover scent of Hunter’s body wash and aftershave from this morning.

Taped to the mug, a note reads:

Turns out I do listen. Don’t get smug.

Your reward’s in the fridge.

And yes, it’s chocolate. Because I’m not a monster.

I’m laughing now, shaking my head as I head back to the fridge.

Inside, tucked behind the takeout, is a glossy red box of truffles.

Another note, this one slightly bent from the condensation.

Consider this your prize for surviving a Hunter Reed scavenger hunt.

Sproutacus says hi. Make sure to talk to him a little while I’m gone. He gets lonely up on the windowsill all alone.

See you soon.

—Your Charming Plant Baby-Daddy

I hold the box and the note in my hands for a second, something warm blooming under my ribs. Because yeah, this is fake. It’s all fake.

But for a minute? It doesn’t feel that way.

Not even a little.

At exactly two twenty-five p.m., there’s a knock at the door.

I pause mid-bite of truffle, still half-lounging on the couch in my pajama pants and fuzzy socks. The scavenger hunt had completely erased any memory of the delivery note.

When I open the door, two guys in branded polos are waiting on the porch with a clipboard and a moving truck behind them.

“We’re here to deliver the bed,” one says, friendly but professional. “Mr. Reed asked us to set it up and move the old one to your garage.”

“Deliver the…bed?” I blink. “What bed?”

He hands me the clipboard. And there it is.

Hunter Reed. King-size custom pillow top. The price tag makes my jaw drop.

The second guy’s already unlocking the truck.

“He bought me a bed?” I whisper to myself.

No.

He bought us a bed.

I blink again, scanning the absurd number. Who spends that much on a mattress?

“Uh, yeah—come in,” I say quickly, stepping back. “Let me strip the bedding first.”

The guy nods and heads to help unload while I half-jog back to the bedroom, still reeling.

I pull the comforter off in a daze.

He bought me—no, us—a bigger bed.

And not just any bed. A ridiculous, luxury, custom, king-size bed.

Hunter freaking Reed.

What am I supposed to do with that?