Bleacher Report (2) (The Rookie Hawkeyes Series)

The buzzing of my alarm cuts through the quiet, vibrating obnoxiously against my nightstand. I groan, cracking one eye open and glaring at the ceiling like it personally offended me.

Six a.m.

Why in the world did I agree to hot yoga this morning?

I roll over, grabbing my phone, half-ready to text Abby and bail. But my thumb hovers over the keyboard without typing. Because right below my alarm notification is the last message I got last night.

My stomach flips—annoyingly, frustratingly flips—and I hate how much I’ve reread that stupid text.

I stare at it for a few seconds longer than I should, then toss the phone onto the bed like it’s on fire.

God, I need to get a grip.

Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffle toward the bathroom. Maybe sweating out all the confusing feelings tangled up in my chest is exactly what I need. If nothing else, Abby will drag me mercilessly if I cancel on her again. She’s already convinced I’m letting this fake relationship spiral out of control.

By the time I tie my hair up in a messy bun and pull on leggings, I’ve almost talked myself out of overthinking Hunter Reed and his stupid, sweet, flirty texts from last night.

Almost.

“Bye Sprouty,” I call out to Sproutacus as I head for the front door. “Going to yoga, be back in a bit.”

Have I actually lost my mind? I’m talking to a plant like Hunter told me to. Some things are just getting weirder around here, but it seems even weirder not to say anything to the little terracotta Frenchie staring at me from the windowsill, tiny green sprouts just now starting to show.

When I step outside, the cool morning air hits me like a slap. The kind of slap that says: Get your shit together, Peyton.

By the time I back out of the driveway, my phone buzzes again.

I shake my head, letting the smallest smile tug at the corner of my mouth.

Fine. Yoga, sister time, and maybe a reminder that real life exists outside of hockey players, fake dating disasters, and the looming podcast deal that is hanging in the balance.

I can survive one hour without checking my phone to see if Hunter’s texted again.

Maybe.

Twenty minutes later, I pull into the studio parking lot. Abby’s already posted up on the curb like a judgmental gargoyle with my favorite drink—balancing two iced teas in one hand and her yoga mat slung over her shoulder like a weapon of mass destruction.

“You’re late,” she calls before I’ve even shut the car door.

“I’m literally two minutes early,” I argue, grabbing one of the teas she holds out.

“Which is five minutes late in my world. Also, you look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She falls in step beside me as we walk toward the studio.

“I blame the bed,” I mutter. “It’s too comfortable. I didn’t want to get up.”

Abby stops short. “Wait—what bed? You said you were broke.”

“Oh, I am. It’s not my bed. Hunter bought it. Had it delivered yesterday while he was out of town.”

She turns to stare at me like I just told her I eloped with Jason Momoa.

“He bought you a bed?”

I nod.

“A whole bed? Like…with a frame and everything?”

“Yes.”

Abby scoffs. “Your king-sized fake boyfriend bought you a plow platform?”

I blink. “A what?”

“You know…a sheet shaker, a boom-boom base, a horizontal hustle zone.”

I reach over and gently pluck the iced tea from her hand. “I don’t think you need any more of this. You’re wired enough.”

She throws her arms up. “Meanwhile, your brother hasn’t given me more than a crick in my neck and a caffeine addiction.”

I snort. “The bed’s really nice, too.”

She smirks over at me. “Oh, I bet it is. Of course it is. Because men like Hunter Reed only come in two modes—emotionally unavailable or accidentally perfect. And you’re telling me this man bought you a bed and still hasn’t screwed you in it?”

“Abby!”

“I’m just saying,” she says as we push through the studio doors, “this man is one pillow talk away from domestic bliss, and you’re still calling this fake?”

I roll my eyes, but the little flutter in my stomach doesn’t lie.

Because the bed? The text? The scavenger hunt yesterday?

None of it feels fake.

Abby’s eyes go wide. “Oh, I see that look. You’re in trouble.”

“I am not,” I insist, adjusting my mat under my arm as we walk inside. “It’s fake, remember?”

She gives me a knowing look. “You keep saying that, but the way you’re blushing right now? Fake isn’t the word I’d use.”

I don’t respond because what am I supposed to say? That every time Hunter texts me, it feels less fake and more like the start of something I can’t afford to want?

We check in at the front desk, and as we walk toward the back corner of the studio, Abby lowers her voice.

“Look, I’m not saying you’re in love with him—”

“Good. Because I’m definitely not,” I interrupt.

She ignores me. “I’m just saying…maybe you should figure out what’s real and what’s not before you wake up one morning and it’s too late.”

The instructor dims the lights and the class begins, but her words stick like a pebble in my shoe.

Because the truth is, I’m starting to lose track of what’s fake and what’s not too.

We take our spots at the back of the class because we don’t come enough and we’re sure to make asses out of ourselves… plus we’re loud, and we get glares from the serious yogis upfront if we get too close.

It’s fine. I like our corner in the back anyway.

“Did I tell you about Sproutacus?” I ask.

“Who the hell is Sproutacus?” she asks, her nose scrunched up.

She’s not a fan of the name, and I wasn’t either. But it’s growing on me. No pun intended.

I pull up my phone and show her a picture of Sprouty on the windowsill. His cute little Chia Pet face. I’m sure he’ll look cuter once he’s filled in.

“He got you a Chia Pet? Are you joking?”

“He said we’re plant parents now.”

Abby narrows her eyes at me and then turns back to the picture.

“What does that sticky note say on the faucet? Heating pad and pad thai? What the hell are you two doing over there?”

Oh, yeah, I forgot about that. “He hid my mug that you got me for hitting twenty-five thousand subscribers and set up sticky notes for a scavenger hunt.” I smile and then glance back up at her.

“You are as blind as a bat when it comes to what this boy is doing to you,” she says as our instructor walks in.

“He’s not doing anything,” I lie, mirroring Abby as we both kneel on the mats and wait for instructions.

“He’s love bombing you. But not with malicious intent to pull the rug out from under you. I don’t think he realizes what he’s doing either. This kid is crazy about you. He just doesn’t know it”–she lets out a dramatic sigh– “typical man.”

“You’re wrong. He’s not looking for anything. And definitely not with me.”

“I wish I would’ve recorded you saying that. Then I could have replayed it five years from now when you’re pregnant with triplets, living in your giant custom house with your ridiculously gorgeous hockey husband, surrounded by king-size beds, Chia Pets, and shiny little hockey trophies.”

I glare over at her. “You’re delusional.’

She just grins, utterly unfazed. “You’ll thank me later.”

I open my mouth to argue—but the yoga instructor calls for us to get settled, saving me from whatever nonsense Abby had locked and loaded next.

When we finish class, I’m drenched in sweat, my body deliciously sore in that satisfying post-yoga way that tricks you into thinking you’ve just solved all your life’s problems by holding warrior pose for two minutes.

I always tell myself I’ll start coming more.

Spoiler alert: I never do.

I wipe my forehead with a towel and glance over at her, still breathless.

Those forty-five minutes were the first time in weeks I wasn’t sweating over the network deal—I was too busy trying not to die.

“Okay, you were right. I needed that.”

She nods, still catching her own breath. “Told you.”

As we’re rolling up our mats, my phone buzzes in the pocket of my jacket. I pull it out to see a text from Cammy.

A second text comes through almost immediately after.

I can’t deny that I’d like to go, and since all of the girls already know that Hunter and I aren’t really together, it’s not like I have to lie to everyone. I’m also really curious about where Cammy and JP have been the last few days since both of them were absent for the Open Skate event.

Abby peeks over my shoulder. “What’s that?”

I show her the texts, and she grins. “Oh, you’re so going.”

I chew on my bottom lip, hesitating. “Do you think I should?”

“Peyton,” she says, slinging her yoga mat over her shoulder. “This could be great for the podcast. Ask people questions about Hunter. Get the inside track on some things that might help you understand him better. The girls have all the tea and you know it.”

She’s right. And part of me wants to go—wants to sit in a room full of women who understand what this world is like, even if I’m only faking my way through it.

I text Cammy back.

By the time I pull up to Penelope’s house, it’s dark out, but the place is already buzzing. Cars line the curb, porch lights glowing on a beautiful home in a gated community where I’ve heard many of the retired Hawkeyes players live. When I step up to the front door, I can hear the sound of laughter filtering through the windows.

Cammy opens the door before I even knock. “There she is! Seattle’s newest WAG.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, it’s too late. You’ve officially been inducted,” she teases, stepping aside so I can come in.

The living room is already filling up with familiar faces. Penelope’s seated on the massive sectional, a glass of wine in her hand, while Kendall and Isla are huddled over a charcuterie board, laughing about something. I even spot a few of the other players’ wives and girlfriends, some of whom I recognize from press photos.

When Penelope sees me, she waves me over. “Peyton! We were wondering if you’d show.”

I glance at Cammy. “Like I could’ve said no.”

Penelope grins and reaches for another wine glass. “Good. Because tonight is basically a rite of passage. No better way to learn how this crazy club works than by watching the game surrounded by the women who survive it.”

Cammy nudges me. “Come sit. The game is about to start and everyone’s taking bets.”

As I settle onto the couch, wine glass in hand, bets between girls start flying about who ends up racking up the most time in the sin bin. Penelope’s big-screen TV flickers to life, showing the Hawkeyes warming up on the ice. Hunter’s name flashes across the screen as the commentators talk about his defensive game.

And just like that, my stomach flips.

I’m not sure how I ended up here, in a room full of girlfriends and wives who actually belong in this world.

And I definitely don’t know how to convince myself that this isn’t starting to feel real.

The first period is crazy—the game is stacked, no one scores before the break, and Wolf has already been sent to the penalty box with twice as much time as any other player—not a surprise there.

Penelope hits mute as the commercials come, the girls all getting up for refills and snacks. Then Penelope turns to me.

“So,” she starts, voice sly, “how’s fake dating Hunter going?”

I can feel all the girls turn to face us from wherever they are in the room.

I clear my throat, playing it casual. “It’s going well. Just your run-of-the-mill fake relationship.”

Cammy snorts. “Oh, please. The way he looks at you? That man is not pretending.”

Kendall leans forward, smirking. “Did you see the way he shut down those interview questions last night? He basically said, I’m taken, and dared anyone to argue.”

Penelope lifts her wine glass. “It’s the first time I’ve seen him act like that about a woman, honestly.”

I shake my head, trying to fight off the flush creeping up my neck. “It’s just PR. We both know the deal.”noveldrama

Cammy nudges my knee with hers. “Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”

Before I can argue, the commercial break ends, and everyone heads back to the couch. Penelope unmutes the TV and then everyone’s eyes are back on the game. The Hawkeyes score, and the room erupts in cheers.

The conversation shifts, but the weight of their knowing looks lingers. Because if I’m honest with myself—really honest—every little thing Hunter’s been doing lately doesn’t feel like just PR.

And I’m not sure what to do with that.

After the game, we’re all lingering in Penelope’s kitchen, finishing off dessert and the last of the wine. The energy is lighter now—the Hawkeyes won, and the girls are relaxed, chatting easily like they’ve known each other forever.

I lean against the counter next to Cammy while she scrolls through her phone, grinning at something.

She catches me looking and nudges me with her elbow. “By the way, JP and I are officially dating.”

I blink at her, surprised. “Really?”

She nods, cheeks flushing a little. “Yeah. We’ve been seeing each other quietly for a while, but we decided to stop hiding it.”

“That’s amazing, Cam. I’m really happy for you.”

“Thanks.” She shoots me a look. “And not that I’m meddling, but…you and Hunter. Don’t rule it out.”

“We’re too different. I don’t do casual, and he doesn’t want a serious relationship. Even if both of us were interested. We don’t want the same things.”

Cammy gives me a knowing smile. “Sometimes the best things start out that way.”

Before I can reply, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to find a new text from Hunter.

My heart does an entirely stupid flip in my chest.

I type back quickly before anyone can notice my smile.

By the time I finally slip away from Penelope’s house, it’s almost midnight. I slide into the driver’s seat of my SUV, the quiet of the night wrapping around me like a blanket after the lively chaos of the watch party.

My phone buzzes again just as I’m pulling out of Penelope’s driveway.

I roll my eyes but bite back a smile.

I wonder if I should tell him what title they gave me, but if it weirds him out, I suppose I should know now before it goes too far.

The breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh, heat crawling up my neck.

I lock my phone and focus on the road, refusing to let the tiny thrill that his words give me take root.

This isn’t real.

It’s not.

And no title from the wives and girlfriends of the players can change that.

I pull into my driveway, the street quiet and the houses dark except for a few porch lights left on. I kill the engine, slumping back in my seat for a second longer than I need to.

My phone’s still in my hand, thumb hovering.

I scroll back up to that photo—Hunter, shirtless in the locker room, grin pure mischief, hockey pants low on his hips, looking like sin and sweat and a very bad idea. I should delete it. For my sanity. But I don’t.

Instead, I shake my head and climb out of the car.

The house is dark when I step inside. I lock the door behind me, hang up my jacket, and tiptoe over to the windowsill. “Night, Sprouty,” I whisper, checking on our plant baby like a lunatic. His little green leaves are perky. Thriving. Must be nice.

I head straight for my bathroom, still sore from yoga. My muscles are tight, achy in that post-stretch kind of way that screams for a bath. So, I run one—hot and steaming, with bubbles piled high and my lavender soak dumped in with zero restraint.

By the time I step out, my skin’s flushed and soft, and my brain is just gooey enough to feel like maybe everything in my life is just a little less of a disaster.

I wrap myself in a plush towel and pad into the bedroom. The new mattress Hunter bought cradles me as I sit on the edge of the bed, the sheets cool beneath me.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I reach for it, heart fluttering as Hunter’s name lights up the screen.

A laugh escapes me, and I quickly type back.

I glance at the pillow barrier beside me, a makeshift divide that’s become more symbolic than functional. In a matter of hours, Hunter will be back on the other side of that bed. I just hope this pillow wall is a little stronger than the last.

His reply comes almost immediately.

I scroll back up to the photo—the shirtless locker room selfie, his smirk as cocky as ever. I should delete it, erase the temptation, but instead, I find myself staring, heat pooling low in my belly.

The ache is familiar now, a constant companion since Hunter moved in. I haven’t used my vibrator in over a week, not since the tension between us started simmering just beneath the surface. Tonight, it’s unbearable.

But before I can make up my mind, sleep creeps in like a thief.

And the next time I blink, the world is soft and dim and far away—and I’m still in my towel.

And still, very much, alone.