Bleacher Report (2) (The Rookie Hawkeyes Series)

The studio lights feel hotter this time, but the tension that hung thick in the air during our first interview is gone. As I settle into the chair across from Peyton, I can feel the difference—a sense of ease, a shared understanding that we’re both here to do a job.

Peyton flashes me a warm smile as she adjusts her headphones. ‘Welcome back, Hunter. Thanks for being here again.’

‘Thanks for having me,’ I reply, my voice steady. No more defensive walls, no more snapping at her questions. This time, I’m ready.

The questions flow more naturally, her voice steady but warm, like she’s not just interviewing me—she’s trying to understand me.

She starts off with softballs.

“How do you feel like this season is shaping up?”

“What’s the weirdest pre-game tradition you’ve seen from a teammate in the years you’ve played?”

I’ll give it to her, she did a good job warming me up before she gets into the deeper questions.

“When’s the moment you realized hockey wasn’t just a sport for you? That this was something you really wanted to do. That it was the NHL or bust?”

“Honestly, I can’t remember when the moment clicked for me. As cliché as it sounds, it feels more like hockey chose me,” I tell her, thinking as far back as when my mom started me in a hockey league when I was four. “When I first started in the league as a kid, I was just happy to get out and screw around with some other kids my age. I took to ice skating instantly—turned out I had really good balance, so after a few weeks of practice, the ice wasn’t a factor like it was for some kids.”

“A little skating protégé…”

I chuckle. “Yeah, something like that. But then, my second year on the team, we got a new coach—Coach Murphy,” I tell her. I can still remember the lime green windbreaker he wore to practice every day and the handlebar mustache that I always thought was funny.

“And Coach Murphy turned you into a superstar?” she asks.

“No. In fact, he was just an assistant coach—one of my teammates’ dads who volunteered to help out to keep the league open—his coaching technique wasn’t anything special, and his understanding of the game was basic, at best.”

“So what did he do that was so special to have this kind of impact on you as a five-year-old kid who didn’t care all that much for hockey?” she asks.

She shifted in her chair and adjusted her mic in front of her.

“There’s this little tradition, I guess you could call it, that happens before practice starts. All the kids on the team would line up on this bench and their dads would lace up their skates,” I tell her. “Growing up without a dad, I couldn’t help but feel left out. I tried not to let my mom see it. I never wanted her to think she wasn’t enough or that I was ungrateful to her, so I’d always ask her to lace me up well before practice so that I wouldn’t have to feel that void. And then the first week into the new season, my mom had to use the restroom—or take a call—or something, and I wasn’t laced up. Coach Murphy didn’t even say a single word when he walked up to me, standing away from the other boys whose dads were lacing them on the bench. He knelt down and laced up my skates for me. It was the first time that I realized not having a dad doesn’t make me incomplete. That there was someone else to make me feel included. He must have noticed how much it meant to me because he started lacing up my skates for the entire season.”

“And that’s what made you want to play hockey for the rest of your life.”

“No…not exactly. It made me want to play my heart and soul out on the ice for Coach Murphy. I think I wanted him to notice me…or maybe I wanted him to be proud of me. Whatever it started out as, it turned into me outperforming all my teammates. I was a standout, and a coach from a town over with a better hockey program begged my mom to give him a year with me on his team to see what I was capable of. My mom sacrificed a lot to make sure that I got across town to the other team for several years, and it paid off because I kept excelling. It turned out I was good at hockey, but not because I started out loving the sport.”

“It was because of the simple act of kindness that changed your entire trajectory in life,” she says. And she’s right, though I never thought about it like that before now.

“Yeah, pretty much. It’s crazy though. I’ve never told anyone that story before, until right now.”

Peyton smiles over at me, and I smile back.

“Have you seen Coach Murphy since that fateful year of Little League hockey?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head, wondering where he is now and if he even knows what he did for me. I bet he doesn’t.

“Well, in case he’s listening…would you like to say anything to him?” she asks.

Fuck, yeah… There’s a lot I’d like to say, but I’ll keep it simple.

I lean a little closer toward the desk and stare at the mic in front of me. Suddenly, I’m no longer speaking to her, but hoping that Coach Murphy is a listener of her show, or at least someone who knows him might hear this and tell him what I said.

“I’d just like to say, Coach Murphy…if you’re listening…thank you for doing something as seemingly insignificant as tying the skates for a kid you barely knew, on a Wednesday night, in a cold-ass rink in New Jersey. You couldn’t have anticipated the impact it left…but you saved my life.”

I look up and Peyton’s eyes are welling with tears.

She takes a deep inhale and looks away from me, using the sleeve of her oversized sweater to wipe her eyes quickly, like she doesn’t want me to see it.

“That was a beautiful story, and my listeners are amazing. I guarantee someone is going to know Coach Murphy, and that message is going to get to him.”

There’s a softness in her expression that makes me want to keep talking, to show her all the ways that I’m different from who she thinks I am, but there’s a mic recording in front of me, and a strong sense of self-preservation holding me back.

It’s just her and me in a recording studio. She’s recording all of this for her podcast.

‘Speaking of people who make an impression on athletes in their earlier years. What kind of advice would you give to young players trying to make it in the NHL?’ she asks, her tone genuine.

I pause, considering the question carefully. ‘Stay dedicated. Don’t let setbacks define you. Everyone faces challenges but it’s how you push through them that matters.’ My eyes meet hers, and I hope she can see the sincerity there. ‘And surround yourself with the right people. That makes all the difference.’

Peyton nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. ‘That’s great advice. I wish I’d had someone like you to look up to when I was younger.’

‘Right, you were a young athlete too,” I say, though it feels like I’m spinning the hot seat around and putting her in it.

‘Yeah,’ she says, her voice quieter now. ‘A lot of my listeners already know, but for those of you who don’t,” she says, addressing the listeners who will hear this after she tweaks and posts it. “I was a competitive tennis player. Had dreams of going pro—Wimbledon, the whole deal. But then I suffered a career-ending injury and everything changed.’

The air shifts, and I feel a pang of understanding. Injury. The crushing weight of shattered dreams. I know that feeling all too well.

‘That must have been tough,’ I murmur, and I can see the flicker of pain in her eyes.

‘It was,’ she admits. ‘But I found my way back somehow. Podcasting became my new outlet. I get to share stories and connect with athletes. It’s not the same, but it’s fulfilling.’

I nod, a surge of admiration rising in my chest. ‘I get that. You’ve got a good thing going here. It’s not about the trophies, it’s about the passion.’

‘Exactly,’ she says, the tension easing from her shoulders. ‘And I still get to be a part of the sports world, even if it’s from a different angle.’

‘Right. And who knows—maybe you’ll be the one to break the next big story.’ I can’t resist a teasing grin. ‘Or maybe you’ll just end up writing about how your roommate is the hottest player in the league.’

Peyton rolls her eyes, but I catch the smile she’s trying to hide. ‘Please, the last thing I need is another headline about you and me.’

‘Why not?’ I tease, leaning in. ‘We’ll give them something to talk about.’

The tension shifts again, but this time, it feels lighter—almost playful. Peyton shakes her head, a spark of amusement in her eyes.

‘Let’s focus on you. The listeners want to hear about you.’

‘I’m an open book. What would you like to know?’ I tease, settling back into my chair as we continue the interview.

By the time we wrap up, I feel a sense of satisfaction. She skated around some of the bigger questions she wanted to ask. I have a feeling that in the next interview, she’s going to dive deeper. But at least this time I didn’t storm out.

Progress.

Half the team’s already gathered around our usual table by the time Peyton and I step into Oakley’s. The familiar din of laughter, the clinking of pint glasses, and the thrum of classic rock vibrating from the old jukebox settles something in me. Warm lighting glows overhead, and the scent of beer and fried food wraps around us like a worn-in hoodie.

Cammy spots us immediately and makes a beeline, looping her arm through Peyton’s. “I’m borrowing her from you,” she says with a grin.

The look on my face must give me away, because Cammy smirks and adds, “I’ll give her back. Promise.”

Reluctantly, I let go of Peyton’s hand.

Trey catches sight of me from across the room and raises his beer. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

I grin. “Yeah, yeah. Where’s the rest of the crew?” I ask, glancing around the bar.

“Easton and Ziegler are at the pool table, Bozeman’s in the bathroom, and Dumont’s getting a round at the bar,” Trey replies. “Mäk’s over there trying to convince Kendall to let him cook her some kind of Finnish sautéed reindeer dish or whatever. Let’s just hope she doesn’t have a soft spot for Rudolph or any of his furry friends.”

“Where’s Popovich?” I ask, knowing that Luka doesn’t usually miss a night out with the team.

“He had a beer and then left with some chick he met at the bar.”

I chuckle, not surprised that Luka left with a puck bunny. That’s about on-brand for him, and it used to be for me, too, on occasion. Until Peyton showed up at the charity event. The last four weeks have been different.

I scan the room until I spot her again—this time deep in conversation with Cammy and Isla. She looks relaxed, at ease. So different from that first night in this very bar.

Trey nudges me with his elbow. “So…heard anything from your agent? Bethany still trying to trade you like a deck of baseball cards?”

I shake my head. “Not a word. I’m taking that as a good sign. Hopefully, this whole fake relationship thing with Peyton is wearing her down.”

I’m mid-conversation when Trey goes quiet. Not silent—just…still. And that’s when I feel it too.

A shift in the air.

I turn.

Bethany.

Striding through the front doors like she’s walking onto a red carpet—flawless posture, red lips, high-end perfume that hits before she’s even within reach.

My stomach knots.

Across the bar, Peyton catches my eye. She’s already seen her. Her spine stiffens as she sets her drink down and heads toward me with measured steps, her eyes locked on mine.

Bethany gets to me first. “Hunter. Good—I’m glad you’re here. I need to talk to you. Later.”

“Anything you want to say, you can say right here. Hart doesn’t care,” I say, glancing at Trey. “Do you, Hart?”

“Nope,” he says, arms crossed over his chest, watching like he’s front row at a prize fight.

Bethany lifts her chin. “It’s important we discuss this privately—”

She doesn’t finish.

Because that’s when Peyton arrives.

She steps right into my space without hesitation, the curve of her hip brushing against my leg as she turns slightly toward me. Then, before I can blink, she’s sliding onto my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like she belongs there.

Her hand drapes over my shoulder, her sweet scent invading every one of my senses.

“What are our plans for bye week?” she asks, her voice low, meant for me but pitched just loud enough for Bethany to hear. “Cammy thinks we should head to Mexico with her and JP. I just bought a tiny bikini that barely covers anything…though I’m sure I wouldn’t be wearing it for long.” She bites her lip, a wicked shimmer in her eyes.

“Fuck me,” I mumble in a groan.

I blow out a breath, my cock already stirring at the image she’s painting. I don’t care how much sand we end up with in places it shouldn’t be—fucking Peyton on a beach just shot to the top of my fantasy list.

“You, me, and no bikini?” I ask, locking eyes with her.

She nods. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

This thing we agreed to? It’s supposed to end before bye week. Two months—that’s all we gave it. If I’d known how easy it is being with her, I would’ve fought for more time.

Bethany clears her throat sharply. “Hunter.”

But I don’t take my eyes off Peyton, perched perfectly in my lap.

There’s a mischievous glint in her eye as she shifts, angling herself so that Bethany has a perfect view of the back of her jersey—my name and number stretched across her body.

“Warning, Reed,” she murmurs under her breath.

Then she leans in and kisses me.

Her hands land on my chest, mouth pressing to mine. It starts slow—just enough to make my heart hammer—but then her fingers slip behind my neck, pulling me closer. Her lips part. My tongue finds hers.

And suddenly, it’s not about Bethany. Not about fake dating. It’s just Peyton and me.

The kiss deepens—hotter, hungrier than we’ve ever let it get before outside of that night she crawled over the pillow wall naked, dreaming of me.

When we finally break apart, I’m breathless. So is she.

“I’ll tell Cammy we’re in for bye week,” she says, and slides off my lap, her warm body leaving a trail of fire in its wake. My hands skim down her thighs on instinct, not ready to let her go just yet.

“Oh—Bethany,” Peyton adds sweetly. “Didn’t see you there. I’ll let you two talk.”

She gives Trey a nod. “Hi, Hart.”

Trey smirks, a rare sound of amusement slipping past his lips. He knows exactly what just happened.

Peyton saunters off, hips swaying with just a touch more intention. I don’t know if she’s proud of herself, or if she just wants my eyes on her ass.

Either way, she wins. My eyes are always on her ass.

Bethany clears her throat again.

“Do you need someone to take care of that for you?” Bethany asks, her voice dripping fake sweetness. I find her blatantly staring at the outline of my hard cock through my jeans. “The bathroom’s right over there. I know someone who’d be more than happy to relieve you.”

To Hart’s credit, he doesn’t even blink. Just leans back in his chair like he’s watching a show he’s already seen a hundred times.

Bethany’s tactics aren’t surprising.

Pathetic, sure. But not surprising.

This is what usually works for her, and I get why she’s been successful up until now. The problem is, I’ve already been burned bad enough to know that it’s all about her ego, and has nothing to do with her wanting me.

I shift lazily in my seat, stretching my arm over the back of the chair like I’ve got all the time in the world.

“That won’t be necessary,” I say, letting a slow grin pull at my mouth. “My girlfriend gets worked up after watching me win on the ice. She already has plans to put me to good use tonight. I’ll get more relief than I know what to do with.”

It’s a lie. Peyton isn’t likely going to let me anywhere close enough to make that happen, but Bethany doesn’t need to know that.

Bethany’s face turns dark, her perfectly placed expression cracking through her not getting her way. “Fine. Then can we talk? Privately,” she huffs out.

“I have nothing to say to you. You’re not going to trade me that easily.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s a family matter.”

Shit.

A family matter can only mean one thing. My stomach dips at the thought that this has to do with my mom.

I sigh and rise from my stool. “After you.”

We step outside into the cold night. The street’s quiet, only the distant sound of cars passing on the main drag. The neon glow of Oakley’s sign flickers above us.

A few steps out, she spins to face me, heels clicking sharply.

“Are you in love with her?” she demands.

“That’s none of your business. And it’s not a family matter, either, because we’re not family,” I snap. “Besides, what the hell do you care about love?”

“I’m not the monster you think I am,” she says, her voice suddenly too soft. “You were never around after you got drafted. I was lonely. You had women chasing you everywhere you went, throwing themselves at you. What was I supposed to do—wait around until you cheated?”

“Good to know you had such high expectations of me,” I mutter. “So your plan was to cheat first? Secure a billionaire while I was trying to build us a life? Trying to give you everything you never had growing up? Like financial security and a man who didn’t hurt you like your mom’s ex-boyfriends?”

She shrugs like that’s fair logic. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Forget it,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s not why I came.”

“Then spit it out, Bethany. You’re keeping me from my team…and my girlfriend.”

A patron from the tattoo parlor walks by us and then heads into Oakley’s. It’s a freezing December night, though at least there’s a break in the rain.

“Have you talked to your mother recently?”

“Yeah. A couple days ago.”

“And what did she say? About the doctors? The tests?”

“She said the doctors aren’t concerned. That we’re waiting on results.”

Bethany’s eyes flare. “It’s been months, Hunter. You seriously believe they’re still waiting?”

I hesitate.

“What are you saying?” I ask.

“I have my sources,” she says. “And I know she’s not being honest with you. She’s not even being honest with me—and she tells me everything.”

The chill of her words sinks in.noveldrama

“What do you want me to do?”

“Come home. Move back to Jersey. Be closer to her. If not for us…then at least for her. One day, you’ll see this was always meant to happen. Peyton and Seattle aren’t your home. We are.”

She brushes her hand down my arm.

The door swings open behind me.

Peyton.

She takes one look—Bethany’s touch, my clenched jaw—and walks straight over.

I pull my arm away.

“My mother isn’t your concern anymore, Bethany. And neither am I.”

I reach for Peyton. She takes my hand without hesitation, her cold gaze locked on Bethany.

“You ready to go home?” I ask, tugging her gently to my side.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m ready for our big, comfy bed.”

She walks past Bethany without looking back, calm and cool.

“Goodnight, Bethany,” I say. “Thanks for your concern. But I can handle it—from Seattle.”

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

The truth is…I’m not so sure.

And I’d be lying if I said the concern in Bethany’s eyes didn’t rattle me a little.

She could be faking it. Hell, manipulation is her specialty.

But she’s tugging on a thread I’ve already been ignoring.

And if there’s one thing I know about Bethany…she does care about my mom.

Probably more than she cares about anyone else on this planet—

Besides herself, of course.