Bleacher Report (2) (The Rookie Hawkeyes Series)

My voice echoes back through the headphones as I record the closing credits to a podcast interview I did a couple of days ago, trying to sound confident, casual—like someone who definitely hasn’t just fake-bid on an NHL defenseman.

“…and don’t forget to hit subscribe if you liked this episode and want to stay up to date on our new series starting next week: a deep dive into the rise of undrafted players making waves in professional sports…”

I stop the recording, click pause on my editing software, and let out a breath. My townhouse is blissfully quiet except for the hum of my recording equipment and the occasional creak of my chair—a reminder that I need to oil it or buy a new one that doesn’t make noise during interviews. Although sometimes I think those little sounds bring character and authenticity to a podcast…as if there’s a real person on the other side. In this room—the room I dumped my savings into soundproofing—I can almost pretend last night didn’t happen.

Almost.

I lean back in my chair, tapping my pen against the armrest, already starting to consider my interview with a University of Washington gymnastics superstar who competed in the Olympics and brought back a team medal for Team USA two years ago. And then my mind shifts to where I’ve been avoiding—my three interviews with Hunter Reed.

If I can just keep my head down and focus on the work, maybe the whole ridiculous auction scene will fade into the background, and everyone will forget that Seattle’s entire social media feed is currently obsessed with me kissing the Hawkeyes’ new left defenseman.

Maybe.

My phone buzzes on the desk, but I ignore it. Probably another group chat meme or a spam text from the podcast hosting platform.

Another buzz. Then another.

I glance over, heart sinking when I see the name flashing on the screen: Abby.

As in Abby Collins—my noisy, overbearing, and incredibly supportive sister-in-law.

In fact, she’s more like a real sister than just my brother’s wife. It’s almost as if she’s been around for my entire twenty-six years of existence.

Then, a text message when I just barely miss her call.

Before I can even process that, the phone starts ringing again.

I swipe to answer. “Hey—”

“Peyton Elise Collins.” Abby’s voice slices through the line, all older-sister authority and no chill. “Why am I waking up to my entire group chat losing their minds over photos of you kissing Hunter freaking Reed at a charity auction?”

I blink at my computer screen like she’s speaking a different language. “Good morning to you too.”

“I don’t care about morning. I care about why my coworkers, my friends, and even Jesse’s Little League parent group chat are blowing up with GIFs of my sister-in-law locking lips with Seattle’s most infamous playboy.”

I try to play it off. “No one even uses social media anymore. It’ll die out over the weekend.”

“Fat chance. You didn’t think to maybe, I don’t know, warn me before it hit the internet last night? The minute I walked into the ER, I had three nurses and a doctor grilling me about how long you’ve been dating an NHL player and why they were the last to know. Jesse came home asking about it.”

My stomach sinks. “Wait—Jesse heard about it?”

“Of course he did. He’s got it saved as his tablet background.”

I groan and drop my head onto my desk. “This is not how this was supposed to go. We’re faking it… It’s not real.”

Abby softens, but only a little. “Okay, spill. What’s going on? Because that kiss did not look fake.”

I let out a breath, knowing I can’t keep this from her. “It’s fake, Abs. The whole thing. We made everyone believe we’re dating to keep his ex away from him, and in return, he’s helping me with my podcast syndication deal.”

“You’re lying. That kiss was toe-curling good. There’s no way that was fake.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. Once I got past the shock, I’ll admit—Hunter Reed is a damn good kisser, even when it’s staged.

“Sorry to ruin the fantasy, but yeah. Totally fake.”

“And the auction?”

“He paid for it. I was the bidder, but it was his money. He just didn’t want her to win.”

There’s a pause on her end, followed by a dramatic sigh. “This is incredibly disappointing, by the way. Here I was, living vicariously through you while Will’s still overseas, and you just kicked my hockey romance dreams to the curb. You should’ve lied to me.”

I know she’s teasing. She would have killed me if she knew that I waited two months to tell her that it was all fake. She’ll thank me later.

“I have good news, though,” I tell her.

“You know how I love good news, and you owe me after that big letdown.”

“Well, this one, you’re going to really love, because as part of our arrangement, Hunter is going to do Jesse’s career day.”

Abby squeals through my cell phone speaker. “Are you serious? Is he really going to do it? Because if this is fake too, I’ll kill you. I’ve worked as an ER nurse long enough to know how to make it look like an accident—trust me.”

“God…that was dark. But no, this one isn’t fake. He asked me what my terms were for fake dating and him moving in for two months and—”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on just a damn minute. Did you just say he’s moving in…with you? Like sleeping under the same roof in your one-bedroom apartment?”

“It’s two bedrooms actually,” I remind her.

“Yes, but the second bedroom you converted into a recording studio, which means you have to share a bedroom.”

Oh wait… I hadn’t thought about that. About sharing a bed. I just thought about not having to pay my mortgage for the next two months to help recoup my savings and I didn’t consider much else.

Not that he gave me a whole lot of time to think through the logistics before the auction started.

Everything happened so fast.

“I didn’t think about that. I’m sure he’ll be fine on the couch,” I say, shifting the phone to my other ear as I pace the kitchen.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Abby’s voice comes through, dry and skeptical. “Right. Because every hot guy wants to sleep on a couch while his fake girlfriend is tucked away in the next room.”

I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me. “It’s not like that. We can barely tolerate each other. He’s only staying here because his ex moved into his building and—”

“Oh my God,” she cuts in, practically squealing. “Hate sex. This has all the makings of top-tier hate sex. I knew it. You’re going to fuck this man silly. Finally. Now we’re getting somewhere good.”

“I’m hanging up now,” I mutter, but my face is already on fire.

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately. But I’m serious Abs…no one’s fucking anyone silly.”

“Oh, how cute. You’re in denial. Your brother always told me he thought that you were a little naïve and I always stood up for you, but now I’m seeing the light.”

I hear the sound of her repacking her lunch pail in the breakroom. “Shut up, I’m not in denial. It’s just that keeping things clean and straightforward is going to be the best for everyone.”

She snorts. “Clean and straightforward? With him? That man looks like the definition of a complication.”

Before I can fire back, the hospital intercom blares through the line—paging Nurse Collins.

“Ugh, looks like my reign of terror on your fantasy world of disassociation has to end early. I’m needed back on the floor,” Abby sighs. “Sorry to cut this short. I do want to unpack all these wild little delusions you’re clinging to about not falling for the smoke show about to move in under your roof.”

I hear the faint clatter of her locker and the thump of her shoes hitting the floor.

“But duty calls. My boss probably wants me to pick up a shift this weekend with the half-marathon madness. Time and a half, though, so—silver lining. Just remember, this conversation isn’t over. Not even close. If I take the Saturday shift, can you take Jesse to his Little League game?”

“Of course. I’d love to. It’ll be a good time to tell him about Hunter coming to career day,” I add.

Though Jesse can’t play any of the field positions, he’s the designated hitter for the pitcher, and he’s good. He hit a home run last year and his entire team rushed the field, his coach lifting him up onto his shoulders as they all ran the bases as a team.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the stands from the home and away teams. That was a great day.

Abby lets out a breath of relief. “Thanks. He’s going to be so excited. Best Aunt of the Year award.”

“It’s just an honor to be nominated,” I tease.

“Now go save lives,” I mumble.

“Go get laid,” she fires back, then disconnects before I can tell her she’s completely insane.

I smile and say to the dead line, “Good, I didn’t want to talk to you about this anymore anyway.”

I should go back to editing.

I really should.

Instead, I reach for my phone, opening Instagram like I’m flipping over a rock I know has something slimy underneath it.

Sure enough, there it is—right at the top of my feed. The charity auction. Me. Hunter. That kiss.

The first video is on SportsNation’s official page with the caption:

“Hawkeyes’ Hunter Reed Auctioned Off for Charity… But Is That His Girlfriend?! #ReedAndBleacherBabe”noveldrama

I click play, even though I know I shouldn’t. My stomach tightens as I watch the scene unfold from an outsider’s perspective—the crowd, the cheers, Hunter’s name being called. And then me, paddle in hand, face flushed, caught in a bidding war I never expected to win.

But it’s the kiss that makes my throat go dry.

It looks…different on screen.

Softer—sweeter—less like a PR stunt and more like the moment before something big and dangerous happens.

Now I get Abby’s reaction and why she couldn’t imagine that we were faking it at first.

My thumb scrolls, and it only gets worse.

Another video.

This one zoomed in on Bethany’s icy glare in the background as Hunter’s lips crashed onto mine. The comments are a disaster:

@HockeyChick85: I’m living for this drama.

@PuckPrincess: OMG Hunter has a girlfriend?!

@BleacherFanGirl: Who is she and how do I become her?!

@GoalieWife77: Is that Bethany Richards in the background?! Someone grab the popcorn.

@SeattleSportsBuzz: Look at the way he looks at her after the kiss. That man is in love.

My pulse hammers in my throat. It’s everywhere—there’s even a trending hashtag:

#ReedAndBleacherBabe

There’s a small, shameful thrill seeing myself on the screen, looking like someone who belongs in his world—the world of hockey and WAGs.

But it’s tangled with something sharp and dangerous too.

Because none of this is real.

And no amount of headlines, GIFs, or internet theories can change that.

With Hunter moving in tonight, I need to make sure we set ground rules.

Boundaries. Clear lines in the sand.

Because no matter what Abby thinks, I am absolutely, one hundred percent not sleeping with Hunter Reed.

Hunter

There’s a knock at my door.

I freeze, halfway through cramming a hoodie into the duffel bag at my feet. Sweat clings to my back from the morning run I cut short, my running shoes untied and damp against the hardwood.

The knock comes again—louder this time.

For one irrational second, my heart spikes in panic. Bethany.

She already slid her spare apartment key under my door last night. I found it when I got home from the charity event, a shiny little threat lying on my welcome mat. I’d gone to Oakley’s afterward with the team, staying out as late as possible just in case she was waiting in the shadows.

But when I crack the door open, it’s not her.

It’s Trey—already dressed for the gym, arms crossed, full-sleeve tattoos making him look more menacing than he is and giving me that you’re a dumbass look he’s perfected over the years in special forces for the Army.

I blow out a breath, the tension leaking out of my shoulders. “Jesus.”

“You coming or what?” Trey asks, stepping inside without waiting.

“Just give me a minute. I had to cut the run short this morning.’ I nod toward the key and the folded note sitting on the kitchen counter. ‘Got a little…distracted.’

Trey crosses the room, picks up the note, and skims it.

Hunter—

Here’s a key to my place. Come by anytime, day or night.

Don’t bother with the condoms… you know how I like to get messy.

He shakes his head. “Holy shit. You weren’t kidding. She’s out for you.”

‘Yeah,’ I mutter, dragging a hand over my face. ‘Welcome to the nightmare. She’s trying to convince Everett to make a trade for me.’

Trey’s head snaps up. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Nope.”

His gaze sweeps over the half-packed duffel, the shirts tossed over the back of the couch, my jacket slung across a chair. “You’re really doing this?”

“Yep.” I zip the bag shut and toss it onto the pile. “Moving in with Peyton.”

Trey whistles low under his breath. “You know, I’ve seen you do a lot of dumb shit in the last ten months, but this might crack the top five.”

“Yeah, well…” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “Last night was chaos. Bethany showing up, Peyton bidding on me, that kiss…”

Trey’s brows lift, but he doesn’t say anything.

I ignore him. “And now I’m packing a bag like a runaway teenager to move in with a woman I barely know—all so I can avoid another woman who’s half my size.”

Trey lets out a dry laugh. “You’re a real inspiration, man.”

I shake my head, slinging the duffel over my shoulder. This is really happening. I’m moving into a stranger’s house to avoid the disaster that’s been my love life and career.

For the first time since last night, I feel it hit me—how completely insane this is.

An hour later, I show up at Peyton’s place. I knock and she opens the door, stepping aside to let me in.

“You’re early,” she says.

“No better time than the present,” I say, though I leave out that my ex is already leaving me apartment keys and all-access invitations to sleep with her day or night.

I couldn’t stay there for another minute. I needed out.

“You’re sure about this?” I ask, voice lower than I mean it to be. “You don’t have to do this.”

Peyton crosses her arms and leans against the wall. “I already signed up for this circus; I might as well ride the elephant.”

My brows lift, and before I can stop myself, I toss her a crooked smirk. “Didn’t realize it was going to be that kind of living arrangement, but you’re welcome to ride me anytime you want.”

Her eyes go wide, cheeks flushing instantly. “No! I—God, that’s not what I meant.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. The first real one I’ve had all day. “Relax, Collins. I was kidding.”

She mutters something under her breath about regretting her life choices, but there’s the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

And damn it, my smirk turns into a full-blown smile. God help me, fake dating Peyton might actually turn out to be fun.

As I step further inside, I can’t help but notice her décor. It’s not just neat; it’s curated. Framed photos line the walls, and my gaze catches on a framed tennis racket hanging just above the couch. A Wimbledon poster hangs nearby, and I can’t help but feel a pang of curiosity mixed with admiration.

“Is that…?” I point toward the racket, trying to ask without sounding too interested.

Peyton follows my gaze, and her expression shifts slightly, almost wistful. “Yeah. That was my dad’s. He played a bit when he was younger. I never got to enter the Wimbledon tournament, but it was always my dream.”

“Wimbledon, huh?” I say, genuinely intrigued. “What happened?”

She shrugs, a flicker of something passing over her face, maybe regret or loss. “Injury. I had a really bad fall during a qualifier. It was one of those moments where everything just…changed.”

I can see it—the way her eyes dim slightly, like she’s recalling something painful but still precious. It makes me want to know more. “I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know you were a competitive athlete.”

“Yeah, well, not many do. I’m just a podcaster who knows a lot about hockey now.” She chuckles lightly, but I can hear the undercurrent of sadness in her voice.

“That’s impressive, though. I had no idea. You must’ve had some serious skills to even qualify.” I try to keep my tone light, but there’s a weight to her story that pulls at me.

“Thanks. It was a different life, I guess.” She shrugs again, but I can tell it’s more than that. “But this is my life now, and I’m making it work.”

“Moving in with a hockey player is definitely a shift,” I remark, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re in for a wild ride.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to go all fangirl on you. Just remember, this is business.”

I nod, but deep down, I can’t help but feel a spark of something more—an interest in her that goes beyond the surface. This is a woman who’s fought hard for her dreams, just like me, and there’s something admirable about that.

I’m not just moving in with a podcaster; I’m moving in with someone who’s had her own battles. Someone who might just understand what it means to fight for what she wants.

As I take a step further into her space, the tension from earlier begins to dissipate. Maybe this arrangement won’t be so bad after all.