Bleacher Report (2) (The Rookie Hawkeyes Series)

Slade Matthews’s basement is already loud when I walk in—game controllers clicking, trash talk flying, and Wolf yelling at Luka to stop screen-peeking.

I check my phone one last time before tucking it into my pocket. Peyton and I have been texting on and off all day, mostly her still trying to downplay the fact that she woke up halfway on my side of the bed with drool on her chin, and me doing everything I could to tease her about it. Not to mention that I caught her off guard with that photo of me without my practice jersey on.

The alternative is thinking too hard about how soft she felt nestled against me last night watching the movie. How we ended up talking most of the night instead of watching any of it.

Then waking up to find her straddled over the pillow wall, dead asleep, but peaceful.

I’ve been expecting a snarky text in response to the last thing I said to her, but she must be deep in editing mode because it’s been thirty minutes since my last text asking if Sproutacus is taking well to the new place.

My phone dings in my hand, and I’m a little too quick to check.

A flash of disappointment settles when it’s not her.

It’s my agent who I met with earlier today.

He’s right. Being close to my mom is probably the only attractive piece to the possibility of a trade. Still, I’m not even sure if my mom needs me there. She’s playing this whole thing off, assuring me that it’s all going to be fine. And what if it is all going to be fine? What if I’m making something out of nothing?

“Finally,” Slade says, pulling me out of my thoughts, and then handing me a beer. “Thought you were going to bail.”

“Not a chance,” I say, cracking it open and taking a pull off the hoppy beer. He had no idea how badly I needed it after my agent asked me what the hell was going on and why Bethany Richards called him to discuss a trade deal, giving up two of her best players for me. “Had to meet with my agent, and physical therapy took longer than I thought.”

He shoots me a concerned glance as if he wants to pry into the conversation with my agent, but he doesn’t. Now isn’t the time, and there isn’t much to tell. My agent said that when he called Everett, he said that this was the first he’d heard of it, though I suspect Everett is holding his cards close to the vest. He’s a billionaire for a reason.

He just nods and then the door rings. “Must be the pizza guy. I’ll be right back.”

The rest of the guys are sprawled around the room. Aleksi’s lounging on the bean bag, Scottie and Olsen are double-teaming Luka in NHL 24, and Trey—Trey’s texting like his thumbs are trying to break the screen.

“You okay over there, Hart?” I ask him.

He looks up from his screen as if just now realizing I’ve arrived.

“I would be if Adeline’s nanny would just give me a straight answer about whether she’s going backpacking through Europe with her boyfriend next month,” he says, exhaling sharply as he tucks his phone into his pocket and pushes up from the recliner.

I follow him to the wet bar, where there’s a generous spread laid out—sliders, chips, wings, and a dangerously large platter of cookies someone probably made from scratch. And apparently, pizza just got here too.

But it will all get polished off before we leave. Morning skate was grueling earlier today, and these guys can put away some food.

He pops the top off a beer and takes a long pull before I ask, “Still having trouble with the nanny?”

He nods, jaw tight. “Yeah. She knows my hockey schedule, knows I’ve got no one else for Adeline until the season’s over. I knew she was a little young and maybe not the most mature hire, but Adeline bonded with her so fast…I let it slide.”

“And now she’s trying to take a vacation mid-season without anyone to stay with Adeline for away games,” I say, knowing exactly how this screws Trey.

Ever since he left the Army last year to take care of Adeline after both of her parents passed away in a car accident, he’s been doing the best that he can for her. Trying to give her as normal of a life as he can as her uncle and guardian. I know Trey enough to know that failure isn’t an option, and that anyone messing with the peace he’s been trying to establish for Adeline is going to get the brunt of a not-so-nice, ex-special-forces badass.

There are only two things Trey Hartley gives a shit about in this world: winning a Stanley Cup and Adeline.

And Adeline? She’s firmly planted in the number one spot.

“You’ve got time though, right?” I say. “Just call up one of the other nanny services. Tell Maddy to go backpacking across Europe and find herself, but she’s going to need a new job when she gets back. Easy fix.”

He grabs a chip from the bowl and crunches down like it personally offended him. He chews for a second and then responds. “I wish it were that simple. I’ve already called every agency from here to Tacoma. No one has a nanny willing to do overnight shifts, multiple days a week.”

“Shit,” I mutter, then a thought hits. “Wait—why don’t you talk to Isla? Her sister owns a nanny company, right? She was at Oakley’s that night that I, uh…accidentally called Peyton a puck bunny.”

A rare grin tugs at his mouth. “Vivi Newport.”

I raise a brow. “Yeah. What—do you know her?”

“No. But Vivi’s hard to miss.”

Before I can ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean, Slade walks back in from the kitchen, carrying a stack of pizza boxes that smell like melted cheese, fresh dough, and heaven.

It takes all of three seconds for every guy in the room to hit pause on the game and make a beeline for the food.

Because if there’s one thing this team takes more seriously than hockey—it’s pizza.

“How’s fake domestic bliss going, Reed?” Wolf asks as he walks up to the basement bar, grinning as he grabs a soda from the cooler. “You start picking out his and hers throw pillows yet?”

Luka chimes as he makes his way from the living room. “He’s probably got matching monogrammed robes.”

Olsen reaches past me for a plate. “Whatever the hell you do, just don’t ask me to be a groomsman at your fake wedding if this gets any crazier. I get itchy when I lie. But I will come to the bachelor party. I wouldn’t miss that.”

“Jesus Christ, Bozey,” Trey says. “The man isn’t going to marry the girl. Not even dodging his crazy ex is worth that.”

I tilt my head and raise my eyebrows. There’s just about nothing I wouldn’t do to keep out of Bethany’s well-manicured claws.

Slade sees my expression. “Seriously? You’d take it that far.”

I laugh it off because otherwise, this team might have me committed to a loony bin for even considering it.

“No…of course not. Marriage isn’t on the table, even if it’s fake.”

The guys all chuckle and dive back into their conversations about Thanksgiving plans, and then our next out-of-town game coming up the morning after, and I let them.

Let them assume this is all lighthearted and funny and easy.

Because the truth? None of this is easy.

Bethany’s circling. My mom’s keeping secrets. And I’ve somehow moved into a stranger’s house just to avoid one woman while pretending to date another.

If that’s not the definition of a mess, I don’t know what is.

But when I picture Peyton’s face this morning—still half-asleep, hair sticking out in all directions, sleep lines on her cheek—I can’t help the way something settles in my chest.

This might be fake.

But for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m losing.

“Are you headed back to New Jersey to see your mom for Thanksgiving?” Trey asks over his shoulder as I follow him to the large couch, we find a spot to sit down and eat.

“No, it’s not enough time to get back. What are you and Adeline going to do?” I ask.

“Oakley’s has the bar open for players who can’t make it home for the holidays. It sounds like half the team is going there. Since it’s just Adeline and me now, it should help to keep her distracted that this is the second year without them. She’s excited to go since it’s the only time she can get in as a minor.”

I nod. Holidays are hard when you lose someone you care about. My mind flashes to Peyton and how she mentioned that her dad died young and suddenly back to our kiss last night. “Yeah, I might do that too.”

“You’re not going to spend Thanksgiving with Peyton’s family? I know this is all fake, but you two seemed to be getting along last night at the open skate night.”

I hadn’t even thought about asking Peyton about Thanksgiving, mostly because it feels like I’m encroaching in on her life enough as it is.

I wish I had time to go home and see my mom. But she’d be busy anyway, and I’d be following her around all day. She volunteers at a soup kitchen every year, then her salon does a Thanksgiving dinner, and then she goes with her singing group to an old folks’ home to sing Christmas carols.

If I showed up with this little notice, I’d be her plus one she’d be dragging around town.

Oakley’s with half the team is good enough for me. And I’ve heard that the spread that Oakley’s puts on is impressive. Unless of course, Peyton wants me to go with her. She did mention that her nephew is one of my biggest fans. Since I’m coming to his career day, it might be a good time to meet him, but I won’t bring it up. If she wants to ask, she will.

I stay another hour or so, watching Luka dominate on Slade’s PlayStation, putting everyone to shame.

And then I get a text from Peyton. It’s a picture…of the bed…with double the pillows for her new and improved pillow wall. Where did she even find all of those? I snicker, wondering how long this took her to build.

I huff out a laugh, and then I get an idea.

I search for a furniture shop, and since it’s only just after dinner time, they’re open.

A man answers the phone, and I tell him what I need.

“Hi, I’m looking to order a king-size bed for my girlfriend, and I need it as soon as possible.”

I see Trey give me a questioning glance.

Yeah, it’s unusual, but nothing about this arrangement is normal and we’ve been making it work.

“A king-size bed sir? If you’d like to bring her down to the store we can—”

I cut him off quickly. “I’m on a time crunch and I’m not available to come by. Can you just give me your best seller that women usually pick out? It needs to be in stock. And can you deliver it the day after Thanksgiving?”

The salesman clears his throat. It’s an odd request to not even care what it looks like, but sure enough, the man wants a sale and agrees.

I list off my credit card number and Peyton’s address, and there it is. Problem solved.

Another hour later, I say my goodbyes and head out of Slade’s. As soon as I walk out his front door, the sun’s starting to set.

I round the front of my truck.

And that’s when I see it.

A sleek, black Mercedes idles in the spot next to mine, engine still purring like it’s waiting for something—or someone.

As I approach, the tinted window glides down just halfway, slow and deliberate.

The smile that greets me is sharp enough to cut glass.noveldrama

Bethany.

Her perfume hits me instantly—sweet, cloying vanilla with a bitter undertone. It used to be my favorite scent in the world. Now it turns my stomach. It smells as artificial as the rest of her.

She’s wearing oversized designer sunglasses and a smug little expression, like she’s already won whatever game she’s playing.

“Are you really just going to ignore me, Hunter?” Her voice is sweet poison, smooth as ever. “It won’t work forever. You know that. We have too much history.”

“Are you stalking me? How long have you been waiting out here for me to come out? You know this is a gated community. How the hell did you get in?”

Has she lost her damn mind? Wait, I already know the answer to that.

“I have an old friend I was visiting a few blocks away, and she mentioned that Slade is close by. Then I saw your truck. I would call it a coincidence, but you and I both know that it’s fate.”

It’s not fate. It’s Bethany Richards realizing that I’m finally free from under her husband’s thumb and now she wants to set my new life ablaze. But I’m not going down without a fight this time.

“What are you really doing here? And don’t keep using the friend excuse. We both know that you don’t have any,” I say flatly.

Her chin lifts, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the steering wheel like she’s bored already. “Just wanted to know when you’re going to kick this Bleacher Reporter girl to the curb. I’m not here for games, and we both know that I’m the last woman you dated seriously.”

“That’s really what you came here to ask? Peyton and I are serious, and I’m staying in Seattle. You can head home without me whenever you want, Beth. No one is going to miss you here.”

Her lips twitch. “Haven’t you considered that there is someone else to consider here? Like your mom?”

That hits like a punch to the ribs.

She knows exactly where to aim.

“You mean, take the trade you’re trying to convince Everett to sign off on,” I snap. “Go back to New Jersey. Back to your team.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “Would that really be so bad? Your mom needs you right now…more than ever. I can tell she’s not feeling well.”

My stomach knots at the mention of Mom.

“What do you mean, ‘she’s not feeling well?’” I ask, the sound of it causing hair to stick up at the back of my neck.

What does Bethany know?

“She just doesn’t sound as chipper on the phone, and her best friend Bonny has shared some concerns with me.”

Bonny—my mother’s best friend since beauty school and her salon manager.

“What did she say?” I ask, stepping closer to Bethany’s car.

“Just that Carly has seemed more tired recently and wanted to know if I was coming back home soon to check in on her.”

I hate that Bonny thought to call Bethany instead of me.

Bethany didn’t grow up in the best home. She was taken away from her mom when she was young, and then bounced around between uncles, aunts, and grandparents most of her life…anywhere the courts could think to put her, but then she’d run away. They’d have to place her somewhere else because that family member wouldn’t take her back.

So when we started dating, she connected with my mom almost instantly, worming her way into my mother’s life. Bethany helped take care of her the last time she was sick, back when I was too far away to do anything about it. Mom still talks about her like Beth is her long-lost daughter. She was disappointed with Bethany when she found out what she did to me. She told me that even though Bethany hurt us both with her actions, that my mother wouldn’t stop loving her—and that Bethany has deep wounds that need mending.

And that’s the problem. My mom loves her, and they’re still connected at the hip it seems.

Bethany leans a little closer to the open window, voice dropping. “But if you want to play house with your little podcast girl, go ahead. Just don’t forget—you’ll get bored and sabotage things with her soon enough. That’s been your thing ever since you lost me. I’m the one that got away, and we both know it.”

I cross my arms over my chest, keeping my distance. “We don’t have anything, Beth.”

Her smile disappears. “You don’t mean that.”

I do. I mean every damn word. But she’s not the type to care.

She shifts her car into gear and pulls away without another word, leaving nothing behind but the faint smell of vanilla and the sinking weight in my chest.

I stare at the spot where her car used to be, jaw clenched, every worst-case scenario running through my head. What if she knows something about Mom’s health that I don’t? What if she’s using it, dangling it in front of me like a carrot on a stick?

And the worst part?

For a second, I almost consider it.

Almost.

But I already burned my career once for Bethany Richards. And unless my mother needs me to move home, I won’t do it again.

The drive across town feels longer than usual. Probably because my brain won’t shut off.

Bethany’s voice keeps looping in the back of my head like a bad soundtrack. The smug smile. The subtle digs. The way she weaponized my mom without blinking.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and force myself to breathe. She’s bluffing. She has to be.

Still…I can’t shake it.

I turn down Peyton’s street, the quiet residential block almost too normal after Bethany’s ambush today. Like none of it should exist in the same universe as a tidy row of townhomes, and a podcast host who thinks I’m a menace.

Her townhouse comes into view, and despite myself, something in my chest loosens.

The porch light’s on. Her little blue SUV parked neatly in front.

And I hate how much this place feels like home already. At least the closest thing to feeling like home I’ve had in a while.

I cut the engine and sit there for a second, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel.

What the hell am I even doing? Moving in with a woman I barely know. Faking a relationship. Letting her lay down ground rules like this is some kind of reality show.

But the thing is…she’s the only person in my life right now who doesn’t want anything from me. Not my money. Not my name. Not control.

Nothing except a few interviews and a kid’s career day.

But when she smiles—when she’s not rolling her eyes at me—there’s something about her that makes it easy to breathe.

I grab my duffel from morning skate and head up the front steps.

Before I can even knock, the door cracks open like she’s been waiting.

Peyton stands there in sweatpants and a tank top, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, like she has no idea she looks better than half the women who paid five figures to bid on me.

Her eyes flick down to my bag. “You’re late.”

I smirk, shaking off the weight of everything that’s been crawling under my skin all day. “Miss me already, Collins?”

She doesn’t answer—just rolls her eyes and steps aside to let me in.

But the corner of her mouth twitches.

And damn if that doesn’t feel a hell of a lot better than anything Bethany Richards could ever offer.