Bleacher Report (2) (The Rookie Hawkeyes Series)

The smell of cinnamon and coffee greets me before I even open my eyes. I roll onto my side, blinking in the morning light pouring in through Hunter’s childhood bedroom window, the snow from last night dusted on the rooftops of the neighboring houses outside.

The new comforter is soft, the mattress firm, and I can hear the faint clinking of dishes from downstairs.

Hunter stretches beside me, shirtless, sleep-ruffled, and already smirking. “I think my mom’s trying to seduce us with breakfast.”

I laugh. “I’d fall for it.”

We eventually make our way downstairs where Carly is already dressed, dishes set out, and bacon sizzling on the stove. She greets us with a warm smile and a plate of scrambled eggs.

“Eat up, kids,” she says. “I’ve got a busy day ahead. Gifts to drop at the animal shelter and the salon. Then I’m heading over to the old folks’ home to set up for the cookie exchange.”

“We won’t see you all day?” Hunter asks.

“I’ll be home after the cookie exchange, unless Bonnie decides she wants to go caroling with the rest of our choir group,” she says, loading a cookie tin.

“Ma, it’s Christmas Eve…”

“Yeah, I know…but you’re aware that I’ve packed my schedule to help others during the holidays ever since you left for college. And you only gave me a few weeks’ notice that you were coming for Christmas. I already committed. And this family follows through on its commitments. I’ve already taught you that.”

“I think it’s great,” I pitch in.

Carly turns around from the counter and gives me a smile. “See, a girl with a good head on her shoulders.” She sets the tin in a huge box that’s filled to the brim. “Now, be a good son and take this box out to my car for me. It’s heavy. You two have fun today, and I’m sure I’ll see you later tonight.”

He takes the box, and I watch her follow him out to the car. He sets the box in the trunk of her minivan and then kisses the top of her head before opening her driver’s side door, shutting it once she’s inside.

My heart swells at how sweet he is with his mother.

After breakfast, Hunter leans close. “Get dressed into something comfortable. I have a surprise.”

A short drive later, we pull up in front of a massive tennis and sports complex. It’s the kind of place with tall glass windows, indoor courts, and a sleek sign that says “The Net Spot.”

“This place is huge,” I say as we walk in.

“Figured we could play a round. Or ten,” he says.

We change and hit the court. From the other side of the net, Hunter does some over-the-top stretches—groin lunges, arm flaps, even a twirl.

“Hope my thighs in these shorts don’t distract you,” he calls. “I know what you want, dirty girl, but I’m more than just a pretty face.”

I snort. “Pretty? Bold claim from someone about to get destroyed.”

“Confidence is key, baby.”

To his credit, Hunter’s actually good. His footwork is solid, his serves are wicked. But I’ve been playing since I was four, and by the third round, he’s sweating, swearing, and glaring at me in mock betrayal.

“You hustled me,” he gasps, winded.

“I told you I had Wimbledon in my sights before my injury.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t say you were the devil in a ponytail.”

We grab lunch at the on-site café, sitting at a small table tucked in the corner. Hunter orders a spinach fruit smoothie, a burger with extra bacon, and a large order of crinkle fries. I grin at the contrast.

“Balance,” he says, mouth full. “Athlete logic.”

After lunch, he drives us to an indoor hockey rink.

“Where are we?” I ask as he pulls into a parking spot.

“This is where my high school hockey team used to play.” A familiar sparkle lighting up his eyes.

The second we get out and meet up behind the car, he reaches for my hand.

It should feel foreign. But somehow, it feels like I’ve been holding it forever.

“Get out your phone,” he says as we walk toward the entrance.

I blink. “What?”

He shoots me a crooked smile. “Can you walk and talk? I’d bet good money you’ve already memorized the questions you want to ask me for our third interview.”

Of course I have them memorized. But there’s more riding on this than just the interview. With everything between us shifting, I don’t want to push too hard and risk him shutting down—or worse, walking away. Yet, I also know that my opportunity to snag the syndication deal and make my dad proud, is hanging in the balance too.

He squeezes my hand gently. “Record it. I owe you one more. I want you to have this.”

Something in his voice makes me stop questioning. I pull out my phone, hit record, and follow him through the front doors.

Hunter leads me through a side door, down a narrow hallway that smells like wet gear and sports tape, and into the heart of the rink. He’s relaxed here. There’s a bounce in his step I haven’t seen since before his injury.

We make our way to the bleachers and sit on the cold aluminum bench overlooking the ice. The hum of the overhead lights fills the space, the rink eerily quiet without players slicing across it.

He leans back on the bench, elbows resting on the seat behind us, his eyes scanning the ice like he’s watching ghosts from the past.

“You’re smiling,” I say. “Take me through what you’re thinking.”

“This place is where it all really clicked for me. But it didn’t come easily. High school hockey was a different animal than what I had been used to playing,” he says. “Freshman year was the first time I was on the third line. Couldn’t land a hit to save my life. Coach joked that I skated like a baby deer on a trampoline.”

I smile behind the camera. “Hard to imagine. You’re one of the most physical players in the league.”

“That’s what happens when you’re a big fish in a tiny pond, and then they drop you in the ocean with hungry piranhas all looking to catch the eye of scouts. That hadn’t been a factor in middle school. There were still kids playing just for the fun of it, but high school hockey isn’t for the faint of heart. I’ve seen more kids lose chiclets in one single game than I had in the years I’d played the sport up until then.”

I grin behind the camera. “Sounds brutal. But you clearly adapted.”

“Yeah, well, turns out growing six inches in one summer helps with that too.” He grins. “By sophomore year, I was big enough to make an impact.”

“Cheating,” I tease. “You basically leveled up overnight. Meanwhile, I spent all of high school trying to convince recruiters I wasn’t too short to return a serve.”

He chuckles, that familiar spark in his eyes. “You? Short? You serve with murder in your heart.”

I muffle back laughter thinking back on our earlier game and how much I love that he’s not the sore loser I called him back at Oakley’s that first time we met. A time that feels so far away, almost as if it didn’t happen.

“Did you used to dream about playing in the NHL here?”

He nods. “Every damn day. I’d sneak in during open skates and pretend I was scoring the game-winner in a playoff series. Right there—” He points toward the far side of the rink. “Bottom left corner. Coach used to stay late so I could practice that shot.”

Something swells in my chest. This isn’t just a location—it’s a living memory. And he’s letting me inside it.

“Is this where you fell in love with hockey?”

“This is where I fell in love with who I was when I played. Before the contracts. Before the agents. Before it all got complicated.”

“You didn’t get recruited out of high school,” I say, knowing his history.

“My mom was going through chemo then, and I didn’t want to go far. I had a couple of junior league scouts reach out, but I stayed close and went to college instead. It meant I could still get her to treatments. Cook dinner once in a while. Her best friend Bonnie was a big help too.”

My chest tightens.

“And you don’t regret it?”

“Not for a second.” His voice is steady. “We had a stacked team—I learned a lot in college. And eventually, Jersey picked me up.”

He stares back out onto the ice as a few high school players skate out for practice.

“So, no big drama? No rebellious phase? No high school scandal?”

“Oh, there was drama.” He smirks. “One time, I broke into the opposing team’s locker room before a game and replaced all their warm-up playlists with Celine Dion’s greatest hits.”

I choke on a laugh. “You didn’t.”

“They came out to ‘My Heart Will Go On.’ It backfired though because they were so fucking pissed that they whipped the ice with us.”

“So you regret it?”

“Hell no. It was still funny as shit. My coach didn’t like it much, though.”

“You can take the prankster off the rink…” I say.

He nods toward the far goal line.

“See that crease?”

I follow his gaze.

“That’s where I scored my first high school goal. Triple overtime. My stick flew out of my hands, and I tackled my own teammate in celebration. Sprained his wrist. Coach benched me for the next game.”

“You don’t know when to quit,” I tease.

“I never quit,” he replies, and then his voice softens. “I haven’t been back here in years. But I wanted you to see it.”

I lower the phone slightly, feeling that familiar warmth rise in my chest again.

“Why me?”

He doesn’t look away from the ice.

“Because this…was sacred. And you make everything feel like it matters again.”

I want to shut off my phone and just be present for this moment between us, when he’s sharing all of this with me. Unfortunately, I have an interview to turn in, and a part of me is looking forward to having all of our original agreements behind us so that we can move on.

“When you were signed by New Jersey, how did that feel?”

“Looking back, that was a rollercoaster ride. I’ve never been so high and then hit a low so quickly in my life.”

“When they transferred you to the farm team?” I ask.

“I only got to play half a season on professional ice. I thought I might not ever make it back here.”

I nod slowly. “There were rumors. About your attitude. About Bethany.”

It’s a huge gamble, and he might get up and walk out of this rink, leaving me here to walk back to his mom’s house, but I have to at least ask the questions even if he doesn’t answer them.

He stiffens just slightly, his jaw ticking. But he doesn’t look away.

“I don’t like thinking back on those days,” he says. “It doesn’t do anyone any good. Bethany and I dated in college and into my rookie year. It didn’t work out. That’s it. Nothing more to say about it. Bethany and I grew apart—Richard made a business call regarding his team that I don’t agree with—end of story. Now, I’m playing for one of the best teams in the league, and I feel like I’m right where I need to be.”

It’s not the juicy detail I was hoping for. The truth is that I know what she did, but Hunter just gave me more on the story than anyone else has ever gotten out of him. This might be enough for the syndication deal.

And more importantly, he’s still sitting here. Still talking. And that comment he made about being where he needs to be…it feels like I’m part of that now.

I lower the camera just slightly and ask, “If you weren’t playing hockey, what would you be doing right now?”

Without missing a beat, Hunter grins. “That’s easy. Personal Speedo car washer.”

I blink. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious,” he says, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’d shave the ice, blast club music, maybe even throw in a little choreography. Make it a full experience.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“But admit it—you’d come watch.”

“I’d come for the soapsuds and stay for the tragic tan lines.”

He clutches his chest. “Wounded. But noted. No tan lines.”

I shake my head, grinning. “You’d make a fortune in tips.”

“Obviously,” he says, and then slaps the back of his thigh. “These glutes are money makers.”

We sit in silence for a beat, both of us watching a couple of players practice shots.

Then I ask the question I always save for last.

“If you could go back in time and fix a mistake, what would it be—and what would you do differently?”

Hunter’s shoulders go still. He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches the far end of the rink, the ghost of a dozen younger versions of himself skating in his silence.

Finally, he speaks.

“If I could go back…I’d redo the first night we met at Oakley’s. I was drunk and angry and made assumptions about you that I had no right to make.” He glances at me. “You didn’t deserve that. I’d take it back in a heartbeat. And then I would have asked for your number so I could call you on a night I wasn’t plastered.”

My throat tightens. It’s not the soundbite I was chasing—but it might be the most honest thing he’s ever said on camera.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For letting me see this part of you.”

He shrugs, trying to play it off, and then straightens his back. “Don’t get used to it, Collins. I have a reputation to maintain.”

But the small smile pulling at his mouth says otherwise.

I end the video. I got enough and now I want the rest of him to myself.

“You shared a lot. More than you have in past interviews. Are you sure you’re okay with me sharing this?” I ask, tucking my phone into my pocket.

“I figured you could use some solid B-roll for your interview cut if you’re trying to win that syndication deal. This is what I agreed to, and now that Bethany has left Seattle, I owe you my end of our arrangement.”

“We’re a good team,” I tease.

He nods and then reaches over and gives my thigh a gentle squeeze, making my whole body react. God, do I love his hands on me. “C’mon. I’ll show you the snack bar that has the best nachos in town.”

“Oh God…this is your move, isn’t it? Is this how you convinced all the high school girls to kiss you under the bleachers?”

He looks over his shoulder with that troublemaker grin of his that has me laughing. “The last time I tried it, I ended up spilling the entire tray in my lap, covering my crotch in spicy, hot nacho cheese. But if you want to make out under the bleachers, Collins, I’d happily oblige you. I wouldn’t want to be a bad host,” he says, leading me out to the concessions that are getting ready for some Christmas Eve ice show.

“Slow down, Romeo. Wow me with these nachos first, then we’ll see where the night takes us.”

He laughs as I follow behind him, my hand in his.

And it occurs to me how much I wish I could have seen the Hunter before Bethany. What Carly said about him warming up has me wishing we had met earlier, but then I wouldn’t get the man he is now, and maybe that would be a shame too.

Maybe we met just in time.noveldrama

By the time we pull back into the driveway, the last of the sunlight is slipping behind the neighbor’s roofline.

“I’m going to start dinner,” Hunter says as we step inside, dropping the keys on the entryway table. “You want to hang down here or…?”

“Actually,” I say, slipping off my coat, “would you mind if I went upstairs for a bit to edit the interview? I know it’s Christmas Eve, but the execs are waiting for all my final deliverables.”

Hunter nods without hesitation. “Go ahead. I’ll holler when it’s ready.”

I head up to his room, slipping onto the edge of the oversized bed with my laptop. An hour passes in a blur as I cut together clips, keeping the edit light and natural. I leave in the echo of the rink, the squeak of his shoes against the floor, the way his voice softened when he talked about taking care of Carly when she was sick.

But I take out his final answer—the one about Oakley’s bar and the apology. That part is just for me.

Once I’m done, I hover over the publish button, then tap it without second-guessing. I mute my notifications—no one’s watching a sports interview on Christmas Eve anyway, and honestly, I don’t want to be tethered to my phone tonight.

Not when I’ve got this.

Downstairs, the house smells like garlic bread and spaghetti sauce. Hunter’s at the stove, sleeves rolled up, wooden spoon in hand. I lean in the doorway for a moment, watching him hum along to the holiday music playing low on the speaker, like this is just any regular night.

Dinner is warm and easy. We linger over second helpings, share stories from childhood Christmases, and laugh over the fact that neither of us can remember all the words to “Frosty the Snowman.”

Later, we curl up on the couch with a wool blanket and an old black-and-white holiday movie that Hunter says he and his mom watch together every year.

I love that he’s bringing me into his traditions—showing me this side of him.

Hunter answers a call from his mom.

“Carolers,” he says with a grin as he puts her on speaker.

“I couldn’t say no,” Carly says cheerfully. “The ladies from my choir group showed up at the old folks’ home and demanded. I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”

Hunter laughs. “Stay out as long as you want. We’re good here.”

We hang up, and I shift closer, feeling his arm slide around my shoulders. He looks down at me, eyes warm, lips barely parted like he’s about to say something—or kiss me—

When my phone buzzes on the arm of the couch.

I glance at the screen and frown. “It’s Rebecca.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “On Christmas Eve?”

I answer, and Rebecca launches in without preamble.

“Peyton, your video is blowing up. Like, network-level viral. One of the senior producers just called me. They’re talking about fast-tracking the contract.”

“Wait, how is it going viral? No one’s watching my podcast on Christmas Eve.”

Hunter hears my words and then grabs his phone out of the pocket of his sweats. I watch as he quickly pulls up the video, my eyes widen at the number of views.

“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s had over five hundred thousand views, and you only posted it a couple of hours ago. Besides, the network is my life, and the other execs are the same. We never take a day off. Media doesn’t sleep.”

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

My eyes flash back up to Hunter’s, and he’s smiling wide.

Rebecca’s voice comes back in, and I almost forgot that she’s still on the line.

“You’ll probably be asked to head into the Seattle office the day after Christmas.”

My pulse spikes. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely, the comment section is blowing up. The authenticity, the intimacy—people are eating it up. I’ll be in touch but prepare yourself for coming into the network’s office the day after Christmas. You’ll have contracts to sign.”

She hangs up before I can respond, and I stare at the phone like it might vanish.

“Was that real?” I ask, still breathless.

Hunter leans in, his voice low and warm. “That was very real.”

He’s still holding his phone, screen tilted toward me, showing the growing number of views, the flood of heart emojis and fire icons in the comments. I watch the count tick up again—five hundred twenty thousand now.

My heart leaps.

“Peyton,” he says, setting his phone aside and taking mine too. “You did it.”

Before I can second-guess myself, I lunge at him, laughing, arms wrapping around his neck.

“We did it,” I whisper against his jaw, giddy and a little stunned.

“Yeah, we did,” he says, pulling me closer. “Bethany left Seattle, and you just got your syndication deal. And we did it with time to spare.”

He presses his lips to mine and my mouth opens for him, his hot tongue searing against mine, each of us fighting to get closer, to have our hands all over each other, to touch everywhere we can.

Soon, his hands slide down to my waist, gripping tight as he lifts me clean off the couch. I gasp, instinctively wrapping my legs around his hips, anchoring myself to him as he straightens to full height.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To celebrate the end of our arrangement and the start of something permanent.’

Our lips never leave each other as he carries me up the staircase and down the hall to his bedroom.

And I know that he’s right. We’re on to something so much better.