Bleacher Report (2) (The Rookie Hawkeyes Series)

Bethany Richards.

My ex-girlfriend and the reason I spent the last four seasons on a farm team instead of playing for the New Jersey NHL franchise.

Of course, she’d show up here when life keeps kicking me in the ass.

I watch her glide into the room like she owns it. Same confident stride. Same smug smile. Same overpriced perfume that somehow still triggers something bitter in the back of my throat.

She’s wearing a silk dress that probably cost more than my first car—clinging to every curve like it was stitched on. Hair swept up, lips lacquered in that same power-hungry red. Bethany always did know how to make an entrance—elegant on the surface, but just polished enough to hide the claws beneath.

And just like that, it’s like I’m twenty-three again. Standing on New Jersey’s ice, unaware that the woman I was planning a future with was already planning her engagement party with someone else. Someone with more power. More pull. More money. Someone who could erase me from a roster with a single call…and did.

Because in his mind, I was his biggest threat. He was blind to the idea that Bethany was setting him up to take half his wealth.

Oh, the irony.

I grind my teeth, forcing myself to breathe through the memories that I’ve tried hard to leave in that New Jersey stadium where they belong.

It’s been four years of clawing my way back to the NHL—through injuries and rehab, brutal mornings and sleepless nights, while reporters questioned whether I was still worth the ink on my new contract. And now she’s here. Waltzing into the world I rebuilt without her, like it’s something she left behind and has every right to reclaim.

I’ve gotten her calls and texts—all thirty-two of them—saying she wants to talk. I haven’t returned a single one.

Her eyes scan the room, slow and deliberate, until they land on me.

She smiles.

God, I forgot how manipulative that smile is. Sweet enough to fool a billionaire. Sharp enough to end a pro hockey player’s career.

The fact that my mother still claims to ‘see’ the good in Bethany has me demanding she see an Optometrist—or quit microdosing hallucinogens. Honestly, either one tracks.

‘Hunter.’ Bethany’s voice slides over me like ice water down my spine as she heads for me, weaving through tables, chairs, and other guests. ‘I’ve missed you.’

I force myself to turn, to face the woman who derailed my NHL career with a smile and a wedding ring from a man twice her age and three times as delusional. She looks exactly the same—bleach blonde hair falling in calculated waves, red lips, and perfect teeth curved in that predatory smile. The only difference is now, she’s not wearing the five-carat diamond ring Richards bought her.

The sight of her here, in my new life, makes my stomach turn. I’ve worked too hard to rebuild everything she destroyed to let her maneuver her way back in now.

‘What are you doing here, Beth?’

‘Can’t a girl support a good cause?’ She steps closer. ‘Besides, I heard you were up for auction. Couldn’t pass up the chance to remind you how good we were together.’

The memory of finding out about her engagement to Richards still burns. One minute, we were celebrating my newly minted NHL contract and planning a life together, the next I was being sent to the farm team to ‘develop my skills’—code for get me out of the way. Richards didn’t like the idea of his new bride having access to her ex-boyfriend on the team. And from what I’ve heard from old teammates who still play for New Jersey, she made do with the other twenty-three players on the roster.

‘We were never good together. You made that clear when you married Richards.’

Beth rolls her eyes. “God, Hunter. I did it all for us, and now I’m going to have more money than either of us know what to do with. When are you going to get over it?”

“When your shrink finally diagnoses you as a raging sociopath. That’s when.”

She tilts her head condescendingly, not hearing a word I said. My point exactly—sociopath.

‘Marrying Kevin Richards was a mistake I’m rectifying.’ Her perfectly manicured fingers trail up my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake—not from desire, but from pure revulsion.

‘The divorce will be final soon. The prenup gives me half the team, including player roster decisions.’

Her smile is calculating. Cold. How the hell didn’t I see this in college? She’s always been this person—but all I saw were the big tits, the perfect smile, the pretty girl with a backstory that sounded like mine. I thought we were climbing together.noveldrama

I didn’t realize I was just her stepping stone to a bigger life. One that never included me.

My own personal Helen of Troy, burning my city to the ground.

‘Once I pitch Everett Kauffman a trade deal too good to refuse, you’ll be headed home. Back to New Jersey. Where you belong. We can pick up right where we left off.’

Pick up where we left off?

She thinks she can just walk in here and destroy everything I’ve established here—and I’ll thank her for it?

‘Right where we left off?’ I snap. ‘You mean right before your husband tried to ruin my career by sending me to the farm team?’

She rolls her eyes. “Water under the bridge.”

Then she leans in, lips brushing my ear, her voice turning to poison-laced sugar.

‘No one’s ever been as good as you, you know. In or out of bed. The sex was incredible—you can’t deny that. I got a place at The Commons. Two months to remind you what you’ve been missing.”

She got an apartment in my building? What the fuck?

Typical Bethany move. Hit you where it hurts, then act like it’s a gift. Though, this one catches me off guard. Before I can respond, she turns on her heels…but not without sliding her hand down to slap my ass.

“I’ve always loved you in a tux,” she purrs. “See you on stage, baby.”

I watch her sashay toward the VIP table, panic rising in my chest. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Four years of rebuilding my life, my career, my reputation—all at risk because Bethany Richards is bored with her billionaire husband.

My eyes scan the crowded ballroom desperately for a way out of this when I spot Peyton at the bar.

The blue beading on her dress catches the light, making her glow like a beacon to my salvation. And damn if she doesn’t wear that dress like it was made for her—elegant, understated, but cut low and sexy, making every guy around her take notice.

Including me.

A really bad idea jumps to mind, and I don’t think.

I just move.

Bethany’s scent still clings to my jacket, and I need it gone. Need her out of my line of sight, out of my brain. And I need someone to outbid her. And lucky for me, Peyton despises me enough that she’s the perfect person to not twist this into something more than a simple deal—no strings.

She’s at the bar, standing behind two men in suits. She’s half-turned away, studying the crowd, completely unaware that she just might be my only shot at salvaging tonight.

The line moves. She steps forward, delicate fingers wrapping around the edge of the marble bar.

“Peyton,” I say, my voice low. Controlled. A warning and a plea.

She doesn’t even turn her head.

The bartender nods at her. “What can I get for you, ma’am?”

“Surprise me. Just no whiskey… It’s triggering,” she says, her voice smooth and cool.

I wince.

She said that loud enough for me to hear, yet she has no idea what kind of surprise I’m about to drop in her lap.

“Peyton,” I try again. “I know you don’t like me right now. We got off on the wrong foot, but I need to talk to you.”

Nothing. Not even a blink in my direction.

Screw it.

I reach into my jacket, pull out my wallet, and slap two crisp hundreds on the bar—despite the fact that this is an open bar and nobody’s paying for a damn thing.

“Keep her drinks coming,” I tell the bartender.

He freezes, eyes bouncing between Peyton and me like he’s trying to assess if I’m a stalker or just tragically stupid. Right now…I might be considered both.

Peyton finally turns her head toward him and lifts one brow. “Well, if he’s just going to burn through money for no reason, you might as well take it.”

The bartender takes the tip with a nod and then heads off to mix whatever chaos she just ordered.

She shifts just enough to glance at me out of the corner of her eye. Her mouth is a perfect, unimpressed line.

“What do you want, Reed?”

There’s no warmth in her voice. None of the body language I’m used to from the opposite sex. No leaning in to touch my arm, no breathy laugh, no playing with her hair like she’s waiting for me to make the next move.

She’s becoming colder toward me the longer I stand here, her stiff posture making it evident that she’s only interested in this conversation ending as soon as possible.

And yet somehow, there’s this soft, unexpected scent—vanilla and honeysuckle—that doesn’t match her closed-off stance. It’s inviting in a way she isn’t. And that messes with me more than it should.

The most important thing?

She hasn’t walked away.

And right now, that’s all I’ve got.

I lean in closer, quickly glancing around us to make sure no one is close enough to eavesdrop on our conversation. “I need you to bid on me tonight.”

Peyton blinks slowly, like I’ve just asked her to help me bury a body. “I’m sorry, I think I must have blacked out just now, because I could have sworn you just asked me to bid on a date with you.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

She makes a scoffing sound and looks around like everyone nearby should be cracking up right along with her at the absurdity of my request.

I get it. I wasn’t expecting to ask her either, but here I am, and I just so happen to know that she wants something from me too.

An interview.

“You’re kidding, right? I can’t think of anything I’d like less than to go on a date with you.”

Her insult should sting, but it doesn’t. I’m too focused on my goal.

“I’m not asking you to go on a date with me, and no, I’m not kidding. I’m serious.” I drop my voice. “My ex-girlfriend, Bethany—she’s here. She’s planning to bid on me tonight. And I can’t—” I stop, exhale. “I just can’t let her win.”

The bartender sets Peyton’s drink on a napkin, muttering something about a blueberry lemon drop with a marinated vodka blueberry garnish, then glances at me.

“Nothing for me,” I say, stepping aside so the next guest can order. Peyton follows.

“Hold on a second,” she says, pulling the metal skewer from her drink. She slides one blueberry off with her perfectly straight white teeth and painted pink lips, chewing as her expression shifts—processing everything.

“Bethany Richards is your ex? As in, the soon-to-be ex-wife of Kevin Richards, the owner of the team you used to play for?”

“I dated her first,” I say, sharper than I mean to. And stupidly, without thinking about the fact that Peyton is the last person I should be spilling this to since she has a podcast that she could use to air this information.

Her eyebrows lift in question. I know exactly what she’s about to ask, and I cut her off fast.

“But that was a lifetime ago. And that’s not what this is about.”

Not exactly, anyway.

I’ve spent years killing the rumors—shutting down every whisper, every question about why I was demoted mid-season. I know what people assumed. What they still wonder. And the last thing I need is a podcaster sniffing around for a viral story to save her syndication deal.

That chapter of my life is closed.

Or at least, it was until thirty minutes ago.

“Okay, so why me?” she asks, arms folding across her chest. “There are at least fifty women in this room alone who’d sell their souls for a date with you. Ask one of them to outbid her.”

“I can’t ask any of them because you’re the only person here who doesn’t want something from me, except for an interview.” I pause, watching her slide another blueberry off the skewer with her lips. “This is transactional. We both want something. We make the trade, and when it’s done, you never have to see me again.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes narrow, she’s considering it. She’s sharp—too sharp for my own good.

“And you’ve already seen me at my worst,” I add. “You’ve got more to gain than lose.”

“I have plenty to lose,” she fires back. “Like the last shred of professional dignity I have, after you basically accused me of being a puck bunny, then told me to find another teammate to screw in front of a packed bar of players and fans.”

I flinch. No comeback. No defense.

“I deserved that.”

“You did,” she agrees easily, uncrossing her arms and shifting her weight from one hip to the other, clearly enjoying this.

I take a breath. “Let me make it up to you. If you bid on me—and win—I’ll do the interview.”

“You want me to bid against a billionaire’s wife for an interview with you? Are you crazy? I don’t have that kind of money. I just bought a new townhouse outside of town and renovated it for my podcast studio. I blew through my savings.”

The news of her townhouse and a place to crash, away from The Commons, sparks a thought, but I need her to agree to one thing at a time. If I show all my cards, she’ll bail out immediately.

“I’ll pay for it. Whatever you bid, I’ll cover the bill. You just have to win.”

Peyton glances over in Bethany’s direction, and I follow her line of sight, cringing when I see Bethany chatting up Everett, who’s making his rounds with guests.

I was hoping I wasn’t going to have to ask for this next thing, but by the looks of it, Bethany is making good on her threats to attempt to get me traded.

“Actually, I need one more thing.”

Peyton’s eyes snap back to mine. “Oh God…what now?” she says, rolling her eyes.

“I need to live with you for two months,” I say, “and I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

Peyton freezes, dropping the skewer with the last blueberry into her drink. It lands with a quiet plop, sending a few droplets splashing onto the napkin.

She blinks at me in disbelief.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Now I know you’ve lost your mind, and I’m going to do us both a favor and walk away.”

She turns, clearly ready to bolt—but I gently reach out and catch her arm, just above the elbow. Not hard. Just enough to stop her without pushing my luck.

“Peyton, I wouldn’t ask if I had another choice.”

“You do have another choice. Pick someone else. I’m the wrong girl for this.”

“Name your price,” I say. “How many interviews is it going to take?”

That gets her attention. The word “interviews” is like a switch—her eyes narrow on me—and she’s considering the offer in a whole new light.

“Five,” she says, lifting her glass. “And I want the full story on you and Bethany.”

“Two,” I counter, “and nothing about my mom or my past relationship with Bethany.”

“Well, well, turns out you’re not as desperate as you said you were. Goodbye, and good luck,” she says, turning like the conversation’s over.

But I grip her elbow gently again, stopping her in her tracks.

“Hold on. Three interviews,” I say quickly. “Nothing about my mom. And I’ll cover all your townhouse expenses for the two months I live there.”

She pauses, chewing on the inside of her cheek. I can tell she’s close. She wants the interviews, and she already told me she’s flat-broke after soundproofing her studio. I’m almost there—I can feel it.

“Fine,” she says, her tone sharp and deliberate. “Three interviews. Two months of expenses.”

“Deal,” I say.

“…And you wash my car every Sunday,” she adds quickly like she’s scrambling to tack on more demands while she can.

Whatever. I don’t care. I’ll wash her car plus the neighbor’s if it gets her to agree.

“Okay…sure.”

“…In a Speedo. And Crocs.”

I blink. “You’re kidding.”

She arches a brow, deadpan. “Am I? I’m giving up two interviews. You’ve got to give me something back.”

“It’s the middle of winter, and you want me to wash your car in a Speedo?”

“You’re a professional hockey player. Cold is practically your natural habitat.”

“I play hockey, Collins. I’m not a damn polar bear.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The way she says it—cool, casual, not quite daring me but absolutely daring me—almost makes me laugh. Almost.

It’s not about the Speedo. It’s a power move. She wants to see if I’ll jump through hoops for her. If she’s the one in control.

“Fine,” I say, mostly because, at this point, I’ll agree to anything. “I look damn good in a Speedo anyway.”

“And,” she adds, voice softening, “you come to my nephew’s career day.”

That one lands differently.

“Your nephew’s career day?”

She nods. “My brother’s stationed overseas. My sister-in-law’s an ER nurse, and she’s slammed. Jesse’s a huge Hawkeyes fan, and he just switched schools again. This would mean the world to him.”

It’s a small task that she’s asking for. And if a hockey player from my favorite team had come to my school for my career day when I was a kid, it would have been the highlight of my life.

“Done. Are we in agreement now?” I ask, catching Everett headed our way from across the room.

“I guess so. How much can I spend on the bid?” she asks.

“Whatever it takes. Bleed my bank account dry if you have to, but don’t let her win a date with me,” I say, my eyes shifting to Everett as he walks up.

“Bleed your bank account dry?” Peyton asks with a twinkle in her eye. “With pleasure number seventy-two.”

Everett’s voice cuts through the crowd. ‘Mr. Reed. We need you backstage.’

I take one last look at her, unsure if she’s going to follow through or if she agreed to all of this just to screw with me and leave me with no other options. At this point, I have no other choice than to trust she’s going to make good on our verbal agreement as I follow Everett back through the crowd to the stage.

“Bethany Richards is a motivated negotiator,” he says over his shoulder. “Do you two have history I should know about?”

Shit…she’s serious about trying to make a trade for me.

“There’s no history between us that’s of any relevance,” I tell him.

He nods, though I can tell that he’s thinking through something she said to him earlier. “If there’s anything I need to know, you’ll be sure to tell me?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

Then he turns and heads for the podium as I head backstage.

Backstage is organized chaos. Luka’s practicing his runway walk, completely in his element, while Aleksi critiques it. Wolf’s adjusting his tie for the hundredth time. But all I can think about is Bethany out there, stalking the front row like she already owns the outcome. My stomach tightens.

I can hear the auctioneer warming up on the mic, already cracking jokes with the crowd. The curtain might as well be paper-thin—every cheer and laugh from the audience punches right through it.

Wolf adjusts his tie again. He’s been doing it every thirty seconds.

‘Why does it feel like I’m about to walk into a shootout, not a charity auction?’ I ask.

Trey claps me on the back. ‘Because you’re about to be objectified for a good cause. Just smile and pretend to be charming.’

I try. But the smile doesn’t quite land. My hands curl into fists at my sides.

Bethany’s sitting in the front row with a bid paddle in hand and a smile sharpened into something dangerous on her face.

“Hard to smile when your ex-girlfriend is out there with her soon-to-be ex-husband’s money to burn,” I mutter.

Trey’s head snaps toward me. “Your ex is here?”

I nod toward the curtain. “Blonde. Red lipstick. Sitting between Penelope and Everett’s empty seat.”

Trey moves to the edge of the curtain and peeks out. “Isn’t that Kevin Richards’s wife?”

“Not for long, apparently.”

“Jesus, Reed.” He shoots a glance back at me. “If she’s got Richards on the hook, then what the hell does she want with your ugly mug?”

“Shut up,” I snicker.

But I know exactly why. It’s not about me. It’s about control. About seeing if she can still pull the strings and make me dance. Tonight, it’s me. Tomorrow, it’ll be someone else. That’s who she is. Always has been.

And Richards? He deserves whatever mess he’s in. He’s the one who shipped me off like damaged goods to keep his wife in check. How’s that working out for him now?

I glance back toward the crowd, my gaze locking on Peyton.

She’s standing off to the side, her blue dress catching the light like a damn spotlight. Calm. Cool. Uninterested in the chaos swirling around her.

She’s the only thing between me and a complete PR disaster.

I still don’t know why she said yes. Maybe it’s the interviews. Maybe it’s for her nephew. Or maybe she just wants to watch me sweat after I embarrassed her at Oakley’s a few nights back.

But I meant what I said. She can spend whatever it takes. I’ll take the hit, so long as Bethany walks away empty-handed.

I hear my name announced after Luka’s bid finishes.

Luka goes to a socialite who looks like she just stepped out of a country club catalog. He seems thrilled, already chatting about his Olympic medals.

Then it’s my turn. The stage lights are hot, but Bethany’s stare is hotter.

The bidding starts like a firecracker—fast, loud, and out of control. Ten different women, their paddles rising like birds taking flight. But I only watch two: Bethany, smugly confident in the front row, and Peyton, who hasn’t moved her paddle once.

Come on, come on…

The numbers climb higher. Women drop out one by one as Bethany counters every bid. Still nothing from Peyton. Sweat trickles down my back under my suit jacket.

Then—finally—Peyton lifts her paddle, and the air in the room changes. Bethany locks in on her like a predator who just spotted a challenger.

The bids fly back and forth. Each time Bethany goes higher, Peyton doubles it. The crowd gasps and cheers, caught up in the drama. Even the other players have stopped their conversations to watch.

‘Sold!’ I shout, jumping off the stage before I can second-guess myself.

Gasps ripple through the crowd, but I don’t stop. In three long strides, I’m in front of Peyton. She stares up at me, wide-eyed, stunned.

My heart is pounding like I just took a puck to the chest.

‘Warning,’ I murmur, lowering my voice so only she can hear. ‘I’m about to kiss you.’

Then I do.

I sweep her into my arms and crush my mouth to hers.

For a moment, she’s frozen—surprised. But then she melts into me, her arms wrapping around my neck, her lips parting against mine.

She tastes like vodka, blueberries…and possibility. Like everything I didn’t know I needed until now.

And just like that, something dangerous—and completely unstoppable—releases in my chest.

Turning to the crowd, I announce, ‘Sorry everyone, but I couldn’t let anyone but my gorgeous girlfriend win a date with me.’

‘You didn’t say anything about kissing,’ she mutters, breathless but not exactly pulling away.

I just grin wider. The crowd awws appreciatively, eating up the romance of it all. Trey gives me a knowing look from the side of the stage while Aleksi whistles suggestively.

Only Bethany’s cold stare reminds me that this is just the beginning. But with Peyton in my arms, soft and warm and already arguing about something under her breath, I can’t bring myself to care.

Besides, how hard can fake dating be?