Bleacher Report (2) (The Rookie Hawkeyes Series)

I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch with a half-eaten bag of popcorn beside me and my laptop open to a timeline I’ve been staring at for over an hour. I tried editing the interview with Hunter, hoping to salvage something usable. But every time I hear him snap back at me or watch the moment his body language shifts from casual to cold, my stomach tightens. The whole thing feels tainted.

After pausing for what must be the twentieth time, I gave up and clicked out of the project, opting for a brain break. That break turned into a social media rabbit hole, and now I’m watching a tiny, crocheted jellyfish bounce across a desk, wearing a mini bowtie. I don’t know how I got here.

I texted Hunter back forty-five minutes ago but my stomach grumbles in betrayal just as I hear the front door open.

Hunter walks in carrying grocery bags in one hand, and a large takeout bag in the other. His sleeves are pushed up, revealing muscled forearms with the faint edge of a tattoo peeking out, and his hair is wet from the misty Seattle weather.

The savory scent of Thai food wafts up as he cracks open the takeout bag. I moan loudly and without shame at the smell. “Oh my God. That smells like heaven.”

He gestures toward the grocery bag. “Did the best I could.”

I walk around to help unpack. First, I pull out a bag of peanut M&M’s. Then I see two pints of ice cream and a slice of cake. A pack of Midol and the exact box of tampons I asked for.

“You really did it,” I say, setting the box between us on the granite island. “You actually bought tampons.”

He shrugs as he continues to pull out the take-out containers, busting at the seams. “You said you were out. It’s not a big deal.”

Not a big deal? It’s a big deal to me. After the last few years of bad first dates and even worse short-term relationships, a man picking up tampons for me without complaining is a big deal.

I turn back to the rest of the items in the bags. Next, I pull out a heating blanket still in its box.

“A heating blanket?” I ask, holding it up.

He shrugs again, less nonchalant this time. “Wasn’t sure if you had one. My mom used them a lot when I was growing up for this kind of thing. I can take it back if you already have one.”

I don’t actually, but only because mine stopped working a few months ago and I forgot to buy a new one. The fact that he thought about it and went across the store to the home goods section to find it means a lot. It means he was thinking of me.

The snacks keep coming without end.

“You did all of this for me?”

“I didn’t handle the interview well today. This is my attempt at bribing you with food to forgive me.”

“I’ll admit, it’s working…”

Then I pull out the most unexpected item of the bunch—a box with a grinning French Bulldog on it.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“That’s Sproutacus. Our new plant pet.”

I blink. “I’m sorry what? You bought a Chia Pet?”

“I got us a Chia Pet,” he corrects. “Congratulations. We’re plant parents now. I was going to wait so we could name him together, but I had to kill some time waiting on the food and did some Googling. Sproutacus felt right. Strong. Resilient. He’ll need to be, in this family of overachievers.”

I stare at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement.

“Oh my God…who are you?” I chuckle.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he continues. “Once this is over, how will we amicably co-plant-parent and split weekends and holidays? But I’m not worried. We’re two mature adults. We’ll work it out for the good of Sproutacus.”

I snort. “Co-plant-parent? With you?”

“Why not?” he says, completely straight-faced. “I think we’re doing great already. Look at us—functioning, healthy, thriving. Working through our first fight. Our relationship is ready for this level of responsibility now.”

I shake my head, still stunned. Just hours ago, this man slammed the front door like he was never coming back. Now he’s buying me tampons and adopting botanical dependents.

“Can we trade off claiming him on our tax returns?”

“That’s the spirit.” He grins.

Then, without breaking his weirdly charming stride, he pushes the box of tampons closer to me.

“I’ll set up dinner. You handle…that. I’ll meet you in the living room when you’re ready.”

And for the first time in the last couple of hours, I actually believe we might survive this.

By the time I come back out, the living room has transformed. There’s a comforter spread across the couch, two big pillows, and a heating pad plugged in at the end. The coffee table is covered in takeout containers, chocolate goodies, and two forks resting on a paper plate.

Hunter is fluffing the blanket and queuing up a new chick flick on the TV. I recognize it instantly—it’s one I’ve been meaning to watch for months.

‘This is some kind of spread,’ I say, crossing my arms and watching him.

He glances over. ‘When I was a kid and I got sick, my mom would do this. Blanket on the couch, ice cream, dinner on the coffee table, cheesy movies. When she went through treatment years ago, we did this a lot. I thought since I screwed up today and you probably aren’t feeling the best, it’s a good night for it.”

I sit down, the heating pad low and warm against my back and my muscles begin to ease right away. ‘Thank you.’

He hands me a takeout box and a fork, then pulls the blanket over both our laps. ‘You’re welcome.’

We eat in silence for a while. Then he glances over. ‘I meant it. I was wrong. I shut down, and that wasn’t fair.’

‘I pushed too hard,’ I admit. ‘I know you don’t want to talk about your past. But that’s part of what the podcast is about. It’s my job. We agreed to that.’

He nods. ‘Then maybe we should talk through boundaries next time. So we’re not stepping on landmines.’

‘Deal.’

After we finish eating, Hunter gets up and returns the ice cream to the freezer. When he comes back, he dims the lights and drops onto the couch again, tossing his side of the blanket back over his legs.

Somehow, I end up nestled into his side, his arm stretched out over the back of the couch. It’s comfortable. Too comfortable. And how we got here from where we started is a wonder.

‘Is this your move?’ I tease, glancing up at him.

He snorts. ‘There’s no move happening here. I just want you to feel better.’

‘I do,’ I murmur. ‘Thank you.’

The movie plays in the background, but we’re barely watching. We’re talking and the conversation comes so easily. He’s a great listener, but he’s a great storyteller too. I bet he’d make a great podcaster someday.

“So, Bleacher Report—where did that name come from?” he asks, leaning into the corner of the couch, me up against him.

‘It was my dad’s idea,’ I say, smiling to myself and picking a tiny piece of lint from my sweats. ‘That’s what he called himself—’The Bleacher Report.’ His commentary was the best. Sometimes he’d even create commentary for when mom and I were making cookies in the kitchen, or while I was working on homework. He made trivial things seem so funny in his mock reporter voice.’

Hunter looks over, more serious now. ‘He sounds amazing.’

‘He was. He passed away three years ago from a heart attack. It was completely unexpected.”

Hunter goes quiet for a second and then runs a hand over his face. “Jesus, that’s really rough. I’m sorry that you went through that.”

I nod. “Thank you,” I tell him, looking up into his green eyes. “When I got injured, I thought I’d lost everything. He never let me believe that. He kept pushing me to find a new dream. The podcast became that dream.’

He nods. ‘I get that. When my mom was sick, I thought I had to carry everything alone. Sometimes you just need someone to sit beside you, hand you a blanket, and queue up a bad movie.’

‘You’re good at that,’ I say softly.

“Years of practice I guess.”

“Was it always just you and your mom?”

I ask the question carefully. I don’t want him to think that he has to answer. This is the closest I’ve gotten to him opening up to me. I’d never use this for the podcast, but knowing more about him will help me navigate things more easily for our next interview.

“I never met him,” he says, seeming almost distant from it. Void of any emotion. “My mom said that he was the bass player in some band she went to see. I’m the product of a one-night stand in the back of a tour bus.”

“Stop it,” I say.

He grins down at me. “I swear to God, that’s what she told me.”

I turn further to face him more clearly. I have so many questions, I don’t know where to start.

“Did she tell you who it was? What band did he play in? Oh my God… Is he still touring?”

“I don’t know any of that. She told me that she’s taking that to her grave. She didn’t want me to grow up with that lifestyle. My mom had just graduated from beauty school and inherited a salon from her aunt. She came into a lot of responsibility all at once, and she felt like it was her last summer to let loose. She didn’t expect to be pregnant with me.”

I reach out, gripping both of his shoulders. “Hunter…oh my God. You could be the son of a rock legend. Are you kidding me? This is amazing.”

“She told me that they never made it big. One hit wonders on the radio, but that was about it. We haven’t talked about it since I was in middle school.”

“Wow. And here I thought you were going to tell me that your dad is an accountant or manages hedge funds. You just rocked my world.”

“If you think that was rocking your world, then you haven’t seen anything yet.”

The smirk across his lips tells me that he’s joking, but I’d be lying if I weren’t curious how good Hunter is in bed with his reputation and all.

Luckily, we have rules in place, and I don’t plan on breaking any of them for the next two months.

Later, I change into pajamas and head into the bedroom.

The pillow wall is fluffed and ready.

Hunter’s already in bed, stretched out on top of the duvet, earbuds in, watching something on his phone. He pulls one out when I walk in, turning toward me.

“Just a reminder—we’ve got the open skate event tomorrow.”

“Oh, right…okay.”

I climb under the covers and face the wall.

“Sweet dreams, Collins,” he murmurs.

“Sweet dreams, Reed.”

The first thing I register when I wake up is drool. A line of it, wet and warm, trailing down my chin.noveldrama

The second thing I register is that I’m halfway sprawled across the pillow wall that Hunter made two nights ago because he doesn’t believe in shared bed boundaries without a literal barrier.

I groan, wiping at my face as the fog of sleep slowly clears.

The room is empty.

Except for me and the pillows that, judging by my current position, I bulldozed in my sleep.

“Fantastic,” I mutter, flopping onto my back and staring at the ceiling.

Did I climb over the pillow wall before or after he left for practice? Did he see me drooling like a feral animal? Was I starfishing across the entire bed like a menace?

Last night, sitting on the couch together, after everything he did to make it up to me from the interview, it felt like we got a little closer. But straddling the pillow wall was probably closer than he anticipated.

I grab my phone off the nightstand and hesitate for exactly three seconds before typing.

It only takes thirty seconds before my phone buzzes in response.

Another ping follows immediately—a photo attachment.

I swipe it open and groan out loud.

It’s a photo of me completely unconscious with half my face mashed into the pillow barrier, mouth slack, and yes, an unmistakable drool stain front and center.

I slap my hand to my forehead. “Oh my God.”

Another ping.

He’s flicking me crap. There is nothing about that picture that’s angel-like in any capacity, and we both know it.

I type back quickly.

The typing dots appear immediately. Then another photo pops up.

Only…this one is very different.

Hunter, sweaty and shirtless, standing in front of a full-length mirror grinning like the devil himself from inside the Hawkeyes locker room. His skates are still on, his hockey pants hanging low on his hips, and his abs are on full display, like he’s the cover model for a fitness magazine. There’s a tattoo above his left peck. It’s the first time I’ve seen it.

I nearly throw my phone across the room, but I don’t. Because, God…I can’t stop staring.

Not even close. That’s straight spank bank material, and he knows it. That’s why he’s grinning in the photo. He knows exactly what a half-naked photo of him does to the female libido.

He’s screwing with me.

He has to be. But this?

This is just plain cruel. Teasing a sex-deprived woman with locker room thirst traps?

That should be classified as psychological warfare. And now—mark my words—I’ll be dreaming about him in the shower one of these nights.

Fantastic. That’ll do wonders for keeping this arrangement complication-free.

I toss my phone onto the bed, groaning. This man is dangerous.

And I’ve officially lost control of this entire situation.

I push out of bed and head for the kitchen to make a cup of tea to start my day. I need to get back to work. At least there is a small piece of that interview that can be salvaged. Then I need to get to work on new questions to ask him that won’t lead to him storming out of the house, but that also gives me something to bring in new listeners.

On autopilot, I swipe open Instagram as I walk down the hall, scrolling straight to my podcast account, trying to move mentally past the picture of Hunter. As I enter the kitchen, I notice that the notifications are still going nuts. The kiss photo. The bid. Hunter’s smirk. My shocked face. Bethany’s icy glare in the background.

Everyone’s still eating it up. I figured after a few days it all would have died down by now. I guess I was wrong.

Subscriber Count: 78,450

That’s up by almost nine thousand since yesterday.

My stomach flips again, but this time for a different reason.

It’s working.

Whether it was the kiss, the drama, or the fact that Hunter Reed’s name is now attached to my podcast—it’s working. And if I can lock in a better interview and keep the momentum going, I might actually pull this off.

Fake boyfriend.

Real headlines.

Career on the line.

And then my mind decides to wander without my consent. Movie night, heating pad, being spoiled by a man who’s done more for me in a few hours than all my worthless relationships combined.

I shake the thought away. I’m not going there. Especially not with the infamous serial dater of the Hawkeyes hockey team. The only reason he did what he did last night was to get back in my good graces—that’s all.

I glance over at the kitchen windowsill, surprised to see Sproutacus already out of his box, watered, and ready for the morning—with a French bulldog sticky note that Hunter must have grabbed out of my office after he set Sproutacus up.

Morning plant mom. Have a great day.

-Your son

I laugh out loud… Of course, he would go to that level.

But now it has me wondering. Did Hunter go to all this trouble to cheer me up…or is this some long-game prank that I’m not seeing?

Prank or no prank, this fake thing with Hunter has to work.

Because if it doesn’t…I’m out of time to line someone else up at this point.

I back out of my social media screen, and then I see an email notification from Rebecca.

My stomach dips as I swipe it open.

Subject: Podcast Development Check-In — Deadline Approaching

Peyton,

Just checking in to see how everything is coming along. We only have two months left on our deadline, and the other podcast hosts have submitted their teaser clips.

I know you mentioned that you had the Hunter Reed interview yesterday. We would love to get something on that interview asap.

Daily Sports just surpassed you on subscribers, and Mobile Mayhem just got the hot new Seattle Sentinels footballer to spill about his elopement with that pop princess everyone is talking about.

The media is still gossiping about why Bethany Richards is still hanging around. Your interview with Hunter on his past with her and what happened in New Jersey four years ago could be the thing that pushes you over the top.

I’m not supposed to have favorites…but let’s just say, I’m rooting for you.

Rebecca Almasy

Podcast Division Producer

I read the email twice, then once more, hoping it might magically say something different the third time.

It doesn’t.

I’m falling behind.

Rebecca rooting for me is great and all, but at the end of the day, she’s not making the call on her own. It’s the board, which includes her and three other executives. I have to win all of them over, and I have to start by nailing this interview.

I knew the whole point of this insane fake dating arrangement was to secure Hunter’s interview and catapult me to the top of the list. But seeing it in writing, knowing the other two podcasts are already ahead of me…it hits differently now.

My mind races with every worst-case scenario possible. If I don’t land this deal, if I don’t get that interview and hit the one hundred thousand subscriber mark, the network will choose someone else. The rent on this townhouse, the studio equipment, the hours I’ve dumped into Bleacher Report—it’ll all be for nothing.

The anxiety is building so fast I can barely breathe.

I pull up another social media app, more out of habit than curiosity. But as soon as I open it, my feed is a minefield.

There we are—Hunter and me, frozen mid-kiss at the charity auction, splashed across every headline.

NHL’s Hunter Reed Off the Market?

Who Is Peyton Collins and How Did She Snag Hockey’s Hottest Bachelor?

Peyton Collins Scores Big—Is This Relationship the Real Deal?

I scroll, the captions all blurring together.

Some comments are sweet.

Some are skeptical.

And some…cutting.

He’s a player. He’ll chew her up and spit her out.

Didn’t he get spotted last month with that Brazilian model?

Pretty sure Bethany Richards isn’t done with him yet—girl better watch her back.

This is fake AF.

She’s just another puck bunny with a podcast mic.

My stomach twists, because I can’t stop myself from reading them even though I know better.

I swipe the screen off, pushing the phone away like it’s radioactive.

This is exactly why I made the rules. Why I told him no sex, no puck bunnies, no blurring the lines.

Because I’ve seen what happens when you believe in something that isn’t real.

The memory hits me before I can shove it down.

My dad, sitting in the bleachers at every single tennis meet, even after my injury, even when I quit.

Telling me I was still the best, even when I wasn’t.

He would’ve told me to trust myself.

To stop reading the comments.

To play the game my way.

I close my eyes and breathe him in, like he’s still sitting across from me, coaching me from the sidelines.

But I can’t call him now.

I can’t call anyone.

Because right now, the person I’m pretending to fall for…is the only one who could actually break me.