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Peyton

The buzzer screams. The crowd groans. And just like that, the Hawkeyes lose. At home.

The Hawkeyes gave it everything—but effort doesn’t always equal points.

“Well, that was shit,” I hear a fan behind me mutter to the person sitting next to him.

His friend responds with the same annoyed tone. “Can you believe number seventy-two missed that goal in the second period? Maybe New Jersey was right to ship him off to their farm team for the last four years.”

“How the hell did Coach Haynes think Reed was a good enough replacement for Kaenan Altman? What a downgrade.”

Another voice cuts through the press box chatter.

“Fifty bucks says Kauffman trades him before midseason. They need a stronger defender.”

Number seventy-two.

Hunter Reed.

The Hawkeyes’ newest left defenseman—and the player every network executive is foaming at the mouth over.

Not because of his stats, though those speak for themselves.

Because of the scandal.

Everyone wants to know what really happened between Reed, his old team in New Jersey, and Kevin Richards—the billionaire franchise owner who benched him just months after drafting him out of college at twenty-two years old in the first round five years ago.

It was supposed to be a career-making move.

But instead of headlines about hat tricks and rookie awards, the only thing the media got was silence.

Then the whispers started.

About Richards’s wife. Young. Beautiful. Always in the owner’s box for every home game.

And, allegedly, very interested in the team's new star defenseman.

Since then, Reed’s been a walking headline—fast on the ice, faster off it. The league might’ve buried the gossip, but fans haven’t. Especially the female ones sitting down by the plexiglass in REED jerseys and glossy lipstick, snapping selfies and begging for his attention.

They don’t care if he broke the rules or just broke hearts.

All anyone wants to know is what kind of off-ice skills Hunter Reed has between the sheets—because apparently, they were enough to lure a billionaire’s wife straight out of her country club life.

Even if it was just for a few stolen minutes in a dirty locker room.

Or so the rumor goes.

His demotion to the farm team didn’t hurt his game with his female fans—not even a little.

The charm, the wit, the hockey uniform…even without an NHL crest on the front of it for the past five years, it still worked just fine for him.

Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, Reed is a rookie again, and it hasn’t changed his serial dating ways.

For half a decade, Hunter Reed’s been snapped with puck bunnies, models, and a rotating roster of weekend companions who he rarely keeps around longer than a brunch reservation.

For a guy who parades his flings through upscale restaurants and velvet-rope nightclubs, you’d think he’d be more open about his personal life. But when the topic comes up in interviews? He smirks, shrugs, and claims he just likes meeting new people.

Cue the chuckles from the boys’ club press pool. The occasional follow-up gets the usual brush-off—“No comment,” “Nothing to tell,” or my personal favorite, “None of your damn business.”

It’s cocky. Infuriating. And—if we’re being honest—a little bit effective.

But now? Now he’s in Seattle. Back in the NHL, wearing Hawkeyes colors and carrying more than just a bad-boy reputation.

Because if he wants to keep Everett Kauffman happy—the new team owner who signed the purchase deal, with one of the conditions being that Hunter got a spot on the roster—then he needs to start heating up the ice, not just the sheets.

And me? I need to convince him to spill every last scandal-soaked secret if I want to lock down this syndication deal.

Hunter Reed has never talked about New Jersey. Not to the press. Not on any podcast. Not once.

Which means if—and that’s a massive if—I can land the interview, it could finally be enough to clinch the syndication deal I’ve been chasing.

Rebecca Jones, the only woman on the board of network execs making the decision, is rooting for me—quietly. She let it slip that one of the other execs is a massive New Jersey fan and would kill to hear Reed’s side of the story on their network.

It’s the biggest lead I’ve ever had.

My in . My opportunity. And the stakes couldn’t be higher.

Two months. That’s how long I have to prove I can do this—to land Reed, boost my subscriber list from seventy-three thousand to one hundred thousand, and convince the board that The Bleacher Report podcast deserves to go syndicated.

But none of it matters if I can’t get him to say yes.

And that’s the part that’s been gnawing at me all game.

Because this guy only does post-game press.

No appearances. No interviews.

Just his stick, his smirk, his dating record, and the rumor mill nipping at his heels.

He also just so happens to be the holy grail of podcast guests that the execs are looking for—and the most ungettable.

And honestly? I don’t know if I’m enough to land him.

Not when I’m competing against sports podcasters with million-follower platforms and full-time teams. Not when half the board still thinks women in sports media are a cute PR move instead of a serious voice.

Not when my twenty-six years of life have most broadcasters mistake me for some press exec’s personal assistant when I walk in the door instead of their equal with a press badge of my very own.

Not when the only real edge I have is hustle. And one exec quietly whispering, “I believe in you. Don’t take no for an answer.”

I pack up my notebook, fingers twitching with nerves as I glance down toward the ice. Reed’s mad after that missed puck. It’s evident in his rigid body movement when he’s usually smooth on the ice.

He skates toward the tunnel, helmet off, jaw tight, hair sweaty and perfect in a way that shouldn’t be allowed.

If I want this deal, I need Hunter Reed.

And if I want Hunter Reed ?

I’ll need to be strategic. Persistent. And maybe a little lucky.

Because there are only two months left. And if I blow this shot…

I don’t get another.

I watch as the rest of the players follow suit, skating off the ice with shoulders sagging. Coach Haynes trails them in a sharp navy suit, his jaw clenched like he’s chewing on the taste of defeat. Coach Wrenley is the last to leave the bench, and the scowl on his face could melt the damn rink.

With most of the old roster retired in the last two years, the Hawkeyes are still trying to find their rhythm—though with December breathing down their necks, they’re running out of time to figure it out. If they don’t lock in soon, playoffs will just be another pipe dream.

All around me, fans rise from their seats, the air thick with stale beer, frustration, and hope circling the drain. Turquoise and white jerseys shuffle toward the exits, crumpled popcorn bags and half-empty drinks littering the floor like battlefield debris.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, plastering my phone up to my ear, unsure if I’ll be able to make out a word she says over the crowd around me. “Can you hear me? I’m still in the stadium.”

“Yeah, I can hear you. What a tough loss. How’s the crowd?” she asks, a little loud to make sure I can hear her.

“Pissed off as you can imagine.”

“I’m sure they are. Have you gotten a chance to talk to Hunter Reed yet? That’s who Rebecca wants you to score an interview with, right?”

I let out a sigh, remembering the sight of Hunter skating off the ice only a few minutes ago, chucking his helmet into the player box as he stepped off the ice and then stormed down the player tunnel and out of sight.

He’s not happy with his performance tonight—that I can be sure of.

I have a feeling tonight might not be the best night for asking for a favor, but I have to try.

If Rebecca is right, and I can deliver on a podcast interview that one of the other network executives wants, it will be worth putting myself out there.

A little self-doubt creeps in as I consider the other players I could ask tonight, who looked a little less pissed off at the loss than Hunter, and might agree to my podcast guest request. But I know who I need.

“Yeah. That’s the one. But maybe I shouldn’t press my luck. He hasn’t interviewed for a podcast in years, and I’m running out of time to get these interviews in before the network makes a decision. Maybe I should just ask someone else who’s more of a sure thing.”

I hear the faint sound of the TV on in the background, and I imagine her sitting on her couch, probably with my nephew Jesse somewhere close by.

“Don’t back down. You can do this. You just have to play by their rules once, and then you’re home free. Besides, your numbers aren’t just going to magically appear because you want them to, and getting this interview with Hunter Reed is going to do wonders for your female listeners.”

She’s right, of course. She usually is—even when I don’t want to hear it.

“My female listeners?” I ask, though I know exactly where she’s going with this.

“Of course. Hunter Reed is a sex pot. And have you heard that deep voice during post-game interviews? Girls will be tuning in just to hear him read the warning label on a bottle of paint thinner—just you wait.”

I laugh, though I know she’s right. “Sex pot? You’re aging yourself, mother. And even if I did convince him to come on my show, I doubt he’ll give me the story everyone wants.”

“Then find another angle that gets him more comfortable. You’re Peyton freakin’ Collins. You didn’t let a blown-out knee stop you from staying in the game, and you’re not going to let one stubborn hockey player tank your shot at syndication.”

Her voice is sharp, encouraging, and exactly what I need.

“Maybe you’re right?” I say.

I could use the vote of confidence right about now.