Page 10

This one zoomed in on Bethany’s icy glare in the background as Hunter’s lips crashed onto mine. The comments are a disaster:

@HockeyChick85: I’m living for this drama.

@PuckPrincess: OMG Hunter has a girlfriend?!

@BleacherFanGirl: Who is she and how do I become her?!

@GoalieWife77: Is that Bethany Richards in the background?! Someone grab the popcorn.

@SeattleSportsBuzz: Look at the way he looks at her after the kiss. That man is in love.

My pulse hammers in my throat. It’s everywhere—there’s even a trending hashtag:

#ReedAndBleacherBabe

There’s a small, shameful thrill seeing myself on the screen, looking like someone who belongs in his world—the world of hockey and WAGs.

But it’s tangled with something sharp and dangerous too.

Because none of this is real.

And no amount of headlines, GIFs, or internet theories can change that.

With Hunter moving in tonight, I need to make sure we set ground rules.

Boundaries. Clear lines in the sand.

Because no matter what Abby thinks, I am absolutely, one hundred percent not sleeping with Hunter Reed.

Hunter

There’s a knock at my door.

I freeze, halfway through cramming a hoodie into the duffel bag at my feet. Sweat clings to my back from the morning run I cut short, my running shoes untied and damp against the hardwood.

The knock comes again—louder this time.

For one irrational second, my heart spikes in panic. Bethany.

She already slid her spare apartment key under my door last night. I found it when I got home from the charity event, a shiny little threat lying on my welcome mat. I’d gone to Oakley’s afterward with the team, staying out as late as possible just in case she was waiting in the shadows.

But when I crack the door open, it’s not her.

It’s Trey—already dressed for the gym, arms crossed, full-sleeve tattoos making him look more menacing than he is and giving me that you’re a dumbass look he’s perfected over the years in special forces for the Army.

I blow out a breath, the tension leaking out of my shoulders. “Jesus.”

“You coming or what?” Trey asks, stepping inside without waiting.

“Just give me a minute. I had to cut the run short this morning." I nod toward the key and the folded note sitting on the kitchen counter. "Got a little…distracted."

Trey crosses the room, picks up the note, and skims it.

Hunter—

Here’s a key to my place. Come by anytime, day or night.

Don’t bother with the condoms… you know how I like to get messy.

He shakes his head. “Holy shit. You weren’t kidding. She’s out for you.”

"Yeah," I mutter, dragging a hand over my face. "Welcome to the nightmare. She’s trying to convince Everett to make a trade for me."

Trey’s head snaps up. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Nope.”

His gaze sweeps over the half-packed duffel, the shirts tossed over the back of the couch, my jacket slung across a chair. “You’re really doing this?”

“Yep.” I zip the bag shut and toss it onto the pile. “Moving in with Peyton.”

Trey whistles low under his breath. “You know, I’ve seen you do a lot of dumb shit in the last ten months, but this might crack the top five.”

“Yeah, well…” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “Last night was chaos. Bethany showing up, Peyton bidding on me, that kiss…”

Trey’s brows lift, but he doesn’t say anything.

I ignore him. “And now I’m packing a bag like a runaway teenager to move in with a woman I barely know—all so I can avoid another woman who’s half my size.”

Trey lets out a dry laugh. “You’re a real inspiration, man.”

I shake my head, slinging the duffel over my shoulder. This is really happening. I’m moving into a stranger’s house to avoid the disaster that’s been my love life and career.

For the first time since last night, I feel it hit me—how completely insane this is.

An hour later, I show up at Peyton's place. I knock and she opens the door, stepping aside to let me in.

“You’re early,” she says.

“No better time than the present,” I say, though I leave out that my ex is already leaving me apartment keys and all-access invitations to sleep with her day or night.

I couldn’t stay there for another minute. I needed out.

“You’re sure about this?” I ask, voice lower than I mean it to be. “You don’t have to do this.”

Peyton crosses her arms and leans against the wall. “I already signed up for this circus; I might as well ride the elephant.”

My brows lift, and before I can stop myself, I toss her a crooked smirk. “Didn’t realize it was going to be that kind of living arrangement, but you’re welcome to ride me anytime you want.”

Her eyes go wide, cheeks flushing instantly. “No! I—God, that’s not what I meant.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. The first real one I’ve had all day. “Relax, Collins. I was kidding.”

She mutters something under her breath about regretting her life choices, but there’s the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

And damn it, my smirk turns into a full-blown smile. God help me, fake dating Peyton might actually turn out to be fun.

As I step further inside, I can’t help but notice her décor.

It’s not just neat; it’s curated. Framed photos line the walls, and my gaze catches on a framed tennis racket hanging just above the couch.

A Wimbledon poster hangs nearby, and I can’t help but feel a pang of curiosity mixed with admiration.

“Is that…?” I point toward the racket, trying to ask without sounding too interested.

Peyton follows my gaze, and her expression shifts slightly, almost wistful. “Yeah. That was my dad's. He played a bit when he was younger. I never got to enter the Wimbledon tournament, but it was always my dream.”

“Wimbledon, huh?” I say, genuinely intrigued. “What happened?”

She shrugs, a flicker of something passing over her face, maybe regret or loss. “Injury. I had a really bad fall during a qualifier. It was one of those moments where everything just…changed.”

I can see it—the way her eyes dim slightly, like she’s recalling something painful but still precious. It makes me want to know more. “I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know you were a competitive athlete.”

“Yeah, well, not many do. I’m just a podcaster who knows a lot about hockey now.” She chuckles lightly, but I can hear the undercurrent of sadness in her voice.

“That’s impressive, though. I had no idea. You must’ve had some serious skills to even qualify.” I try to keep my tone light, but there’s a weight to her story that pulls at me.

“Thanks. It was a different life, I guess.” She shrugs again, but I can tell it’s more than that. “But this is my life now, and I’m making it work.”

“Moving in with a hockey player is definitely a shift,” I remark, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re in for a wild ride.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to go all fangirl on you. Just remember, this is business.”

I nod, but deep down, I can’t help but feel a spark of something more—an interest in her that goes beyond the surface. This is a woman who’s fought hard for her dreams, just like me, and there’s something admirable about that.

I’m not just moving in with a podcaster; I’m moving in with someone who’s had her own battles. Someone who might just understand what it means to fight for what she wants.

As I take a step further into her space, the tension from earlier begins to dissipate. Maybe this arrangement won’t be so bad after all.