Page 12

Peyton

Waking up this morning to an empty bed almost had me wondering if Hunter moving in last night was all a dream.

Then I saw the pillow wall, a small block of his clothes hanging in my walk-in closet, and the image of his toothbrush in the hallway bathroom.

Yep, his signature is all over my place now.

I take a deep breath, sitting in my podcast studio down the hall from my bedroom, trying to calm the jittery nerves swirling in my stomach. Today is the day—the first interview with Hunter Reed—and somehow, it feels like the most important moment of my entire life.

I’ve interviewed arguably bigger names before—hall-of-famers, gold medalists, coaches with decades of legacy behind them—but none of them came with this much baggage. None of them came with the sharp edge of unresolved rumors or the kind of fandom that’s ready to eat me alive if I mess this up.

Because Hunter Reed doesn’t just come with a strong slapshot and a devastating dimple.

He comes with a rabid fan base, a trail of half-true headlines, and a stubborn refusal to talk about any of it.

He’s never done a podcast interview before—never opened up on record.

And now with our deal to help each other firmly in place, evident from the smell of his body wash from his morning shower still wafting through the hallway, I’d say it’s my turn to cash in on our deal.

No pressure.

I glance down at the mic, already set up, double-checked for sound quality and levels. My notes are neatly typed and stacked beside me, along with a backup list of questions in case he clams up on the hard stuff. And he will. I can already feel it.

But I have a job to do.

And it’s more than just scoring a good soundbite.

Because if this goes well? I’ll be one step closer to locking in that syndication deal the network’s been dangling in front of me like a carrot.

And if it goes great? I could finally cement The Bleacher Report as a must-listen podcast in the sports world—no longer the underdog in a saturated market.

But if it flops? If I screw this up and Hunter Reed walks out of here with nothing but regret for the deal he made?

Then everything I’ve worked for over the past three years—every late night, every equipment upgrade I couldn’t afford, every guest I begged to take a chance on me—goes down the drain.

And worse than all of that?

It’ll feel like I failed him—my dad.

I roll my chair back from the desk and grab my favorite mug from the shelf—a white ceramic one with “Microphones & Mayhem” printed in bold across the front, a gift from Abby when I hit my first twenty-five thousand subscribers. I never do an interview without it.

Does that make me superstitious? Probably, but I don’t care. Everyone has their thing and this one is mine. The hot tea and honey help to keep my throat from getting scratchy with all the takes I do in the editing process.

I hold it like it’s a lucky charm as I glance at the framed photo on my desk—me at twelve, drenched in sweat after a match, holding a plastic trophy in one hand and my dad’s in the other. He’s smiling like I’d just won Wimbledon. I hadn’t even made it past regionals. But to him? Every win mattered.

He used to say, “Every match tells a story, kiddo. You just have to be brave enough to tell it.”

When I blew out my knee at fourteen and my tennis dreams ended, I lost more than just a sport. I lost the one place where I felt like I knew who I was. And when I lost him, three years ago to a heart attack, I lost my compass completely.

But this podcast? It became my way back. My way to tell the stories he would’ve wanted to hear. To amplify the athletes who’ve fallen and clawed their way back. To find the people who’ve lived through the hard stuff and are still standing.

Just like me.

This isn’t just about audience numbers or ad sponsors or nailing the perfect opener.

This is about making it count. For the girl I used to be. For the man who never stopped believing in her.

And most of all, for the story we’re about to tell.

Because whether he likes it or not, Hunter Reed is part of it now.

My phone buzzes.

Rebecca: Just checking in! Can’t wait to hear what you and Hunter come up with. We’ll be listening closely. The producer making the call on this just so happens to be a big fan of Hunter’s.

A not-so-subtle reminder of the pressure riding on today’s interview. Great.

I glance over at the extra mic I set up last night. Hunter still hasn’t seen the inside of the studio. Not really. When he moved in, he peeked in the door, made a joke about how official it looked, and left it alone. Today, there’s no avoiding it.

The door creaks open.

"Whoa," Hunter says, stepping inside. He’s in a dark Henley and jeans, the kind of casual that shouldn’t be allowed to look that good.

His eyes sweep over the soundproofed walls, the acoustic tiles, and the shelf of guest mementos I’ve collected over the years—signed hockey pucks, tennis balls, a coffee sleeve from a certain world-ranked surfer who refused to drink from anything else.

He nods slowly. "This is...intense."

"It’s just a studio, Reed. Not the Pentagon."

"Yeah, but it’s your studio," he says, stepping closer to the mic. "This is where the magic happens, huh?"

"Only if you behave," I mutter, motioning to the seat across from mine.

He grins and drops into the chair. "I’ll do my best."

The way he flops into the chair gives the dismissive, unserious vibe I’m used to seeing with him. Calm, assured…so cool he couldn’t melt butter. But there’s just a slight tension in his shoulders that I suspect he doesn’t want me to see.

I check the levels on the soundboard and do a quick test record of our intro. He listens without talking, his gaze tracking me, curious.

"Are you always this focused when you’re working?" he asks.

"Only when the interview might decide the future of my entire career."

That earns me a half-smile.

He reached for a bright pink Post-it notepad sitting between us in the shape of a French Bulldog.

“What are these for?” he asks, his thumb rubbing over the neon pink paper.

“Inspiration I guess? I don’t have time for a dog, so this is the closest thing I have to a pet. But I’m hoping once I get this syndication deal and things calm down, I can get one.”

He nods. “Too busy for real animals…I can relate,” he says, and then sets the Post-it notepad back where it was.

I pull my “interview” mug up to my lips and take a sip of my hot tea.

“What are you drinking?” he asks.

“Peppermint tea with a little bit of honey. It helps soothe my throat during interviews…and it’s calming.”

He nods again and glances around the rest of my desk, trying to find new things he didn’t notice when I showed him the studio yesterday.

"You ready to get started?" I ask, adjusting my headphones.

"Ready as I’ll ever be."

I hit record.

"Welcome back to Bleacher Report , where the stories run deeper than the headlines. I’m Peyton Collins, and today, I’m sitting down with Seattle Hawkeyes defenseman Hunter Reed. Hunter, thanks for joining me."

"Thanks for having me."

The first few minutes are unexpectedly smooth.

Hunter’s good on mic—like, really good. He’s got that natural charisma, the kind that doesn’t need rehearsed lines or heavy edits.

He’s funny, confident, just the right amount of cocky.

It throws me a little…in a good way. For the first time since hitting record, I start to relax.

And my mom was right. Hunter’s voice is so sexy on radio that even I would tune in to hear him read the warning label on a can of paint thinner.

“So,” I say, leaning into the mic with a smile in my voice, “you’re known in the locker room as being the prankster of the group.

Is that a Hawkeyes thing, or have you always been this much of a menace?

” I ask, earning me a quiet chuckle from across the room.

“And what’s the best prank you’ve ever pulled off? ”

He grins, eyes lighting with mischief. “Let’s just say I was born with a calling,” he says. “My poor kindergarten teacher still probably flinches every time she sees a whoopee cushion.”

I laugh, already regretting asking. “Oh no, you were that kid.”

“The worst,” he confirms proudly. “But I only prank people I like. I don’t do it with malice.

The best one? Probably the time I hacked the mic during post-game interviews and turned the voice to helium before Coach Wrenley sat down.

He had no clue until he started talking and everyone in the press room laughed so hard, tears were streaming down reporters' faces.”

I choke back a laugh. “It was you who did that?”

I remember that post-game interview. It made its rounds for weeks. Coach Wrenley on the other hand, didn’t seem very happy about it.

“Listen, it was either that or the life-size cutout of his wife in a ref’s jersey. I’m saving that one for the playoffs.”

“Oh my God,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You are a menace.”

He winks. “You invited the chaos, sweetheart. I’m just living up to expectations.”

And somehow…I’m not even mad about it.

“Did he retaliate?” I ask.

“Yep, loosened one of the blades on my skates before he made me do laps the next day at practice. I didn’t know until I was halfway around the rink and I lost my blade.

He made me do ten laps with only one skate.

He made sure we had leg day in the gym the next morning. I could barely walk for a week.”

I cover my mouth to keep from busting up laughing. I can’t even imagine picking on Coach Wrenley.

I glance down at my notes, and I wish that we could keep up this energy. It’s going so well. But the network and the fans have questions, and it’s my job to get answers…or at least try to.

"So," I say with a teasing tilt to my voice. "Hunter, the media has pegged you as a bit of a playboy. Love them and leave them type. How do you feel about that? And are they correct?"