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His mouth curves into a smirk, like I just walked right into something he was hoping for.

"I think if anyone could set that record straight, it would be you, wouldn’t it, sweetheart?

Do you think I’m the love ’em and leave ’em kind?

And be careful what you say, honey. Remember, you have to sleep next to me tonight. "

I blink.

Right. I forgot we’re fake dating—though, his smug grin across from me says he hasn’t. He just sidestepped my question like a pro, and there’s nothing I can do about it without blowing our cover.

Fine. Two can play at this game.

“Of course,” I say, recovering quickly. “I suppose our relationship dispels that rumor, doesn’t it?”

It’s not a question. We both know that as far as the public is concerned, our “relationship” makes him look like a reformed playboy. A guy who’s finally settled down.

I glance at my notes and decide to push forward. Carefully.

“That’s actually a great segue into the rumors about you that I’m sure your audience would love for you to address.

You’ve been publicly connected to the New Jersey owner’s wife, Bethany Richards.

Some say that’s the real reason you spent four years in the farm league.

Would you like to set the record straight? ”

There’s a beat of silence—so still it makes my pulse roar in my ears.

Hunter's posture changes instantly. Gone is the relaxed slouch, the teasing smile. His eyes narrow. His jaw locks. The air shifts. He leans forward and—without breaking eye contact—reaches up and covers the mic with one broad hand.

We’re not live but he’s being cautious.

His voice is quiet but as sharp as a blade.

“I told you that she wasn’t part of the interview deal.”

“If you’ll recall, excluding Bethany was only part of your initial offer. Your counteroffer included the townhouse, and your mother was the only exclusion you presented.”

His eyes narrow and turn dark, maybe he didn’t realize that he forgot to add Bethany back into his exclusion list but that’s not my problem. His body stiffens from its previously relaxed position.

I’ve crossed a line he’s not comfortable with, and I could have gone in softer than I did, but he’s better at sidestepping questions than I thought he’d be which means I need to be more aggressive if I want to get what the network execs are looking for.

I glance at the mic under his hand, then back at him. “This isn’t live,” I say softly, trying to keep things from spiraling. “You’ll have full control over the edit.”

His nostrils flare. “And you think that matters to me? You knew that I didn’t want to talk about my past—you knew I wanted to keep it off the record. Are ratings all you care about?”

“I care about finding the truth,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can, “the truth that everyone else is already digging for. You’ve let them believe New Jersey’s story for four years. This is a chance to set the record straight—your words. Your way.”

He removes his hand from the mic.

“I’m not interested in entertaining trash rumors that no one should be reading into,” he says tightly.

I can practically see the steam rising off his body now.

“So, New Jersey just made a bad call by signing you to a multi-million-dollar contract, only to bench you from the NHL? That’s your story?” I press, my voice steady, but inside, I’m bracing for the fallout.

“I think that people should stick to the facts they know and not rumors circulated by every pop-up podcast with a microphone and sports media sleuths online that have no idea what the hell they’re talking about.

Maybe if they were real journalists, they’d have factual information to discuss instead of clickbait trash with no basis. ”

Was that a dig at me? Does he consider me a pop-up podcast or a sports media sleuth?

I remind myself to keep my cool. He’s not the only guest I’ve ever hit a rough patch with, and I can usually iron out the issues, but the tension in the room thickens. I can feel the air crackle between us. I open my mouth to respond.

“So, you’re saying that the rumors have no truth whatsoever?”

He leans forward, eyes intense, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “I’m saying that you’re walking on hot coals, Collins, and you’re a few more steps away from getting burned.”

My heart kicks harder. His eyes burn like a warning that if I’m not careful, I’m going to lose this interview.

Whether I’m in the right that his relationship with Bethany and New Jersey should be on the table, there’s obviously far more to this story that has him reacting like this.

I glance at the soundboard, wondering if I should pivot.

Defuse. Walk it back. But I can’t—not completely.

This was always going to come up. We both knew that.

It's part of the deal. His fame is tangled in this mess.

And if I avoid the hard questions now, what does that say about me?

What does that say to my listeners or to the network who are watching how I handle hard questions with guests?

Not to mention that part of our deal was that we agreed to discuss Bethany, whether he remembers it or not.

“I’m not trying to blindside you,” I say quietly. “But this is the story people are already telling. I thought you’d want the chance to reclaim it.”

His jaw ticks. A muscle pulses in his cheek. And then, for the briefest second, something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe. Or fury barely held in check.

“You think I don’t know what people say?” he mutters, eyes flashing. “You think I haven’t spent four damn years waking up before the sun, working through injuries, rebuilding every scrap of what I lost—just to have it all reduced to locker room gossip and rumors about a woman I never touched?”

I swallow hard. “Then say that. Say it into the mic. Tell people the truth.”

He stands. Abrupt. The chair screeches against the floor.

“Hunter—wait,” I say quickly, my voice catching. “Please don’t walk out.”

He doesn’t move toward the door. Not yet.

“I don’t owe anyone the truth,” he snaps. “Especially not just so you can land your beloved syndication deal.”

That hurts more than I expect it to. Maybe because he just made an assumption that I have no heart or soul. That I’m willing to sell him out for a network spot. I just want to be taken seriously as a journalist who can give guests a safe place to tell their stories.

But he’s not done.

“I didn’t crawl my way back to the NHL just to be dragged back into the mud,” he says, quieter now—but deadly serious. “I won’t go willingly.”

His gaze cuts into me, sharp and clear. “So next time you come looking for soundbites, maybe pick someone who wants to be part of your story.”

Then he turns.

And this time, when he walks out, he doesn’t look back.

The studio door slams behind him, the walls shaking from his force, and the silence that follows is louder than anything he said.

I sit there, blinking at the empty chair across from me. The mic still recording. The flashing red light like a heartbeat.

And then I hear it—the engine of his truck roaring to life outside, loud and angry. It fades into the distance like a match lit and blown out too fast.

I sit there, frozen, the silence in the room deafening.

Just me. The mic. The blinking red light that shows it’s still recording, and the terrible ache of something I can’t name.

A text from my mom lights up the phone screen.

Mom: How’d the interview go? Can’t wait to hear it. I’m so proud of you, honey.

I don’t respond.

I just turn the phone face down on the desk and stare at the photo of my dad again. The edges are worn. His smile still steady. Still proud.

Even now.

I wish I could believe he’d still be proud of me after this.

Because I don’t know if I am.