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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.

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.

Peyton : Sorry if I woke you up. Pretty sure I staged a full-blown invasion over the pillow wall.

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

Hunter : You didn’t wake me up. You were too busy drooling on enemy territory.

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.

Hunter : Made it my home screen.

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

Another ping.

Hunter : You’re so angelic when you’re fast asleep.

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.

Peyton : Delete or die.

Hunter : Never. You’ll have to catch me first.

Peyton : That’s not fair. I don’t have any embarrassing photos of you.

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.

Hunter : Here. Something for your screensaver. Now we’re even.

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.

Peyton : Oh my God, Hunter. That’s not what I wanted.

Hunter : I’m headed for the showers. Would you rather I take it from there?

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.