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“I am right. About everything, too. Have you seen him stretch out on the ice before the game? That man can do the splits. On ice. In slow motion. I’m widowed, not dead, Peyton.”

Despite everything, I laugh.

Dad passed away three years ago. A heart attack out of nowhere. One day he was cheering for my podcast launch, and the next…he was gone. He and Mom had been married over thirty years. Since then, she’s taken care of everything and everyone.

“I’m just not sure it’s going to be as easy as you think.

He’s impossible to pin down. Unless you're a puck bunny.” I say the last part under my breath, pulling the phone's mic away from my mouth as I weave past a couple arguing about missed penalties. “Reed treats basic questions like they’re classified military intel. I doubt he’d even tell me his favorite cereal. ”

The guy in front of me wears a REED, seventy-two jersey.

Of course he does.

It’s like the universe is taunting me.

“That’s motivation, sweetheart. Nothing worth doing in life is easy. That’s just a fact. And while I have you, I’m just checking to make sure that you’re going to Jesse’s career day. He’s been telling all his classmates that his aunt is famous.”

I laugh at how my twelve-year-old nephew, Jesse, might be my biggest fan.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

Jesse was born with spina bifida. He’s brilliant—wicked smart—but the world isn’t always built for kids in wheelchairs. This is his third school in four years, each move just to find a building that could accommodate his needs without treating him like a burden.

I get it—I do. Everyone is trying to do the best for Jesse.

But it’s hard enough as a kid to make new friends in a new school, and Jesse’s had to do it more than I feel he should have.

My brother Noah re-enlisted in the Army for medical insurance, and to pay to put him through special physical therapy and surgeries that insurance won’t cover.

He’s currently stationed overseas for another three months.

Abby, his wife, works full-time as a nurse and saves all her PTO for Jesse’s surgeries and appointments.

Mom’s the one who picks up the slack. Retired, full-time grandma, chauffeur, and emotional backbone of the family.

My dad left her a good enough life insurance policy to make sure that she could pay off the house and focus her energy on us instead.

His way of still taking care of us even after he left this earth. That’s the kind of man he was.

I’m on for career day—again. And I’m happy to do it. I just wish he had someone besides me—the same aunt he used for career day at his last school.

We chat quickly about my brother Will’s call home from Japan, and we agree on a time for Thanksgiving dinner next week.

“Gotta go. Kiss the kid for me,” I tell her.

“Will do. And Peyton?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got this. He’s just a man. A very limber, very attractive man—but still just a man.”

Sometimes I swear her belief in me is so strong, she could convince me I can walk through brick walls.

And at this very moment, I’d probably rather do that than try to convince Hunter Reed to do an interview with me.

Soon enough, I make my way down to the belly of the Hawkeyes Stadium, flashing the press badge Cammy Wrenley forwarded me earlier.

After two months of trying to wedge myself into Penelope Matthews’s calendar for last week’s interview, Cammy and I have exchanged enough emails to qualify as casual friends.

Or co-conspirators.

She gets it—what it’s like trying to be heard in a room full of men who think their opinions come with a whistle and a clipboard.

The network’s words from two weeks ago still echo in my head: “We love your content, Peyton, but we need to see at least one hundred thousand subscribers and some high-profile interviews before we can talk syndication. You’ve got eight weeks to show us what you can do.”

That was two weeks ago. This means I only have six weeks left and no winning interview guest in my sights—until today.

Twenty-seven thousand short. And one elusive, too-charming-for-his-own-good hockey player who could change everything—if he’d just spill a few details about past or current relationships.

I hang up, shaking my head. This isn’t going to be easy, but I don’t need easy …I just need it to be possible .

Inside, the press room is chaotic. Cameras. Elbows. Six-foot-something reporters with zero spatial awareness.

A pissed-off Coach Wrenley steps up to the podium. I have a feeling that’s how these interviews are going to go. No player enjoys the press when they have to talk about a loss.

I get it—I’ve been there. And as a tennis player, you don’t have a team’s shoulders to help carry a loss. The loss is all your own.

Just like this network loss will be only mine to bear alone if I don’t make something happen.

I rise onto my tiptoes and catch a glimpse of Hunter Reed walking in now.

Jaw clenched. Eyes dark. No signature smirk in sight.

He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

I open up my phone recording app and hit play, doing my best to ignore the twist of anxiety tightening beneath my ribs.

I’m not usually in person for press conferences post-game. I can get the intel I need from watching playbacks online when I’m researching a guest who will be on my show, but since I’m here…why not get the full experience?

However, the experience is turning out to be less than optimal.

I’m squeezed in, wedged behind a wall of tall reporters and a cloud of sweat, post-loss frustration, and whatever cologne the guy from The Seattle Sunrise is practically bathing in.

Perfect.

But it still beats sitting at home before I created The Bleacher Report , pretending I don’t miss the world that used to be mine.

Career-ending injury at fourteen.

Professional tennis dreams—gone.

Wimbledon finals—just a fantasy now.

I tried walking away from sports. Tried pretending I could be someone else.

But it didn’t stick.

I kept looking back in from the outside like a ghost haunting my own past. Until I found podcasting.

Well, podcasting and a push from my dad before he passed for me to find my place in the sports world where I truly wanted to be. He knew me better than anyone, and after his passing, Bleacher Report has been sort of like my therapy to deal with his loss.

His exact words? “If you can’t play—talk. Your voice is just as powerful.”

What would he think now, seeing me vying to get an interview with a player just because he’s clickbaity. Would he tell me that I’m wasting my voice with airtime garbage? Or would he champion me to do whatever is necessary to get a syndication deal to put Bleacher Report on the map?

All I want to do is make him proud.

And now here I am. Back in the game. Just…in a different way.

Hunter’s voice slices through my thoughts—and the crowd. Sharp. Cold.

“No comment on personal matters.”

His eyes sweep the room, daring anyone to try him again.

But I’m buried in the back.

Tucked behind cameras and cargo jackets—too far for his gaze to find mine.

I rise on my tiptoes, catching sight of his profile. His jaw is set, those forest-green eyes hard as he fields questions about tonight's loss. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

Tension, not nerves. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than here, answering questions from reporters he clearly has no patience for.

“Hunter, that missed goal in the third—” someone starts.

“I saw it happen. You saw it happen. Next question.”

His voice could freeze hell over.

The room falls silent for a beat. Then, the questions resume.

I stay quiet, scribbling notes and pretending I’m not the tiniest bit curious about the man behind the headlines.

I’ve only seen him in person twice before—once in pre-season warm-ups and once outside the locker room. Both times, he barely looked in my direction.

But tonight, up close? The tension rolling off him hums like static—sharp, charged, barely contained. Controlled fury pressed into short answers and that ticking jaw.

My phone buzzes again.

Cammy: Oakley’s. After media. No excuses.

I start to type back, but she follows up immediately.

Cammy: Don’t even try to bail. I can hear you overthinking from here. Everyone wants to meet you.

No pressure. Just the well-known WAGs group of the Hawkeyes players all wanting to meet me.

After the press conference, I grab my bag and head for my car.

Oakley’s is only a couple blocks from the stadium, but I’ve got a longer drive ahead of me after—back to the shiny new townhouse I bought six months ago.

It was a splurge.

Between the down payment and the remodel I did on the second bedroom—now fully converted into a soundproof, pro-level podcast studio—I’m officially the most broke I’ve been since college.

But every time I step into that room, hit record, and hear my voice come through crisp and clean, it feels worth it.

My savings account disagrees, but my soul votes yes.

The drive to Oakley’s gives me just enough time to lie to myself.

It’s just a bar. Hunter is just a player. And the WAGs are just a group of girls. No pressure.

Oakley’s is packed. Post-game buzz is in full swing.

The usual mix of beer, wings, and chatter of people dissecting plays hangs in the air, along with the sports network commentary blaring from every flat screen.

Cammy spots me first. She waves me over from a table near the bar, already deep in conversation with a mix of ladies and team staff.

I'm halfway there when I spot Hunter sitting at the bar, shoulders slumping, elbows leaning over onto the bar top, a whiskey glass in his hand.

Oh…it’s going to be that kind of night, huh?

She turns to see what I’m staring at and then turns back to me.

“Hunter?” she asks.

“I need an interview for the podcast syndication that I was telling you about. An exclusive with him would make the network lose their minds. He’s exactly what I need, but he’s—”

“He’s great,” Cammy says. “Really. I know that he was having an off night in media, but he really is a good guy. I bet he’ll say yes.”