Page 20

Peyton

The second we step inside the stadium, the energy hits me like a wall—bright lights, the sharp clicking of cameras going off, the low murmur of fans and media weaving through the open space. It’s the annual Hawkeyes Winter Open House, and apparently, it’s a bigger deal than I thought.

Hunter’s hand hovers at the small of my back as we make our way through the crowd. He spots Penelope, Kendall, and Isla standing off to the side, discussing something, and steers me toward them.

“Good evening, ladies, have you met–”

“Peyton! You’re here,” Penelope says with a big smile.

“We’ve already met,” I tell him as Penelope steps forward to squeeze my arm, while Isla bends in for a hug and Kendall gives a sweet wave. “I interviewed Penelope two months ago on my show, and I met Kendall and Isla at the bar…the night you and I met, actually,” I tell him with a smug grin.

“The night I was a complete gentleman,” he says, reaching back to scratch the back of his neck as if that night embarrasses him a little.

Someone comes up behind us and claps Hunter on the back. Slade Matthews—Penelope’s husband. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. At least you didn’t foil her Olympic figure skating dreams,” he says, and then sends Penelope a knowing look.

“True,” Penelope agrees. “The best love stories come from the worst first impressions. Just ask any retired player on this team.”

Before Hunter can reply, someone calls his name.

The Hawkeyes' new social media manager waves him over to a group of reporters gathered near the ice. She’s only been with the team a few weeks, filling in for the last social media manager that was let go last week, after attempting to step in after Tessa Powers moved to Aspen with her husband, Lake Powers.

From what I’ve heard around the team, losing Tessa has been a tough adjustment for the Hawkeyes, and they haven’t found a media manager who can handle the press or the players as well as Tessa did.

“Go,” Penelope tells him, already waving him away. “We’ll take good care of her.”

He hesitates a second longer, his eyes locking on mine for a moment before finally stepping away with Slade to answer interview questions from the press.

The second he’s gone, Penelope leans in. “You doing okay?”

I nod, even though I’m not sure if I should be nervous or not.

“He’s different when he’s on,” she adds knowingly, following my gaze as Hunter slips easily into reporter mode. He smiles, laughs at something one of them says, and answers each question like he’s done this a thousand times. Because he has.

“He’s…good at this,” I murmur.

“He is,” Penelope agrees. “But don’t let him fool you. That’s his game face. Speaking of which, I heard that he botched your first interview.”

“How did you hear that?” I ask.

“Trust me. Nothing in this stadium stays a secret. These boys gossip harder than a group of southern housewives whispering at a Sunday church luncheon.”

Before I can think too deeply into it, the familiar feeling of Hunter’s hand on my back returns. I turn to find him at my side.

“All they wanted to talk about was us,” Hunter says quietly, leaning in close to my ear. “Every question, every headline—they’re circling.”

The heat of his breath against my neck sends shivers down my spine. I’m beginning to realize how much I like it when he stands this close, even though I know that I shouldn’t let it affect me this way.

“You ladies won’t mind if I borrow her for a second, will you?” he asks.

They all nod and as he’s leading me away, I hear Isla’s voice. “The broom closet at the end of the hall has a lock on it. Just in case…”

My cheeks redden and Hunter huffs out a chuckle as he leads me down one of the quieter hallways.

“I didn’t realize how much of a circus this was going to be,” he admits, voice low. “We might have to sell this harder than I thought.”

I glance up at him, unsure where this is going. “Okay… What does that mean?”

“It means that while we’re in public I might need to kiss you to sell it. I’ve already had a few comments from reporters asking if you and me are planning any lip-locking tonight. I don’t want to catch you off guard if it comes down to that.”

My stomach does a stupid little flip. “So, what—you’ll give me a heads up?”

“Exactly.” His eyes meet mine, something unreadable flickering there. “Consider it rule number five. I’ll give you a warning.”

I nod, swallowing against the sudden dryness in my throat. “Okay. I accept your addendum to the rules.”

Hunter’s lips curve into that crooked half-smile that makes it way too easy to forget this is all fake. “Good. Let’s get out on the rink before Penelope and Isla start planning our wedding.”

Hunter helps me lace up my skates and a crisp chill hits my face the second we step through the tunnel that leads to the ice.

The rink is practically glowing under the festival lights strung up around the plexiglass.

Families are out skating, varying levels of experience, but everyone’s having a good time.

Hunter’s hand finds the small of my back again, steady and warm. “Ever skated before?”

“Once or twice. I’m more of a tennis court girl, remember?”

He grins down at me, clearly picturing me falling flat on my face. “Good. You’ll make me look like a hero.”

Before I can argue, he’s tugging me onto the ice, one large hand wrapped firmly around mine.

We skate. Or rather, he glides, and I wobble and do my best not to eat it in front of half of Seattle.

It’s…fun. More fun than I thought pretending would be.

Until the mood shifts like a cold front.

Hunter stiffens, slowing us to a stop at the edge of the rink, his grip on my hand tightening.

I follow his gaze and feel my stomach drop.

Bethany Richards. Dressed in an elegant, figure-hugging coat, hair sleek, smile sharp. She’s standing in the opening of the players tunnel, closer than I’d like her to be, watching us like she’s already plotting her next move.

Hunter mutters something under his breath.

“Rule number five,” he says low, his eyes still locked on Bethany. “This is your warning, Peyton.”

Before I can respond, his fingers brush my cheek, tipping my face toward his. His touch is warm, grounding—and then his lips are on mine.

This time, it’s different.

The first kiss blindsided me, all adrenaline and chaos, like he was trying to prove a point. But now… Now he’s deliberate. Slower. Like he’s making sure I feel every second of it.

His lips move against mine with a steady, calming kind of confidence. Not rushed. Not frantic. Like he’s got nothing but time to remind everyone—Bethany included—that I’m his.

And the worst part?

It feels familiar.

Like I’ve done this before. Like kissing Hunter Reed is something I know how to do, even when I shouldn’t.

A spark flickers low in my stomach, unexpected and sharp, and my toes curl in my skates. I force myself to keep breathing when he finally pulls away.

His hand lingers at the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheek like he can’t help himself.

The crowd cheers around us, but it all feels muted.

Because I can still feel him everywhere.

And I forget, for one stupid second, that it’s fake.

Bethany doesn’t wait long after the kiss.

By the time Hunter pulls away—slowly, like he wants it to linger just a second longer—she’s already making her way toward us, her steps slow yet intentional on the ice.

She doesn’t have to come out more than a few feet before she’s too close for comfort.

“Hunter,” she purrs, sliding her sunglasses onto the top of her head even though it’s eight o’clock at night and we’re indoors. “Didn’t realize you were so…domestic now.”

Her eyes flick to me, sharp and assessing. I recognize the look—it’s the one women like Bethany use when they want to make sure you know exactly where you stand.

Hunter shifts subtly, angling his body toward me like a shield. “Beth, this isn’t the time.”

“Oh, please. Don’t mind me.” She waves a hand, voice syrupy sweet. “I just wanted to meet the woman who’s apparently tamed Seattle’s most notorious bachelor.”

Her gaze rakes over me, stopping pointedly on my hand still resting in Hunter’s.

Isla and Kendall appear like backup, sliding in on either side of me.

“This must be Bethany,” Kendall says breezily, like they’re discussing the weather.

Bethany’s smile flickers.

Isla leans in to the group, stage-whispering, “Is it too soon to initiate Peyton into the WAGs group chat?”

Bethany’s eyes narrow.

Hunter’s fingers tighten around mine.

“We were just about to grab drinks,” Isla continues smoothly, linking her arm through mine like we’re old friends. “Peyton, you’re coming, right?”

“Of course,” I say, letting them steer me away, Hunter following behind.

As we walk, Kendall murmurs, “Don’t let Bethany rattle you. Women like that feed on it.”

Isla grins. “And by the way, you’re officially a WAG now. Real hockey boyfriend or not.”

The VIP lounge is tucked away on the second level of the stadium, far from the reporters, cameras, and fans still milling around the Open House downstairs. It's quieter here—dimly lit with plush couches, a private bar, and enough space for the WAGs to gather without an audience.

Penelope, Kendall, and Isla don’t even hesitate to pull me toward a corner booth like I’ve been part of their circle for years.

Kendall slides into the booth across from me. "I can’t believe you and Hunter are faking it to keep Bethany away from him.”

I blink, caught off guard. Then I remember that Penelope said that the players all talk. Hunter must have told someone, and it got around the locker room. I’m not completely comfortable with everyone knowing, and yet, in some ways, I’m happy that I don’t have to lie to these girls about it.

“It didn’t start out like that. At first, he just wanted me to outbid her in exchange for an interview. Then things got a little crazy, and here we are,” I say.

Isla grins knowingly. "It doesn’t look fake. That kiss out there? It looked like you’ve been together for years."

My cheeks flush, but I force a laugh. "Well, you know how hockey players are. Dramatic."

Penelope raises a brow but doesn’t press. Instead, she waves over the bartender. "You’re one of us now, Peyton. Whether you like it or not."

Kendall leans in conspiratorially. "Speaking of…we usually get together for one of the away games and watch it together at Penelope's house, just a few of us. Drinks, pizza, probably a lot of trash-talking the refs who can’t hear us."

Isla grins. "You’re coming."

It’s not really a question.

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes in my lap—a text from Hunter.

Hunter : You okay?

I glance up at the women around me, all of them smiling, relaxed, like this is just another Thursday night.

And somehow, for the first time tonight, I actually am.

I text back quickly.

Peyton : I’m good.

Then I look at Penelope and nod. "Yeah. Count me in."

The event is starting to wind down by the time Hunter finds me again, the crowd thinning as people filter toward the exits. He’s still got that easy smile on his face—the one he saves for the cameras—but it softens when his eyes land on me.

“Did you have fun with the girls?” he asks, slipping his hand to the small of my back like it’s second nature now.

“Yeah, I did. They invited me to Penelope’s for your away game.”

“That should be a good time. Are you going to go?” he asks, nodding at a teammate as we pass by on our way out to his truck.

“Yeah,” I nod, glancing up at him. “They insisted.”

Something flickers in his expression—almost like relief. “Good. It will make this all more believable, but also you’ll have them to hang out with during the home games and events that you agreed to come to.”

His explanation makes sense. So why do I feel like there might be more to him wanting me to befriend the Hawkeyes girls’ group?

The cool night air hits us as we step outside, the quiet of the parking lot a sharp contrast to the noise inside.

Hunter unlocks his truck and opens the passenger door for me without a word, waiting until I climb in before shutting it and rounding to the driver’s side.

For a second, as he pulls out onto the street, neither of us says anything. The tension that’s been simmering all night—the media attention, the kiss, the crowd—settles between us like an invisible thread.

Finally, he glances over, voice softer now. “You handled tonight like a pro, Collins.”

I shrug, looking out the window to hide my smile. “It wasn't my first circus.”

His laugh is low and warm. “Good. Because it won’t be the last.”