Page 24

Peyton

The buzzing of my alarm cuts through the quiet, vibrating obnoxiously against my nightstand. I groan, cracking one eye open and glaring at the ceiling like it personally offended me.

Six a.m.

Why in the world did I agree to hot yoga this morning?

I roll over, grabbing my phone, half-ready to text Abby and bail. But my thumb hovers over the keyboard without typing. Because right below my alarm notification is the last message I got last night.

Hunter : Sweet dreams, Passenger Princess.

My stomach flips—annoyingly, frustratingly flips—and I hate how much I’ve reread that stupid text.

I stare at it for a few seconds longer than I should, then toss the phone onto the bed like it’s on fire.

God, I need to get a grip.

Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffle toward the bathroom.

Maybe sweating out all the confusing feelings tangled up in my chest is exactly what I need.

If nothing else, Abby will drag me mercilessly if I cancel on her again.

She’s already convinced I’m letting this fake relationship spiral out of control.

By the time I tie my hair up in a messy bun and pull on leggings, I’ve almost talked myself out of overthinking Hunter Reed and his stupid, sweet, flirty texts from last night.

Almost.

“Bye Sprouty,” I call out to Sproutacus as I head for the front door. “Going to yoga, be back in a bit.”

Have I actually lost my mind? I’m talking to a plant like Hunter told me to. Some things are just getting weirder around here, but it seems even weirder not to say anything to the little terracotta Frenchie staring at me from the windowsill, tiny green sprouts just now starting to show.

When I step outside, the cool morning air hits me like a slap. The kind of slap that says: Get your shit together, Peyton.

By the time I back out of the driveway, my phone buzzes again.

Abby: Don’t even think about bailing. I’ve got tea and sisterly judgment waiting.

I shake my head, letting the smallest smile tug at the corner of my mouth.

Fine. Yoga, sister time, and maybe a reminder that real life exists outside of hockey players, fake dating disasters, and the looming podcast deal that is hanging in the balance.

I can survive one hour without checking my phone to see if Hunter’s texted again.

Maybe.

Twenty minutes later, I pull into the studio parking lot. Abby’s already posted up on the curb like a judgmental gargoyle with my favorite drink—balancing two iced teas in one hand and her yoga mat slung over her shoulder like a weapon of mass destruction.

“You’re late,” she calls before I’ve even shut the car door.

“I’m literally two minutes early,” I argue, grabbing one of the teas she holds out.

“Which is five minutes late in my world. Also, you look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She falls in step beside me as we walk toward the studio.

“I blame the bed,” I mutter. “It’s too comfortable. I didn’t want to get up.”

Abby stops short. “Wait—what bed? You said you were broke.”

“Oh, I am. It’s not my bed. Hunter bought it. Had it delivered yesterday while he was out of town.”

She turns to stare at me like I just told her I eloped with Jason Momoa.

“He bought you a bed?”

I nod.

“A whole bed? Like...with a frame and everything?”

“Yes.”

Abby scoffs. “Your king-sized fake boyfriend bought you a plow platform?”

I blink. “A what?”

“You know...a sheet shaker, a boom-boom base, a horizontal hustle zone.”

I reach over and gently pluck the iced tea from her hand. “I don’t think you need any more of this. You’re wired enough.”

She throws her arms up. “Meanwhile, your brother hasn’t given me more than a crick in my neck and a caffeine addiction.”

I snort. “The bed’s really nice, too.”

She smirks over at me. “Oh, I bet it is. Of course it is. Because men like Hunter Reed only come in two modes—emotionally unavailable or accidentally perfect. And you’re telling me this man bought you a bed and still hasn’t screwed you in it?”

“Abby!”

“I’m just saying,” she says as we push through the studio doors, “this man is one pillow talk away from domestic bliss, and you’re still calling this fake?”

I roll my eyes, but the little flutter in my stomach doesn’t lie.

Because the bed? The text? The scavenger hunt yesterday?

None of it feels fake.

Abby’s eyes go wide. “Oh, I see that look. You’re in trouble.”

“I am not,” I insist, adjusting my mat under my arm as we walk inside. “It’s fake, remember?”

She gives me a knowing look. “You keep saying that, but the way you’re blushing right now? Fake isn’t the word I’d use.”

I don’t respond because what am I supposed to say? That every time Hunter texts me, it feels less fake and more like the start of something I can’t afford to want?

We check in at the front desk, and as we walk toward the back corner of the studio, Abby lowers her voice.

“Look, I’m not saying you’re in love with him—”

“Good. Because I’m definitely not,” I interrupt.

She ignores me. “I’m just saying…maybe you should figure out what’s real and what’s not before you wake up one morning and it’s too late.”

The instructor dims the lights and the class begins, but her words stick like a pebble in my shoe.

Because the truth is, I’m starting to lose track of what’s fake and what’s not too.

We take our spots at the back of the class because we don’t come enough and we’re sure to make asses out of ourselves… plus we’re loud, and we get glares from the serious yogis upfront if we get too close.

It’s fine. I like our corner in the back anyway.

“Did I tell you about Sproutacus?” I ask.

“Who the hell is Sproutacus?” she asks, her nose scrunched up.

She’s not a fan of the name, and I wasn’t either. But it’s growing on me. No pun intended.

I pull up my phone and show her a picture of Sprouty on the windowsill. His cute little Chia Pet face. I’m sure he’ll look cuter once he’s filled in.

“He got you a Chia Pet? Are you joking?”

“He said we’re plant parents now.”

Abby narrows her eyes at me and then turns back to the picture.

“What does that sticky note say on the faucet? Heating pad and pad thai? What the hell are you two doing over there?”

Oh, yeah, I forgot about that. “He hid my mug that you got me for hitting twenty-five thousand subscribers and set up sticky notes for a scavenger hunt.” I smile and then glance back up at her.

“You are as blind as a bat when it comes to what this boy is doing to you,” she says as our instructor walks in.

“He’s not doing anything,” I lie, mirroring Abby as we both kneel on the mats and wait for instructions.

“He’s love bombing you. But not with malicious intent to pull the rug out from under you. I don’t think he realizes what he’s doing either. This kid is crazy about you. He just doesn’t know it”--she lets out a dramatic sigh– “typical man.”

“You’re wrong. He’s not looking for anything. And definitely not with me.”

“I wish I would’ve recorded you saying that. Then I could have replayed it five years from now when you’re pregnant with triplets, living in your giant custom house with your ridiculously gorgeous hockey husband, surrounded by king-size beds, Chia Pets, and shiny little hockey trophies.”

I glare over at her. “You’re delusional."

She just grins, utterly unfazed. “You’ll thank me later.”

I open my mouth to argue—but the yoga instructor calls for us to get settled, saving me from whatever nonsense Abby had locked and loaded next.

When we finish class, I’m drenched in sweat, my body deliciously sore in that satisfying post-yoga way that tricks you into thinking you’ve just solved all your life’s problems by holding warrior pose for two minutes.

I always tell myself I’ll start coming more.

Spoiler alert: I never do.

I wipe my forehead with a towel and glance over at her, still breathless.

Those forty-five minutes were the first time in weeks I wasn’t sweating over the network deal—I was too busy trying not to die.

“Okay, you were right. I needed that.”

She nods, still catching her own breath. “Told you.”

As we’re rolling up our mats, my phone buzzes in the pocket of my jacket. I pull it out to see a text from Cammy.

Cammy : Are you coming to Penelope’s tonight? Girls-only game watch party. Drinks and snacks included.

A second text comes through almost immediately after.

Cammy : Pen says you have to come. You’re one of us. Which means you’re not allowed to miss it.

I can’t deny that I’d like to go, and since all of the girls already know that Hunter and I aren’t really together, it's not like I have to lie to everyone. I’m also really curious about where Cammy and JP have been the last few days since both of them were absent for the Open Skate event.

Abby peeks over my shoulder. “What’s that?”

I show her the texts, and she grins. “Oh, you’re so going.”

I chew on my bottom lip, hesitating. “Do you think I should?”

“Peyton,” she says, slinging her yoga mat over her shoulder. “This could be great for the podcast. Ask people questions about Hunter. Get the inside track on some things that might help you understand him better. The girls have all the tea and you know it.”

She’s right. And part of me wants to go—wants to sit in a room full of women who understand what this world is like, even if I’m only faking my way through it.

I text Cammy back.

Peyton : Wouldn’t miss it. See you tonight.

By the time I pull up to Penelope’s house, it’s dark out, but the place is already buzzing.

Cars line the curb, porch lights glowing on a beautiful home in a gated community where I’ve heard many of the retired Hawkeyes players live.

When I step up to the front door, I can hear the sound of laughter filtering through the windows.

Cammy opens the door before I even knock. “There she is! Seattle’s newest WAG.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, it’s too late. You’ve officially been inducted,” she teases, stepping aside so I can come in.