Page 25

The living room is already filling up with familiar faces.

Penelope’s seated on the massive sectional, a glass of wine in her hand, while Kendall and Isla are huddled over a charcuterie board, laughing about something.

I even spot a few of the other players’ wives and girlfriends, some of whom I recognize from press photos.

When Penelope sees me, she waves me over. “Peyton! We were wondering if you’d show.”

I glance at Cammy. “Like I could’ve said no.”

Penelope grins and reaches for another wine glass. “Good. Because tonight is basically a rite of passage. No better way to learn how this crazy club works than by watching the game surrounded by the women who survive it.”

Cammy nudges me. “Come sit. The game is about to start and everyone’s taking bets.”

As I settle onto the couch, wine glass in hand, bets between girls start flying about who ends up racking up the most time in the sin bin.

Penelope’s big-screen TV flickers to life, showing the Hawkeyes warming up on the ice.

Hunter’s name flashes across the screen as the commentators talk about his defensive game.

And just like that, my stomach flips.

I’m not sure how I ended up here, in a room full of girlfriends and wives who actually belong in this world.

And I definitely don’t know how to convince myself that this isn’t starting to feel real.

The first period is crazy—the game is stacked, no one scores before the break, and Wolf has already been sent to the penalty box with twice as much time as any other player—not a surprise there.

Penelope hits mute as the commercials come, the girls all getting up for refills and snacks. Then Penelope turns to me.

“So,” she starts, voice sly, “how’s fake dating Hunter going?”

I can feel all the girls turn to face us from wherever they are in the room.

I clear my throat, playing it casual. “It’s going well. Just your run-of-the-mill fake relationship.”

Cammy snorts. “Oh, please. The way he looks at you? That man is not pretending.”

Kendall leans forward, smirking. “Did you see the way he shut down those interview questions last night? He basically said, I’m taken , and dared anyone to argue.”

Penelope lifts her wine glass. “It’s the first time I’ve seen him act like that about a woman, honestly.”

I shake my head, trying to fight off the flush creeping up my neck. “It’s just PR. We both know the deal.”

Cammy nudges my knee with hers. “Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”

Before I can argue, the commercial break ends, and everyone heads back to the couch. Penelope unmutes the TV and then everyone’s eyes are back on the game. The Hawkeyes score, and the room erupts in cheers.

The conversation shifts, but the weight of their knowing looks lingers. Because if I’m honest with myself—really honest—every little thing Hunter’s been doing lately doesn’t feel like just PR.

And I’m not sure what to do with that.

After the game, we’re all lingering in Penelope’s kitchen, finishing off dessert and the last of the wine. The energy is lighter now—the Hawkeyes won, and the girls are relaxed, chatting easily like they’ve known each other forever.

I lean against the counter next to Cammy while she scrolls through her phone, grinning at something.

She catches me looking and nudges me with her elbow. “By the way, JP and I are officially dating.”

I blink at her, surprised. “Really?”

She nods, cheeks flushing a little. “Yeah. We’ve been seeing each other quietly for a while, but we decided to stop hiding it.”

“That’s amazing, Cam. I’m really happy for you.”

“Thanks.” She shoots me a look. “And not that I’m meddling, but…you and Hunter. Don’t rule it out.”

“We’re too different. I don’t do casual, and he doesn’t want a serious relationship. Even if both of us were interested. We don’t want the same things.”

Cammy gives me a knowing smile. “Sometimes the best things start out that way.”

Before I can reply, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to find a new text from Hunter.

Hunter : Miss me yet?

My heart does an entirely stupid flip in my chest.

Peyton : You’re ridiculous.

Hunter : You didn’t answer the question.

I type back quickly before anyone can notice my smile.

Peyton : Maybe.

By the time I finally slip away from Penelope’s house, it’s almost midnight. I slide into the driver’s seat of my SUV, the quiet of the night wrapping around me like a blanket after the lively chaos of the watch party.

My phone buzzes again just as I’m pulling out of Penelope’s driveway.

Hunter : We’re headed for the airport now. My flight won’t get in until late. I’ll try not to wake you up when I get in.

I roll my eyes but bite back a smile.

Peyton : Okay, sounds good. I’m about to leave Penelope’s house soon. I’ll keep the porch light on.

Hunter: You’re at Penelope’s? How did that go?

I wonder if I should tell him what title they gave me, but if it weirds him out, I suppose I should know now before it goes too far.

Peyton : Good. They told me that I’m an official WAG, but I’m sure they’re just trying to make me feel included. It was nice to watch with everyone.

Hunter : I’m glad you have them to hang out with when I’m out on away games.

Peyton : Me too. It was fun. Have a safe flight. The new bed is waiting for you.

Hunter : Good. Because I’m counting down until I’m back in your bed.

The breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh, heat crawling up my neck.

I lock my phone and focus on the road, refusing to let the tiny thrill that his words give me take root.

This isn’t real.

It’s not.

And no title from the wives and girlfriends of the players can change that.

I pull into my driveway, the street quiet and the houses dark except for a few porch lights left on. I kill the engine, slumping back in my seat for a second longer than I need to.

My phone’s still in my hand, thumb hovering.

I scroll back up to that photo—Hunter, shirtless in the locker room, grin pure mischief, hockey pants low on his hips, looking like sin and sweat and a very bad idea. I should delete it. For my sanity. But I don’t.

Instead, I shake my head and climb out of the car.

The house is dark when I step inside. I lock the door behind me, hang up my jacket, and tiptoe over to the windowsill. “Night, Sprouty,” I whisper, checking on our plant baby like a lunatic. His little green leaves are perky. Thriving. Must be nice.

I head straight for my bathroom, still sore from yoga. My muscles are tight, achy in that post-stretch kind of way that screams for a bath. So, I run one—hot and steaming, with bubbles piled high and my lavender soak dumped in with zero restraint.

By the time I step out, my skin’s flushed and soft, and my brain is just gooey enough to feel like maybe everything in my life is just a little less of a disaster.

I wrap myself in a plush towel and pad into the bedroom. The new mattress Hunter bought cradles me as I sit on the edge of the bed, the sheets cool beneath me.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I reach for it, heart fluttering as Hunter's name lights up the screen.

Hunter : Our flight is about to take off. Sweet dreams, Collins. Tell your pillow wall I said hi.

A laugh escapes me, and I quickly type back.

Peyton : Pillow wall says you’re on thin ice.

I glance at the pillow barrier beside me, a makeshift divide that's become more symbolic than functional. In a matter of hours, Hunter will be back on the other side of that bed. I just hope this pillow wall is a little stronger than the last.

His reply comes almost immediately.

Hunter : Good thing I play well on frozen surfaces.

I scroll back up to the photo—the shirtless locker room selfie, his smirk as cocky as ever. I should delete it, erase the temptation, but instead, I find myself staring, heat pooling low in my belly.

The ache is familiar now, a constant companion since Hunter moved in. I haven't used my vibrator in over a week, not since the tension between us started simmering just beneath the surface. Tonight, it's unbearable.

But before I can make up my mind, sleep creeps in like a thief.

And the next time I blink, the world is soft and dim and far away—and I’m still in my towel.

And still, very much, alone.