Page 6

Peyton

I tug up on the neckline of my borrowed gown for the hundredth time, trying to convince myself that the backless dress Abby, my sister-in-law, let me borrow isn’t as revealing as it feels.

Abby has a closet full of them. A dress for every year she and my brother Noah have attended the Air Force Ball since he enlisted.

The light blue beading catches the chandelier light, scattering tiny stars across the Hawkeyes stadium, which has been gorgeously transformed into a ballroom for tonight’s charity auction.

It’s beautiful. Elegant. And absolutely unrecognizable from the same space I stood in just days ago, surrounded by shouting fans and spilled beer.

I’d much rather be at home, curled up on the couch with hot tea and a book. But when your podcast dreams chew through your savings like Halloween candy, you wear whatever your sister-in-law lends you and fake confidence like it’s your job.

Abby: Stop fidgeting. You look amazing. Trust me—perfect for catching a hockey player’s attention.

If only she knew that’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid.

I’m not here to land a professional athlete. I’m here to interview one.

Just an hour of their time. A voice in a mic. That’s it.

And even though I know Hunter Reed is the player I need to impress the network execs, after last night…I’m not even sure I could sit across from him in a recording studio for five minutes, let alone a full hour.

Selfishly, I hope he skips tonight entirely.

But Cammy already warned me—Hawkeyes players are strongly encouraged to show up for this event, and according to the program I was handed at the door, Hunter’s not only here...he’s listed as one of the players auctioning himself off to raise money.

Of course he is.

Judging by the crowd of women from every walk of life loitering near the stage, it’s hard to say whether this whole idea of letting fans bid on players is noble or just a fresh excuse to stroke a few overblown egos.

Either way, it should be entertaining.

Though, I grow annoyed that I’ll have to watch Hunter lap up the attention of women fighting over him.

Am I tempted to bid on a player just to score an interview? Sure, it crossed my mind. But not only would that be frowned upon in my industry—it’s also a hard pass from my bank account.

The charity auction is already buzzing, the ballroom filled with Seattle's elite, media reps, and team fans. Glittering gowns and tuxedos swirl between tables topped with champagne and seafood hors d'oeuvres.

A stage is set at the front with bright lights, cameras, and a lineup of Hawkeyes players waiting to be auctioned off for charity dates.

“And here I thought I was early,” Cammy says, sliding in beside me like a vision in an emerald dress and high heels that should be illegal.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was dressing for revenge.

It has me itching to ask her about JP and if the rumors are true about them dating.

It just still feels too early to barge in on her love life, and a work event is the worst time to do it.

She hands me a champagne flute without missing a beat. “Liquid courage. You look like you need it.”

She has no idea. Though she did see me crash and burn a couple of nights ago at Oakley’s.

I take the glass with a grateful nod and a half-laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to someone who’s survived enough of these events to read the signs.” She tips her glass toward the crowd. “Welcome to the social Super Bowl. Half the room’s here to land a player. The other half is here to land a headline.”

My stomach dips. Great. Just what I need—Seattle’s entire sports media scene watching me fail in real time. It was bad enough when it was just the players and fans in a packed bar.

Cammy takes a sip of her drink and casually scans the crowd. “You’ve got that deer-in-headlights look. Don’t worry. You’ll adjust.”

“I’m not used to…all this.” I gesture vaguely to the dress, the champagne, the high ticket entry to get into this place. “It’s not really my scene. I feel a lot more comfortable on a tennis court or behind a mic.”

“It wasn’t mine either at first,” Cammy says with a shrug.

“But you’re here on a mission, and you deserve syndication, so put all of that behind you and find your target.

Stay confident, and don’t let anyone shake you.

You’re not here to blend in—you’re here to make something happen.

And honestly, the Hawkeyes boys are all great, though their talent agents can be overly protective. ”

I nod, gripping my champagne glass tighter.

No pressure.

A beautiful woman about our age with dark auburn hair and a sleek black trumpet dress waves Cammy down and heads our way.

“Cammy, there you are. I need help with the silent auction table. Do you have a moment?” she asks, giving Cammy a quick look before offering me a warm smile.

“Aria, this is Peyton Collins with Bleacher Report ,” Cammy says, gesturing between us.

“Hi, Peyton. It’s great to meet you. I heard your interview with Penelope Matthews—it was amazing. I’ve worked in an office next door to Penelope for two years and didn’t know half the things you brought up in that episode,” she says with genuine enthusiasm. “Really great work.”

Her praise catches me off guard. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear something like that until it hits me like a small, unexpected hug.

“Thank you so much for listening. That means a lot to me,” I say. “So, you work for the Hawkeyes then?” I ask.

Aria’s face turns a little green, her smile fading quickly. “Actually, I don’t anymore. I was Phil Carlton’s assistant when Everett Kauffman bought the team. It turns out that I was redundant, and Everett let me go.”

Cammy reaches out and rubs Aria’s arm quickly. “You’re not redundant. He has no idea how incredible you are. I couldn’t have gotten the silent auction table finished without you.”

“Thanks,” Aria whispers with a small smile and then turns back to me. “But forget I just told you my sob story. You should be here enjoying yourself.”

Cammy beams back at me. “Speaking of which, Peyton’s trying to line up a player interview tonight. She’s getting a syndication deal.”

Aria’s jaw drops like Cammy just announced I won an Emmy.

“Oh—no, it’s not a sure thing,” I say quickly, shaking out a hand to brush away Cammy's attempt at propping me up.

Our friendship is still so new, and she's already the best hype man I've ever had. Maybe I should have had her in my interview with the network about my syndication deal.

“Well, if the interviews I’ve listened to lately are any indication, I think you’ve got it in the bag,” Aria says with a confident nod.

“I really appreciate you saying that,” I reply, cheeks flushing.

Aria gestures toward Cammy. “Do you mind if I steal her for a second? I promise I’ll bring her right back.”

“Oh…of course. No problem. I should mingle anyway.”

I’m halfway through my second glass of champagne, making my way around the silent auction table when I catch sight of him.

Hunter Reed.

Standing near the bar in a black tux that fits like it was designed for his body alone.

The jacket stretches just enough across his shoulders to be distracting, and the sleeves cut off right at his strong wrists.

His hair is styled but not overly done—still that messy perfection that makes you want to tug on it just to see if it moves.

God help me, the man looks like a Bond villain and a GQ cover model had a love child. Tack on the scar across his eyebrow and a slightly crooked nose from too many hits to the face, and the man has a sexy hardness to him that sends flutters low in my belly.

I’m just about to pivot and walk the other way when I realize who he’s talking to.

Cammy.

I slow down. Not enough to look obvious, just enough to let my ears catch the conversation.

“I’m just saying, she came to a bar trying to pitch a gossip podcast. It’s not even real news,” Hunter says, voice low but still sharp. “You know I don’t do interviews like that. She should ask Aleksi. He’d be more interesting anyway.”

A flush creeps up my neck. Seriously?

Cammy makes a face I can’t quite see from this angle, but her voice is tight.

“You were vulgar and rude, making wild assumptions about her when you didn’t even let her speak.

Besides, she’s not like that, Hunter. She has this great way of letting you speak your mind and have a safe space to air out things that the media already wants you to speak about.

You can do it on your own terms with her and get your side of the story out. ”

“I don’t want my side of the story out. I think I’ve made that clear for the last four years. And if I were going to air out my dirty laundry, I wouldn’t do it on a podcast.”

Before I can react—or storm off—Cammy glances up and spots me.

Her eyes light up like she’s been waiting for this.

“And look at that,” she says with a little too much enthusiasm. “Peyton from Bleacher Report .”

Hunter turns.

Our eyes meet.

He’s as calm here as he is on the ice—so sure of himself—and I catch the flicker of recognition in his eyes. Then his expression smooths into something unreadable, and I hate how unfairly attractive he looks when he’s doing absolutely nothing.

Out of all the Hawkeyes players on this team, why the hell does he have to be the one that the network wants to see me interview?

“Peyton, is it?” he asks, stepping forward and offering his hand like we’re strangers meeting at a cocktail mixer instead of two people who’ve already exchanged public humiliation.

I don’t take his hand.

Instead, I smile tightly and lift my glass in a mock toast. “Look who discovered manners. I’m shocked to see you without a whiskey in your hand.”

Cammy lets out a soft cough that might be a laugh, quickly disguised as a sip of champagne.

Hunter’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the flicker of something behind his eyes. Embarrassment? Annoyance? It’s hard to tell with him. He’s a master of the blank face—years of press conferences and on-camera charm have made sure of that.

“About the other night—” he starts.

“Save it,” I say, cutting him off with a wave of my hand.

“You’ve made your opinion of my work crystal clear.

No need to play nice now that you’re wearing a tux and pretending to care.

It's a good thing you didn't take me home that night, or this could have been really awkward.” I say with a sarcastic tone.

His expression hardens slightly at my snark, but something flickers in his eyes. “I had a bad game. I wasn't in the mood for conversation.”

“Well then, I'll remember that you're a sore loser and avoid you when you suck a big L on game days. Wouldn't want to be mistaken for a puck bunny again.”

I want to kick myself for not just accepting his half-ass apology and using it as my shot to beg for the interview that could land me the network deal—but I can’t bring myself to fake being nice to a man who clearly thinks he’s above it all.

Hunter's jaw tightens, but before he can respond, Cammy slides a step closer to me, gently linking our arms. “Okay, on that note,” she says, bright and breezy, like this is just another Thursday night at a gala. “Let’s get you a refill and introduce you to literally anyone else. I can name at least four players who would kill for a podcast feature with your reach.”

She starts to guide me away, and I let her—even though I can feel Hunter’s eyes burning into my bare back in this dress as we walk away, making me wish I'd worn something with more coverage. Or better yet, something with armor.

I hate the way he leaves me feeling completely exposed.

Cammy and I are almost to the bar when the energy in the room shifts.

It’s not loud. Not obvious. Just a subtle pause, like half the crowd collectively took a breath.

I follow the current and spot the source—tall, blonde, commanding the room in a way that’s almost cinematic.

A champagne silk slip dress skims her curves like it was poured on.

Delicate diamond studs catch the light at her ears.

Strappy heels. A designer clutch dangling from perfectly manicured fingers.

She looks like she stepped out of a luxury ad campaign for trophy wives.

Somehow, I feel like I’ve seen her before, but I can’t place her. From the way heads turn, everyone else can.

I follow her gaze to find her staring straight back at Hunter.

His whole body has gone still. His jaw is tight. Eyes locked. Hands clenched at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to throw something—or run.

It's almost unnatural to see him like this. In fight or flight mode.

“Who’s that?” I ask Cammy, since I know she helped with the guest list of the event.

Cammy’s shoulders stiffen when she sees who I’m talking about.

“That would be Bethany Richards. The soon-to-be ex-wife of the owner of the New Jersey team.”

Oh…that’s right. I’ve seen her on TV once or twice, arm in arm with the owner of the team.

I remember when they first got married. There was a lot of buzz around their age gap.

There was gossip that the reason the owner sent Hunter to the farm team, after only completing half a season with the pros, was because his new bride was flirting with Reed, but when the noise died out, I figured that was all it was. Just noise.

But the look on Hunter’s face right now, like someone let a jaguar loose in the building, tells a different story.

Why would the soon-to-be ex-wife of a team across the country be coming to this charity auction?

If I didn’t know better, I’d say she didn’t fly across the country for the crab cakes.