Page 131 of Bleacher Report
"Peyton, the network will need you in Seattle. At least a year. Maybe two. After that, I’m sure the network would be open to you moving.”
That’s not the answer I was hoping for.
My throat tightens. "Rebecca, it’s Hunter’s mom. She’s really sick. And Hunter says she already told him that she won’t move to Seattle.”
She lets out atsksound, debating my dilemma. "You're in a tough spot, Peyton, I get it. I can’t tell you what to do, but the execs want to move fast. Do you want a couple of days to think about this? See if there is another option? Because if you turn this down, I’ll be required to call the other podcaster on the list right now in order to get things moving. I won’t be able to go back after we end this call."
I nod to myself. I figured that if I turned this down they’d have to move to the next viable option. "Then I have to say no. I need to be here with him."
She’s quiet for a beat. "I can’t say that I understand. I chose my career over having a family and I don’t regret that, but you have to make your own call. You’re sure Hunter is worth this?"
"Yes." I don’t have to question it for a second. I know the answer immediately.
She exhales. "If you’re sure, then I respect it. I was really looking forward to having another woman podcaster on the network. It’s a sausage fest around here,” she jokes. “I won’t lie and say that I’m not disappointed, but I think big things are stillon the horizon for you, and I hope that Hunter knows what he has in you as a partner."
“Thank you. For everything.”
We hang up just as I step up to the counter.
"One coffee and a green tea, please."
I pay, then drift over to the pickup counter, scrolling through new messages from Abby and my mom—Christmas morning snapshots from back home. One shows Jesse holding up a giant chocolate Santa, another has my brother on a video call, grinning from a grainy laptop screen in his base quarters, wishing them a Merry Christmas from across the world.
A lump rises in my throat.
I’m about to respond when movement catches my eye near the elevators.
Bethany.
I immediately drop my gaze, hoping she’s just headed to the coffee line too. But instead, she veers sharply toward me—heels clicking with familiar precision—cutting me off before I can pretend to be busy.
“He’s not going to make the choice, Peyton,” she says, her voice low and cold. “You know that. He’ll try to juggle it all. And someone will get hurt. Probably Carly.”
“Bethany, don’t—he doesn’t have to stay in Seattle. I’m working it out.”
Bethany lifts her brows. “If you don’t break it off, I’ll kill the deal.”
My jaw clenches. “Then is it me who’s hurting Carly? Or you?”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at me like she’s already won.
“You want what’s best for him?” she adds softly. “Give him a clean break.”
And then she walks away. Just like that. No fight. No hesitation.
The barista calls my name.
“Order for Peyton!”
I grab the drinks with shaking hands. The cardboard tray creaks slightly in my grip, and the heat from the coffee sears my palm—but it’s nothing compared to the burn in my chest.
Everything hurts.
Back upstairs, I round the corner and freeze.
Hunter and Bethany are sitting on either side of Carly’s bed, each holding one of her hands.
They look like a team.
