Page 14 of Bleacher Report
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 fromBleacher 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.
