Page 3 of Bleacher Report
I let out a sigh, remembering the sight of Hunter skating off the ice only a few minutes ago, chucking his helmet into the player box as he stepped off the ice and then stormed down the player tunnel and out of sight.
He’s not happy with his performance tonight—that I can be sure of. I have a feeling tonight might not be the best night for asking for a favor, but I have to try. If Rebecca is right, and I can deliver on a podcast interview that one of the other network executives wants, it will be worth putting myself out there.
A little self-doubt creeps in as I consider the other players I could ask tonight, who looked a little less pissed off at the loss than Hunter, and might agree to my podcast guest request. But I know who I need.
“Yeah. That’s the one. But maybe I shouldn’t press my luck. He hasn’t interviewed for a podcast in years, and I’m running out of time to get these interviews in before the network makes a decision. Maybe I should just ask someone else who’s more of a sure thing.”
I hear the faint sound of the TV on in the background, and I imagine her sitting on her couch, probably with my nephew Jesse somewhere close by.
“Don’t back down. You can do this. You just have to play by their rules once, and then you’re home free. Besides, your numbers aren’t just going to magically appear because you want them to, and getting this interview with Hunter Reed is going to do wonders for your female listeners.”
She’s right, of course. She usually is—even when I don’t want to hear it.
“My female listeners?” I ask, though I know exactly where she’s going with this.
“Of course. Hunter Reed is a sex pot. And have you heard that deep voice during post-game interviews? Girls will be tuning injust to hear him read the warning label on a bottle of paint thinner—just you wait.”
I laugh, though I know she’s right. “Sex pot? You’re aging yourself, mother. And even if I did convince him to come on my show, I doubt he’ll give me the story everyone wants.”
“Then find another angle that gets him more comfortable. You’re Peyton freakin’ Collins. You didn’t let a blown-out knee stop you from staying in the game, and you’re not going to let one stubborn hockey player tank your shot at syndication.”
Her voice is sharp, encouraging, and exactly what I need.
“Maybe you’re right?” I say.
I could use the vote of confidence right about now.
“I am right. About everything, too. Have you seen him stretch out on the ice before the game? That man can do the splits. On ice. In slow motion. I’m widowed, not dead, Peyton.”
Despite everything, I laugh.
Dad passed away three years ago. A heart attack out of nowhere. One day he was cheering for my podcast launch, and the next…he was gone. He and Mom had been married over thirty years. Since then, she’s taken care of everything and everyone.
“I’m just not sure it’s going to be as easy as you think. He’s impossible to pin down. Unless you're a puck bunny.” I say the last part under my breath, pulling the phone's mic away from my mouth as I weave past a couple arguing about missed penalties. “Reed treats basic questions like they’re classified military intel. I doubt he’d even tell me his favorite cereal.”
The guy in front of me wears a REED, seventy-two jersey.
Of course he does.
It’s like the universe is taunting me.
“That’s motivation, sweetheart. Nothing worth doing in life is easy. That’s just a fact. And while I have you, I’m just checkingto make sure that you’re going to Jesse’s career day. He’s been telling all his classmates that his aunt is famous.”
I laugh at how my twelve-year-old nephew, Jesse, might be my biggest fan.
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
Jesse was born with spina bifida. He’s brilliant—wicked smart—but the world isn’t always built for kids in wheelchairs. This is his third school in four years, each move just to find a building that could accommodate his needs without treating him like a burden.
I get it—I do. Everyone is trying to do the best for Jesse.
But it’s hard enough as a kid to make new friends in a new school, and Jesse’s had to do it more than I feel he should have.
My brother Noah re-enlisted in the Army for medical insurance, and to pay to put him through special physical therapy and surgeries that insurance won’t cover. He’s currently stationed overseas for another three months. Abby, his wife, works full-time as a nurse and saves all her PTO for Jesse’s surgeries and appointments.
Mom’s the one who picks up the slack. Retired, full-time grandma, chauffeur, and emotional backbone of the family. My dad left her a good enough life insurance policy to make sure that she could pay off the house and focus her energy on us instead. His way of still taking care of us even after he left this earth. That’s the kind of man he was.
I’m on for career day—again. And I’m happy to do it. I just wish he had someone besides me—the same aunt he used for career day at his last school.
