Page 35 of Bleacher Report
Hunter
Leaving the house in a rush, I realize that the last place I want to head to is my apartment with Bethany roaming loose somewhere inside.
After driving around for forty-five minutes with nowhere to go, I get a text from my mom.
Mom:Sorry that I didn’t return your text yesterday. The salon was slammed.Doctor’s appointment went fine. Nothing to worry about. And don’t think I’m just going to ignore the fact that you haven’t told me that you have a beautiful new girlfriend. You better be bringing her home soon.
Something keeps nagging at me that she’s not being honest about her health. That she’s using my new relationship with Peyton to deflect the real conversation that she and I should be having, but what can I do? Call my own mother a liar? As if the issue with Peyton wasn’t enough, now I have too much on my mind to just sit here in my truck. I need to work off this energy and luckily I have my gym bag in the truck.
A beat passes before I swipe the message away and pull up my texts, firing one off to Slade.
Hunter:You up for a run?
Slade:We had morning skate and weights today. And my wife’s still going to expect me to put out tonight. Have you forgotten that I’m not as young as you?
Hunter:I need to run off some steam. Just left Peyton’s place.
Slade:Trouble with your fake girlfriend, shocking. Okay, I’m waiting at the stadium for Penelope to finish a meeting with Everett. I’ve got an hour to kill. Meet you at the park?
Hunter:See you in twenty.
I wonder for a second what the meeting with Penelope and Everett could be about. Are they discussing a trade for me to New Jersey? Has Bethany even made an offer for a trade yet? I have no damn idea.
Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the parking garage, kill the engine and quickly change into sweats, a hoodie and running shoes before I head toward the park.
The evening air’s already dropping degrees as the sun dips behind the jagged edge of the Seattle skyline. I pull the drawstrings of my hoodie tighter as I lace up my running shoes at the curb.
Slade’s easy to spot—tall, lean, stretching near the trailhead like he owns the place. His breath mists in short puffs, sleeves pushed up to reveal tattooed forearms that still look solid for a guy who’s always claiming he’s past his prime. The man talks like he’s retired but moves like he’s got a few more seasons in him.
Gray clouds are rolling low above us, smudging out the last of the light.
Typical November in Seattle. Cold. Wet. Gritty. Perfect weather to run off regret.
It matches the knot in my gut.
Slade spots me approaching and nods. “Look who’s still alive.”
“Barely,” I mutter.
“Looks like you escaped unscathed?” He pulls one knee to his chest, balance perfect, as I roll my shoulders.
I start jogging without answering and he follows, falling in line with me, the thud of our shoes against the frosty trail breaking the silence first. We settle into steady pace. Trees huddle together on either side—A few orange leaves cling stubbornly to low-hanging limbs. The sound of traffic nearby, as Friday night kicks off in the city.
“Are you going to tell me what happened,” Slade asks, “or do I have to guess?”
I let the silence stretch a beat longer than necessary. “She asked about Bethany in our first interview.”
Slade’s grunt is quiet but full of judgment. “The interview…right. I was wondering when that would come up. You can’t be shocked she brought up Bethany.”
“I told her I didn’t want to talk about that.”
“I thought you agreed to the terms at the charity auction. This didn’t come up?” he asks.
I decide against admitting that it sort of did. But she knew I wasn’t comfortable with it. At the very least, I figured she’d give me a heads-up about the kind of question she was going to ask before she jumped into it.
“She knew it was off-limits.”
He shoots me a look. “Hunter, she’s a journalist. It’s her job to poke at things, and you told me you agreed to three interviews. You didn’t think she’d ask about Bethany? Especially when the woman rented an apartment in your building and has been stalking the Hawkeyes’ stadium, hoping to run into you every morning at early skate?”
