Page 42 of Bleacher Report
“If you think that was rocking your world, then you haven’t seen anything yet.”
The smirk across his lips tells me that he’s joking, but I'd be lying if I weren’t curious how good Hunter is in bed with his reputation and all.
Luckily, we have rules in place, and I don’t plan on breaking any of them for the next two months.
Later, I change into pajamas and head into the bedroom.
The pillow wall is fluffed and ready.
Hunter’s already in bed, stretched out on top of the duvet, earbuds in, watching something on his phone. He pulls one out when I walk in, turning toward me.
“Just a reminder—we’ve got the open skate event tomorrow.”
“Oh, right…okay.”
I climb under the covers and face the wall.
“Sweet dreams, Collins,” he murmurs.
“Sweet dreams, Reed.”
The first thing I register when I wake up is drool. A line of it, wet and warm, trailing down my chin.
The second thing I register is that I'm halfway sprawled across the pillow wall that Hunter made two nights ago becausehe doesn’t believe in shared bed boundaries without a literal barrier.
I groan, wiping at my face as the fog of sleep slowly clears.
The room is empty.
Except for me and the pillows that, judging by my current position, I bulldozed in my sleep.
“Fantastic,” I mutter, flopping onto my back and staring at the ceiling.
Did I climb over the pillow wall before or after he left for practice? Did he see me drooling like a feral animal? Was I starfishing across the entire bed like a menace?
Last night, sitting on the couch together, after everything he did to make it up to me from the interview, it felt like we got a little closer. But straddling the pillow wall was probably closer than he anticipated.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and hesitate for exactly three seconds before typing.
Peyton: Sorry if I woke you up. Pretty sure I staged a full-blown invasion over the pillow wall.
It only takes thirty seconds before my phone buzzes in response.
Hunter: You didn’t wake me up. You were too busy drooling on enemy territory.
Another ping follows immediately—a photo attachment.
I swipe it open and groan out loud.
It’s a photo of me completely unconscious with half my face mashed into the pillow barrier, mouth slack, and yes, an unmistakable drool stain front and center.
Hunter: Made it my home screen.
I slap my hand to my forehead. “Oh my God.”
Another ping.
Hunter: You’re so angelic when you’re fast asleep.
