Page 50 of Bleacher Report
Her townhouse comes into view, and despite myself, something in my chest loosens.
The porch light’s on. Her little blue SUV parked neatly in front.
And I hate how much this place feels like home already. At least the closest thing to feeling like home I’ve had in a while.
I cut the engine and sit there for a second, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel.
What the hell am I even doing? Moving in with a woman I barely know. Faking a relationship. Letting her lay down ground rules like this is some kind of reality show.
But the thing is…she’s the only person in my life right now who doesn’t want anything from me. Not my money. Not my name. Not control.
Nothing except a few interviews and a kid’s career day.
But when she smiles—when she’s not rolling her eyes at me—there’s something about her that makes it easy to breathe.
I grab my duffel from morning skate and head up the front steps.
Before I can even knock, the door cracks open like she’s been waiting.
Peyton stands there in sweatpants and a tank top, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, like she has no idea she looks better than half the women who paid five figures to bid on me.
Her eyes flick down to my bag. “You’re late.”
I smirk, shaking off the weight of everything that’s been crawling under my skin all day. “Miss me already, Collins?”
She doesn’t answer—just rolls her eyes and steps aside to let me in.
But the corner of her mouth twitches.
And damn if that doesn’t feel a hell of a lot better than anything Bethany Richards could ever offer.
Chapter Eleven
Peyton
The second we step inside the stadium, the energy hits me like a wall—bright lights, the sharp clicking of cameras going off, the low murmur of fans and media weaving through the open space. It’s the annual Hawkeyes Winter Open House, and apparently, it’s a bigger deal than I thought.
Hunter’s hand hovers at the small of my back as we make our way through the crowd. He spots Penelope, Kendall, and Isla standing off to the side, discussing something, and steers me toward them.
“Good evening, ladies, have you met–”
“Peyton! You’re here,” Penelope says with a big smile.
“We’ve already met,” I tell him as Penelope steps forward to squeeze my arm, while Isla bends in for a hug and Kendall givesa sweet wave. “I interviewed Penelope two months ago on my show, and I met Kendall and Isla at the bar…the night you and I met, actually,” I tell him with a smug grin.
“The night I was a complete gentleman,” he says, reaching back to scratch the back of his neck as if that night embarrasses him a little.
Someone comes up behind us and claps Hunter on the back. Slade Matthews—Penelope’s husband. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. At least you didn’t foil her Olympic figure skating dreams,” he says, and then sends Penelope a knowing look.
“True,” Penelope agrees. “The best love stories come from the worst first impressions. Just ask any retired player on this team.”
Before Hunter can reply, someone calls his name. The Hawkeyes' new social media manager waves him over to a group of reporters gathered near the ice. She’s only been with the team a few weeks, filling in for the last social media manager that was let go last week, after attempting to step in after Tessa Powers moved to Aspen with her husband, Lake Powers. From what I’ve heard around the team, losing Tessa has been a tough adjustment for the Hawkeyes, and they haven’t found a media manager who can handle the press or the players as well as Tessa did.
“Go,” Penelope tells him, already waving him away. “We’ll take good care of her.”
He hesitates a second longer, his eyes locking on mine for a moment before finally stepping away with Slade to answer interview questions from the press.
The second he’s gone, Penelope leans in. “You doing okay?”
