Page 53 of Bleacher Report
As we walk, Kendall murmurs, “Don’t let Bethany rattle you. Women like that feed on it.”
Isla grins. “And by the way, you’re officially a WAG now. Real hockey boyfriend or not.”
The VIP lounge is tucked away on the second level of the stadium, far from the reporters, cameras, and fans still millingaround the Open House downstairs. It's quieter here—dimly lit with plush couches, a private bar, and enough space for the WAGs to gather without an audience.
Penelope, Kendall, and Isla don’t even hesitate to pull me toward a corner booth like I’ve been part of their circle for years.
Kendall slides into the booth across from me. "I can’t believe you and Hunter are faking it to keep Bethany away from him.”
I blink, caught off guard. Then I remember that Penelope said that the players all talk. Hunter must have told someone, and it got around the locker room. I’m not completely comfortable with everyone knowing, and yet, in some ways, I’m happy that I don’t have to lie to these girls about it.
“It didn’t start out like that. At first, he just wanted me to outbid her in exchange for an interview. Then things got a little crazy, and here we are,” I say.
Isla grins knowingly. "It doesn’t look fake. That kiss out there? It looked like you’ve been together for years."
My cheeks flush, but I force a laugh. "Well, you know how hockey players are. Dramatic."
Penelope raises a brow but doesn’t press. Instead, she waves over the bartender. "You’re one of us now, Peyton. Whether you like it or not."
Kendall leans in conspiratorially. "Speaking of…we usually get together for one of the away games and watch it together at Penelope's house, just a few of us. Drinks, pizza, probably a lot of trash-talking the refs who can’t hear us."
Isla grins. "You’re coming."
It’s not really a question.
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes in my lap—a text from Hunter.
Hunter: You okay?
I glance up at the women around me, all of them smiling, relaxed, like this is just another Thursday night.
And somehow, for the first time tonight, I actually am.
I text back quickly.
Peyton: I’m good.
Then I look at Penelope and nod. "Yeah. Count me in."
The event is starting to wind down by the time Hunter finds me again, the crowd thinning as people filter toward the exits. He’s still got that easy smile on his face—the one he saves for the cameras—but it softens when his eyes land on me.
“Did you have fun with the girls?” he asks, slipping his hand to the small of my back like it’s second nature now.
“Yeah, I did. They invited me to Penelope’s for your away game.”
“That should be a good time. Are you going to go?” he asks, nodding at a teammate as we pass by on our way out to his truck.
“Yeah,” I nod, glancing up at him. “They insisted.”
Something flickers in his expression—almost like relief. “Good. It will make this all more believable, but also you’ll have them to hang out with during the home games and events that you agreed to come to.”
His explanation makes sense. So why do I feel like there might be more to him wanting me to befriend the Hawkeyes girls’ group?
The cool night air hits us as we step outside, the quiet of the parking lot a sharp contrast to the noise inside.
Hunter unlocks his truck and opens the passenger door for me without a word, waiting until I climb in before shutting it and rounding to the driver’s side.
For a second, as he pulls out onto the street, neither of us says anything. The tension that’s been simmering all night—the media attention, the kiss, the crowd—settles between us like an invisible thread.
