Page 13 of Bleacher Report
She hands me a champagne flute without missing a beat. “Liquid courage. You look like you need it.”
She has no idea. Though she did see me crash and burn a couple of nights ago at Oakley’s.
I take the glass with a grateful nod and a half-laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s survived enough of these events to read the signs.” She tips her glass toward the crowd. “Welcome to the social Super Bowl. Half the room’s here to land a player. The other half is here to land a headline.”
My stomach dips. Great. Just what I need—Seattle’s entire sports media scene watching me fail in real time. It was bad enough when it was just the players and fans in a packed bar.
Cammy takes a sip of her drink and casually scans the crowd. “You’ve got that deer-in-headlights look. Don’t worry. You’ll adjust.”
“I’m not used to…all this.” I gesture vaguely to the dress, the champagne, the high ticket entry to get into this place. “It’s notreally my scene. I feel a lot more comfortable on a tennis court or behind a mic.”
“It wasn’t mine either at first,” Cammy says with a shrug. “But you’re here on a mission, and you deserve syndication, so put all of that behind you and find your target. Stay confident, and don’t let anyone shake you. You’re not here to blend in—you’re here to make something happen. And honestly, the Hawkeyes boys are all great, though their talent agents can be overly protective.”
I nod, gripping my champagne glass tighter.
No pressure.
A beautiful woman about our age with dark auburn hair and a sleek black trumpet dress waves Cammy down and heads our way.
“Cammy, there you are. I need help with the silent auction table. Do you have a moment?” she asks, giving Cammy a quick look before offering me a warm smile.
“Aria, this is Peyton Collins withBleacher Report,” Cammy says, gesturing between us.
“Hi, Peyton. It’s great to meet you. I heard your interview with Penelope Matthews—it was amazing. I’ve worked in an office next door to Penelope for two years and didn’t know half the things you brought up in that episode,” she says with genuine enthusiasm. “Really great work.”
Her praise catches me off guard. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear something like that until it hits me like a small, unexpected hug.
“Thank you so much for listening. That means a lot to me,” I say. “So, you work for the Hawkeyes then?” I ask.
Aria’s face turns a little green, her smile fading quickly. “Actually, I don’t anymore. I was Phil Carlton’s assistant when Everett Kauffman bought the team. It turns out that I was redundant, and Everett let me go.”
Cammy reaches out and rubs Aria’s arm quickly. “You’re not redundant. He has no idea how incredible you are. I couldn’t have gotten the silent auction table finished without you.”
“Thanks,” Aria whispers with a small smile and then turns back to me. “But forget I just told you my sob story. You should be here enjoying yourself.”
Cammy beams back at me. “Speaking of which, Peyton’s trying to line up a player interview tonight. She’s getting a syndication deal.”
Aria’s jaw drops like Cammy just announced I won an Emmy.
“Oh—no, it’s not a sure thing,” I say quickly, shaking out a hand to brush away Cammy's attempt at propping me up.
Our friendship is still so new, and she's already the best hype man I've ever had. Maybe I should have had her in my interview with the network about my syndication deal.
“Well, if the interviews I’ve listened to lately are any indication, I think you’ve got it in the bag,” Aria says with a confident nod.
“I really appreciate you saying that,” I reply, cheeks flushing.
Aria gestures toward Cammy. “Do you mind if I steal her for a second? I promise I’ll bring her right back.”
“Oh…of course. No problem. I should mingle anyway.”
I’m halfway through my second glass of champagne, making my way around the silent auction table when I catch sight of him.
Hunter Reed.
Standing near the bar in a black tux that fits like it was designed for his body alone. The jacket stretches just enough across his shoulders to be distracting, and the sleeves cut off right at his strong wrists. His hair is styled but not overly done—still that messy perfection that makes you want to tug on it just to see if it moves.
