Page 25 of Bleacher Report
My pulse hammers in my throat. It’s everywhere—there’s even a trending hashtag:
#ReedAndBleacherBabe
There’s a small, shameful thrill seeing myself on the screen, looking like someone who belongs in his world—the world of hockey and WAGs.
But it’s tangled with something sharp and dangerous too.
Because none of this is real.
And no amount of headlines, GIFs, or internet theories can change that.
With Hunter moving in tonight, I need to make sure we set ground rules.
Boundaries. Clear lines in the sand.
Because no matter what Abby thinks, I am absolutely, one hundred percent not sleeping with Hunter Reed.
Hunter
There’s a knock at my door.
I freeze, halfway through cramming a hoodie into the duffel bag at my feet. Sweat clings to my back from the morning run I cut short, my running shoes untied and damp against the hardwood.
The knock comes again—louder this time.
For one irrational second, my heart spikes in panic. Bethany.
She already slid her spare apartment key under my door last night. I found it when I got home from the charity event, a shiny little threat lying on my welcome mat. I’d gone to Oakley’s afterward with the team, staying out as late as possible just in case she was waiting in the shadows.
But when I crack the door open, it’s not her.
It’s Trey—already dressed for the gym, arms crossed, full-sleeve tattoos making him look more menacing than he is andgiving me that you’re a dumbass look he’s perfected over the years in special forces for the Army.
I blow out a breath, the tension leaking out of my shoulders. “Jesus.”
“You coming or what?” Trey asks, stepping inside without waiting.
“Just give me a minute. I had to cut the run short this morning." I nod toward the key and the folded note sitting on the kitchen counter. "Got a little…distracted."
Trey crosses the room, picks up the note, and skims it.
Hunter—
Here’s a key to my place. Come by anytime, day or night.
Don’t bother with the condoms… you know how I like to get messy.
He shakes his head. “Holy shit. You weren’t kidding. She’s out for you.”
"Yeah," I mutter, dragging a hand over my face. "Welcome to the nightmare. She’s trying to convince Everett to make a trade for me."
Trey’s head snaps up. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Nope.”
His gaze sweeps over the half-packed duffel, the shirts tossed over the back of the couch, my jacket slung across a chair. “You’re really doing this?”
“Yep.” I zip the bag shut and toss it onto the pile. “Moving in with Peyton.”
