Page 2 of Bleacher Report
Hunter Reed has never talked about New Jersey. Not to the press. Not on any podcast. Not once.
Which means if—and that’s a massive if—I can land the interview, it could finally be enough to clinch the syndication deal I’ve been chasing.
Rebecca Jones, the only woman on the board of network execs making the decision, is rooting for me—quietly. She let it slip that one of the other execs is a massive New Jersey fan and would kill to hear Reed’s side of the story ontheirnetwork.
It’s the biggest lead I’ve ever had.
Myin. My opportunity. And the stakes couldn’t be higher.
Two months. That’s how long I have to prove I can do this—to land Reed, boost my subscriber list from seventy-three thousand to one hundred thousand, and convince the board thatThe Bleacher Reportpodcast deserves to go syndicated.
But none of it matters if I can’t get him to say yes.
And that’s the part that’s been gnawing at me all game.
Because this guy only does post-game press.
No appearances. No interviews.
Just his stick, his smirk, his dating record, and the rumor mill nipping at his heels.
He also just so happens to be the holy grail of podcast guests that the execs are looking for—and the most ungettable.
And honestly? I don’t know if I’m enough to land him.
Not when I’m competing against sports podcasters with million-follower platforms and full-time teams. Not when half the board still thinks women in sports media are a cute PR move instead of a serious voice. Not when my twenty-six years of life have most broadcasters mistake me for some press exec’s personal assistant when I walk in the door instead of their equal with a press badge of my very own.
Not when the only real edge I have is hustle. And one exec quietly whispering, “I believe in you. Don’t take no for an answer.”
I pack up my notebook, fingers twitching with nerves as I glance down toward the ice. Reed’s mad after that missed puck. It’s evident in his rigid body movement when he’s usually smooth on the ice.
He skates toward the tunnel, helmet off, jaw tight, hair sweaty and perfect in a way that shouldn’t be allowed.
If I want this deal, I need Hunter Reed.
And if I wantHunter Reed?
I’ll need to be strategic. Persistent. And maybe a little lucky.
Because there are only two months left. And if I blow this shot…
I don’t get another.
I watch as the rest of the players follow suit, skating off the ice with shoulders sagging. Coach Haynes trails them in a sharp navy suit, his jaw clenched like he’s chewing on the taste of defeat. Coach Wrenley is the last to leave the bench, and the scowl on his face could melt the damn rink.
With most of the old roster retired in the last two years, the Hawkeyes are still trying to find their rhythm—though with December breathing down their necks, they’re running out of time to figure it out. If they don’t lock in soon, playoffs will just be another pipe dream.
All around me, fans rise from their seats, the air thick with stale beer, frustration, and hope circling the drain. Turquoise and white jerseys shuffle toward the exits, crumpled popcorn bags and half-empty drinks littering the floor like battlefield debris.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, plastering my phone up to my ear, unsure if I’ll be able to make out a word she says over the crowd around me. “Can you hear me? I’m still in the stadium.”
“Yeah, I can hear you. What a tough loss. How’s the crowd?” she asks, a little loud to make sure I can hear her.
“Pissed off as you can imagine.”
“I’m sure they are. Have you gotten a chance to talk to Hunter Reed yet? That’s who Rebecca wants you to score an interview with, right?”
