Page 31 of Bleacher Report
But if it flops? If I screw this up and Hunter Reed walks out of here with nothing but regret for the deal he made?
Then everything I’ve worked for over the past three years—every late night, every equipment upgrade I couldn’t afford, every guest I begged to take a chance on me—goes down the drain.
And worse than all of that?
It’ll feel like I failed him—my dad.
I roll my chair back from the desk and grab my favorite mug from the shelf—a white ceramic one with “Microphones &Mayhem” printed in bold across the front, a gift from Abby when I hit my first twenty-five thousand subscribers. I never do an interview without it.
Does that make me superstitious? Probably, but I don’t care. Everyone has their thing and this one is mine. The hot tea and honey help to keep my throat from getting scratchy with all the takes I do in the editing process.
I hold it like it’s a lucky charm as I glance at the framed photo on my desk—me at twelve, drenched in sweat after a match, holding a plastic trophy in one hand and my dad’s in the other. He’s smiling like I’d just won Wimbledon. I hadn’t even made it past regionals. But to him? Every win mattered.
He used to say, “Every match tells a story, kiddo. You just have to be brave enough to tell it.”
When I blew out my knee at fourteen and my tennis dreams ended, I lost more than just a sport. I lost the one place where I felt like I knew who I was. And when I lost him, three years ago to a heart attack, I lost my compass completely.
But this podcast? It became my way back. My way to tell the stories he would’ve wanted to hear. To amplify the athletes who’ve fallen and clawed their way back. To find the people who’ve lived through the hard stuff and are still standing.
Just like me.
This isn’t just about audience numbers or ad sponsors or nailing the perfect opener.
This is about making it count. For the girl I used to be. For the man who never stopped believing in her.
And most of all, for the story we’re about to tell.
Because whether he likes it or not, Hunter Reed is part of it now.
My phone buzzes.
Rebecca:Just checking in! Can’t wait to hear what you and Hunter come up with. We’ll be listening closely. The producer making the call on this just so happens to be a big fan of Hunter’s.
A not-so-subtle reminder of the pressure riding on today’s interview. Great.
I glance over at the extra mic I set up last night. Hunter still hasn’t seen the inside of the studio. Not really. When he moved in, he peeked in the door, made a joke about how official it looked, and left it alone. Today, there’s no avoiding it.
The door creaks open.
"Whoa," Hunter says, stepping inside. He’s in a dark Henley and jeans, the kind of casual that shouldn’t be allowed to look that good. His eyes sweep over the soundproofed walls, the acoustic tiles, and the shelf of guest mementos I’ve collected over the years—signed hockey pucks, tennis balls, a coffee sleeve from a certain world-ranked surfer who refused to drink from anything else.
He nods slowly. "This is...intense."
"It’s just a studio, Reed. Not the Pentagon."
"Yeah, but it’s your studio," he says, stepping closer to the mic. "This is where the magic happens, huh?"
"Only if you behave," I mutter, motioning to the seat across from mine.
He grins and drops into the chair. "I’ll do my best."
The way he flops into the chair gives the dismissive, unserious vibe I’m used to seeing with him. Calm, assured…so cool he couldn’t melt butter. But there’s just a slight tension in his shoulders that I suspect he doesn’t want me to see.
I check the levels on the soundboard and do a quick test record of our intro. He listens without talking, his gaze tracking me, curious.
"Are you always this focused when you’re working?" he asks.
"Only when the interview might decide the future of my entire career."
