Page 30 of Bleacher Report
I make it halfway through editing a new podcast teaser when my body gives up. One minute I’m scrolling through social media mentions, trying to keep my anxiety at bay about tonight, sleeping in the same bed as Hunter, and then the next I’m drifting off to sleep.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out when I feel it—strong arms sliding under me, lifting me off the couch like I weigh nothing.
My eyes flutter open, groggy and disoriented. “What… What are you doing?”
“Carrying you to bed,” Hunter murmurs, voice quiet but steady. “You fell asleep.”
I’m too tired to argue. My head lolls against his shoulder, and I catch a faint trace of his smell that I caught at the charity event.
When he nudges the bedroom door open with his foot, I realize he’s made the bed. And not just made it—he’s created a literal pillow wall down the middle, like some kind of amateur Great Wall of China. There’s even an extra blanket folded neatly on his side.
“Seriously?” I mumble as he sets me down gently.
“Boundaries, Collins. You set the rules, I’m just following them.”
He steps back, pulling the covers over me before grabbing his own pillow and settling down on his side—on top of the duvet, with a spare blanket thrown over him like he’s camping out.
It should feel awkward. It should feel ridiculous.
But somehow, it doesn’t.
Instead, there’s this strange little bubble of safety settling in my chest. Like if someone broke in tonight, the hockey enforcer lying next to me would handle it without blinking.
And that’s the problem.
Because the last thing I need is to get comfortable with Hunter Reed sleeping beside me.
But it almost can’t be helped, because as I drift off again, the last thing I’m aware of is the sound of his breathing, steady and solid in the dark, and one soft, sneaky thought threading through my brain:
Hunter Reed might actually be a better man than I thought.
And that’s dangerous.
Chapter Seven
Peyton
Waking up this morning to an empty bed almost had me wondering if Hunter moving in last night was all a dream.
Then I saw the pillow wall, a small block of his clothes hanging in my walk-in closet, and the image of his toothbrush in the hallway bathroom.
Yep, his signature is all over my place now.
I take a deep breath, sitting in my podcast studio down the hall from my bedroom, trying to calm the jittery nerves swirling in my stomach. Today is the day—the first interview with Hunter Reed—and somehow, it feels like the most important moment of my entire life.
I’ve interviewed arguably bigger names before—hall-of-famers, gold medalists, coaches with decades of legacy behindthem—but none of them came with this much baggage. None of them came with the sharp edge of unresolved rumors or the kind of fandom that’s ready to eat me alive if I mess this up.
Because Hunter Reed doesn’t just come with a strong slapshot and a devastating dimple. He comes with a rabid fan base, a trail of half-true headlines, and a stubborn refusal to talk about any of it. He’s never done a podcast interview before—never opened up on record. And now with our deal to help each other firmly in place, evident from the smell of his body wash from his morning shower still wafting through the hallway, I’d say it’s my turn to cash in on our deal.
No pressure.
I glance down at the mic, already set up, double-checked for sound quality and levels. My notes are neatly typed and stacked beside me, along with a backup list of questions in case he clams up on the hard stuff. And he will. I can already feel it.
But I have a job to do.
And it’s more than just scoring a good soundbite.
Because if this goes well? I’ll be one step closer to locking in that syndication deal the network’s been dangling in front of me like a carrot. And if it goes great? I could finally cementThe Bleacher Reportas a must-listen podcast in the sports world—no longer the underdog in a saturated market.
