Page 32 of Bleacher Report
That earns me a half-smile.
He reached for a bright pink Post-it notepad sitting between us in the shape of a French Bulldog.
“What are these for?” he asks, his thumb rubbing over the neon pink paper.
“Inspiration I guess? I don’t have time for a dog, so this is the closest thing I have to a pet. But I’m hoping once I get this syndication deal and things calm down, I can get one.”
He nods. “Too busy for real animals…I can relate,” he says, and then sets the Post-it notepad back where it was.
I pull my “interview” mug up to my lips and take a sip of my hot tea.
“What are you drinking?” he asks.
“Peppermint tea with a little bit of honey. It helps soothe my throat during interviews…and it’s calming.”
He nods again and glances around the rest of my desk, trying to find new things he didn’t notice when I showed him the studio yesterday.
"You ready to get started?" I ask, adjusting my headphones.
"Ready as I’ll ever be."
I hit record.
"Welcome back toBleacher Report, where the stories run deeper than the headlines. I’m Peyton Collins, and today, I’m sitting down with Seattle Hawkeyes defenseman Hunter Reed. Hunter, thanks for joining me."
"Thanks for having me."
The first few minutes are unexpectedly smooth. Hunter’s good on mic—like, really good. He’s got that natural charisma, the kind that doesn’t need rehearsed lines or heavy edits. He’s funny, confident, just the right amount of cocky. It throws mea little…in a good way. For the first time since hitting record, I start to relax.
And my mom was right. Hunter’s voice is so sexy on radio that even I would tune in to hear him read the warning label on a can of paint thinner.
“So,” I say, leaning into the mic with a smile in my voice, “you’re known in the locker room as being the prankster of the group. Is that a Hawkeyes thing, or have you always been this much of a menace?” I ask, earning me a quiet chuckle from across the room. “And what’s the best prank you’ve ever pulled off?”
He grins, eyes lighting with mischief. “Let’s just say I was born with a calling,” he says. “My poor kindergarten teacher still probably flinches every time she sees a whoopee cushion.”
I laugh, already regretting asking. “Oh no, you were that kid.”
“The worst,” he confirms proudly. “But I only prank people I like. I don’t do it with malice. The best one? Probably the time I hacked the mic during post-game interviews and turned the voice to helium before Coach Wrenley sat down. He had no clue until he started talking and everyone in the press room laughed so hard, tears were streaming down reporters' faces.”
I choke back a laugh. “It was you who did that?”
I remember that post-game interview. It made its rounds for weeks. Coach Wrenley on the other hand, didn’t seem very happy about it.
“Listen, it was either that or the life-size cutout of his wife in a ref’s jersey. I’m saving that one for the playoffs.”
“Oh my God,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Youarea menace.”
He winks. “You invited the chaos, sweetheart. I’m just living up to expectations.”
And somehow…I’m not even mad about it.
“Did he retaliate?” I ask.
“Yep, loosened one of the blades on my skates before he made me do laps the next day at practice. I didn’t know until I was halfway around the rink and I lost my blade. He made me do ten laps with only one skate. He made sure we had leg day in the gym the next morning. I could barely walk for a week.”
I cover my mouth to keep from busting up laughing. I can’t even imagine picking on Coach Wrenley.
I glance down at my notes, and I wish that we could keep up this energy. It’s going so well. But the network and the fans have questions, and it’s my job to get answers…or at least try to.
