Page 41 of Bleacher Report
We eat in silence for a while. Then he glances over. "I meant it. I was wrong. I shut down, and that wasn’t fair."
"I pushed too hard," I admit. "I know you don’t want to talk about your past. But that’s part of what the podcast is about. It’s my job. We agreed to that."
He nods. "Then maybe we should talk through boundaries next time. So we’re not stepping on landmines."
"Deal."
After we finish eating, Hunter gets up and returns the ice cream to the freezer. When he comes back, he dims the lights and drops onto the couch again, tossing his side of the blanket back over his legs.
Somehow, I end up nestled into his side, his arm stretched out over the back of the couch. It’s comfortable. Too comfortable. And how we got here from where we started is a wonder.
"Is this your move?" I tease, glancing up at him.
He snorts. "There’s no move happening here. I just want you to feel better."
"I do," I murmur. "Thank you."
The movie plays in the background, but we’re barely watching. We’re talking and the conversation comes so easily. He’s a great listener, but he’s a great storyteller too. I bet he’d make a great podcaster someday.
“So,Bleacher Report—where did that name come from?” he asks, leaning into the corner of the couch, me up against him.
"It was my dad’s idea," I say, smiling to myself and picking a tiny piece of lint from my sweats. "That’s what he called himself—'The Bleacher Report.’ His commentary was the best. Sometimes he’d even create commentary for when mom and I were making cookies in the kitchen, or while I was working on homework. He made trivial things seem so funny in his mock reporter voice."
Hunter looks over, more serious now. "He sounds amazing."
"He was. He passed away three years ago from a heart attack. It was completely unexpected.”
Hunter goes quiet for a second and then runs a hand over his face. “Jesus, that’s really rough. I’m sorry that you went through that.”
I nod. “Thank you,” I tell him, looking up into his green eyes. “When I got injured, I thought I’d lost everything. He never let me believe that. He kept pushing me to find a new dream. The podcast became that dream."
He nods. "I get that. When my mom was sick, I thought I had to carry everything alone. Sometimes you just need someone to sit beside you, hand you a blanket, and queue up a bad movie."
"You’re good at that," I say softly.
“Years of practice I guess.”
“Was it always just you and your mom?”
I ask the question carefully. I don't want him to think that he has to answer. This is the closest I’ve gotten to him opening up to me. I’d never use this for the podcast, but knowing more about him will help me navigate things more easily for our next interview.
“I never met him,” he says, seeming almost distant from it. Void of any emotion. “My mom said that he was the bass player in some band she went to see. I’m the product of a one-night stand in the back of a tour bus.”
“Stop it,” I say.
He grins down at me. “I swear to God, that’s what she told me.”
I turn further to face him more clearly. I have so many questions, I don’t know where to start.
“Did she tell you who it was? What band did he play in? Oh my God… Is he still touring?”
“I don’t know any of that. She told me that she’s taking that to her grave. She didn’t want me to grow up with that lifestyle. My mom had just graduated from beauty school and inherited a salon from her aunt. She came into a lot of responsibility all at once, and she felt like it was her last summer to let loose. She didn’t expect to be pregnant with me.”
I reach out, gripping both of his shoulders. “Hunter…oh my God. You could be the son of a rock legend. Are you kidding me? This is amazing.”
“She told me that they never made it big. One hit wonders on the radio, but that was about it. We haven’t talked about it since I was in middle school.”
“Wow. And here I thought you were going to tell me that your dad is an accountant or manages hedge funds. You just rocked my world.”
