Page 4 of Bleacher Report
We chat quickly about my brother Will’s call home from Japan, and we agree on a time for Thanksgiving dinner next week.
“Gotta go. Kiss the kid for me,” I tell her.
“Will do. And Peyton?”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve got this. He’s just a man. A very limber, very attractive man—but still just a man.”
Sometimes I swear her belief in me is so strong, she could convince me I can walk through brick walls.
And at this very moment, I’d probably rather do that than try to convince Hunter Reed to do an interview with me.
Soon enough, I make my way down to the belly of the Hawkeyes Stadium, flashing the press badge Cammy Wrenley forwarded me earlier.
After two months of trying to wedge myself into Penelope Matthews’s calendar for last week’s interview, Cammy and I have exchanged enough emails to qualify as casual friends.
Or co-conspirators.
She gets it—what it’s like trying to be heard in a room full of men who think their opinions come with a whistle and a clipboard.
The network’s words from two weeks ago still echo in my head: “We love your content, Peyton, but we need to see at least one hundred thousand subscribers and some high-profile interviews before we can talk syndication. You’ve got eight weeks to show us what you can do.”
That was two weeks ago. This means I only have six weeks left and no winning interview guest in my sights—until today.
Twenty-seven thousand short. And one elusive, too-charming-for-his-own-good hockey player who could change everything—if he’d just spill a few details about past or current relationships.
I hang up, shaking my head. This isn’t going to be easy, but I don’t needeasy…I just need it to bepossible.
Inside, the press room is chaotic. Cameras. Elbows. Six-foot-something reporters with zero spatial awareness.
A pissed-off Coach Wrenley steps up to the podium. I have a feeling that’s how these interviews are going to go. No player enjoys the press when they have to talk about a loss.
I get it—I’ve been there. And as a tennis player, you don’t have a team’s shoulders to help carry a loss. The loss is all your own.
Just like this network loss will be only mine to bear alone if I don’t make something happen.
I rise onto my tiptoes and catch a glimpse of Hunter Reed walking in now.
Jaw clenched. Eyes dark. No signature smirk in sight.
He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
I open up my phone recording app and hit play, doing my best to ignore the twist of anxiety tightening beneath my ribs.
I’m not usually in person for press conferences post-game. I can get the intel I need from watching playbacks online when I’m researching a guest who will be on my show, but since I’m here…why not get the full experience?
However, the experience is turning out to be less than optimal.
I’m squeezed in, wedged behind a wall of tall reporters and a cloud of sweat, post-loss frustration, and whatever cologne the guy fromThe Seattle Sunriseis practically bathing in.
Perfect.
But it still beats sitting at home before I createdTheBleacher Report, pretending I don’t miss the world that used to be mine.
Career-ending injury at fourteen.
Professional tennis dreams—gone.
