Page 52 of Bleacher Report
Hunter mutters something under his breath.
“Rule number five,” he says low, his eyes still locked on Bethany. “This is your warning, Peyton.”
Before I can respond, his fingers brush my cheek, tipping my face toward his. His touch is warm, grounding—and then his lips are on mine.
This time, it’s different.
The first kiss blindsided me, all adrenaline and chaos, like he was trying to prove a point. But now… Now he’s deliberate. Slower. Like he’s making sure I feel every second of it.
His lips move against mine with a steady, calming kind of confidence. Not rushed. Not frantic. Like he’s got nothing but time to remind everyone—Bethany included—that I’m his.
And the worst part?
It feels familiar.
Like I’ve done this before. Like kissing Hunter Reed is something I know how to do, even when I shouldn’t.
A spark flickers low in my stomach, unexpected and sharp, and my toes curl in my skates. I force myself to keep breathing when he finally pulls away.
His hand lingers at the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheek like he can’t help himself.
The crowd cheers around us, but it all feels muted.
Because I can still feel him everywhere.
And I forget, for one stupid second, that it’s fake.
Bethany doesn’t wait long after the kiss.
By the time Hunter pulls away—slowly, like he wants it to linger just a second longer—she’s already making her way toward us, her steps slow yet intentional on the ice.
She doesn’t have to come out more than a few feet before she’s too close for comfort.
“Hunter,” she purrs, sliding her sunglasses onto the top of her head even though it’s eight o’clock at night and we’re indoors. “Didn’t realize you were so…domestic now.”
Her eyes flick to me, sharp and assessing. I recognize the look—it’s the one women like Bethany use when they want to make sure you know exactly where you stand.
Hunter shifts subtly, angling his body toward me like a shield. “Beth, this isn’t the time.”
“Oh, please. Don’t mind me.” She waves a hand, voice syrupy sweet. “I just wanted to meet the woman who’s apparently tamed Seattle’s most notorious bachelor.”
Her gaze rakes over me, stopping pointedly on my hand still resting in Hunter’s.
Isla and Kendall appear like backup, sliding in on either side of me.
“This must be Bethany,” Kendall says breezily, like they’re discussing the weather.
Bethany’s smile flickers.
Isla leans in to the group, stage-whispering, “Is it too soon to initiate Peyton into the WAGs group chat?”
Bethany’s eyes narrow.
Hunter’s fingers tighten around mine.
“We were just about to grab drinks,” Isla continues smoothly, linking her arm through mine like we’re old friends. “Peyton, you’re coming, right?”
“Of course,” I say, letting them steer me away, Hunter following behind.
