Page 54 of Bleacher Report
Finally, he glances over, voice softer now. “You handled tonight like a pro, Collins.”
I shrug, looking out the window to hide my smile. “It wasn't my first circus.”
His laugh is low and warm. “Good. Because it won’t be the last.”
Chapter Twelve
PEYTON
I fiddle with the hem of my sweater, my nerves buzzing like I’m about to walk into a final exam unprepared. It’s ridiculous. I’ve survived press scrums and radio interviews and a million awkward first dates. But nothing quite compares to the stomach-knotting anxiety of driving to my mom’s house with Hunter Reed behind the wheel.
He’s casual about it, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other flipping through radio stations like he owns the airwaves. We’ve been driving for almost twenty minutes, and the silence has been…comfortable, mostly. Until he pauses on a classic rock station, and I immediately reach over and change it to an indie folk channel.
Hunter glances at me sideways, smirking. “Seriously? What is this? Sleepy banjo music?”
I grin and prepare for the war about to rage over the radio. “Excuse me, but I am the passenger princess. That means I control the music.”
He huffs a laugh, checking over his shoulder before switching lanes smoothly. “Passenger what?”
“Passenger princess,” I repeat, teasing him like he’s dense. “My dad used to call me that on long drives to tennis tournaments. I got to pick the music, the temperature, the snack stops—full control. He said it was only fair since I was the one doing all the winning.”
His smirk softens, and he shoots me a quick glance before focusing back on the road. “You two were close.”
I swallow around the lump that always forms when I talk about him. “Yeah. Some days it’s really hard to accept that he’s gone. I keep thinking he’s going to call any second to ask me what he should get mom for their anniversary, but then my phone never rings.”
The smile fades from Hunter’s face, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. “He sounds like a good dad.”
“He was,” I murmur, turning my gaze out the window. “I miss him every day. Especially when something exciting happens and I want to call him…or around the holidays.”
Silence settles over us again, heavier this time. I glance at him, trying to shake it off. “Do you ever wish you would have grown up with a dad?”
His thumb taps against the steering wheel three times, then stops. “Sure. But my mom did her best.”
The answer is short, clipped. His entire posture shifts—shoulders rigid, jaw clenched. It’s clear that’s all I’m getting, so I let it go.
I reach for the climate control dial and crank it up a degree, flashing him a playful smile. “So, you’re not going to bite my hand off if I turn it to seventy-two?”
That earns me a real smile, the corner of his mouth twitching like he can’t help himself. “Nah. You’re my passenger princess now.” A stupid little flutter takes up residence in my chest at the way he says it—like it’s a title he’s happy to give me. I shove the feeling down before it can root itself too deep. “Just don’t make me sweat through this button-up before I meet your mom for the first time. First impressions are important, and I have no idea what you told her about our first meeting. I might have some damage control to do.”
“She’s already in love with you. She and Jesse watch every televised game you’re on.”
Hunter just laughs and shakes his head. “Good to know.”
And for the first time since we left my place, the weight pressing on my chest lightens.
The second we step inside my mom’s house, it smells like cinnamon, roasted turkey, and the faint trace of the lemon cleaner she always uses when company’s coming over. It’s warm and chaotic—the way every holiday gathering has been since I was a kid.
Mom’s already at the door, wiping her hands on her apron as she grins at us. “There you are! I thought you two got lost.”
Before I can respond, Hunter holds out a hand. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Collins.”
My mom blinks at him like she wasn’t expecting manners from a six-foot-two, muscled hockey player, then shakes his hand warmly. “None of that Mrs. Collins business. Call me Shari.”
I glance over at Hunter, catching the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
A soft whirl cuts through the noise behind us, and I turn just in time to see Jesse rolling toward us, a wide grin on his face.
“Hunter Reed’s coming to Thanksgiving? No way! No one told me,” Jesse’s eyes light up like it’s Christmas morning.
