Page 5 of Bleacher Report
Wimbledon finals—just a fantasy now.
I tried walking away from sports. Tried pretending I could be someone else.
But it didn’t stick.
I kept looking back in from the outside like a ghost haunting my own past. Until I found podcasting.
Well, podcasting and a push from my dad before he passed for me to find my place in the sports world where I truly wanted to be. He knew me better than anyone, and after his passing,Bleacher Reporthas been sort of like my therapy to deal with his loss.
His exact words? “If you can’t play—talk. Your voice is just as powerful.”
What would he think now, seeing me vying to get an interview with a player just because he’s clickbaity. Would he tell me that I’m wasting my voice with airtime garbage? Or would he champion me to do whatever is necessary to get a syndication deal to putBleacher Reporton the map?
All I want to do is make him proud.
And now here I am. Back in the game. Just…in a different way.
Hunter’s voice slices through my thoughts—and the crowd. Sharp. Cold.
“No comment on personal matters.”
His eyes sweep the room, daring anyone to try him again.
But I’m buried in the back.
Tucked behind cameras and cargo jackets—too far for his gaze to find mine.
I rise on my tiptoes, catching sight of his profile. His jaw is set, those forest-green eyes hard as he fields questions about tonight's loss. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
Tension, not nerves. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than here, answering questions from reporters he clearly has no patience for.
“Hunter, that missed goal in the third—” someone starts.
“I saw it happen. You saw it happen. Next question.”
His voice could freeze hell over.
The room falls silent for a beat. Then, the questions resume.
I stay quiet, scribbling notes and pretending I’m not the tiniest bit curious about the man behind the headlines.
I’ve only seen him in person twice before—once in pre-season warm-ups and once outside the locker room. Both times, he barely looked in my direction.
But tonight, up close? The tension rolling off him hums like static—sharp, charged, barely contained. Controlled fury pressed into short answers and that ticking jaw.
My phone buzzes again.
Cammy:Oakley’s. After media. No excuses.
I start to type back, but she follows up immediately.
Cammy:Don’t even try to bail. I can hear you overthinking from here. Everyone wants to meet you.
No pressure. Just the well-known WAGs group of the Hawkeyes players all wanting to meet me.
After the press conference, I grab my bag and head for my car.
Oakley’s is only a couple blocks from the stadium, but I’ve got a longer drive ahead of me after—back to the shiny new townhouse I bought six months ago.
