Page 62 of Bleacher Report
We won three to one. A dirty, scrappy, but solid game.
My shoulder held up—through cheap shots and more bullshit than a rodeo. But these are the games I live for as a defenseman, especially when there’s a "W" on the board at the end.
The second we step off the ice, though, that relief fades. Because I know what’s coming next.
The media circus.
By the time I hit the locker room, there’s already a crowd of reporters gathering outside. Trey claps me on the shoulder as he passes. “Good luck, lover boy.”
I roll my eyes, but the joke lands closer to the truth than I’m comfortable admitting.
Things with Peyton have started to feel different lately. But I’m in no place to offer anyone a relationship—especially not her.
Peyton’s the kind of woman you marry. Settle down with. Build a life around.
Watching her with her family over Thanksgiving dinner told me everything I needed to know—because that’s what she wants. And I get it. Spending Thanksgiving with them felt easier than it should’ve. Jesse’s a good kid, her mom’s an actual saint, and Abby... well, Abby and I are cut from the same cloth. I’d probably get along with her brother too.
And honestly? I don’t even know if Peyton would give me a chance, even if I asked for one. I’ve screwed up more than once since the day we met. And after everything that happened with Bethany—the first person I ever let in—I’m not sure I have it in me to risk that kind of vulnerability again.
I don’t know if I ever will.
Still...sitting on the couch with Peyton?
It was the most at peace I’ve felt in a long damn time. I know what the media wants tonight. Gossip. Headlines. They’re not here for the game recap. They want stories about the player and the podcaster riding off into some carefully curated, fake sunset.
But if it keeps Bethany at bay—even a little—and Peyton’s podcast keeps climbing like it has since this all started…then yeah, I’ve got to do my part to keep this thing going.
And yeah, I’ve been keeping tabs on it—checking her sub numbers once…maybe twice a day. Would I do that for anyone else? Probably not, but her success feels like I’m winning too.
After I’ve showered and dressed in my suit, the media liaison is already motioning me toward the gauntlet.
It starts the way it always does—questions about the game, about the team’s performance, my shoulder.
And then—
“So, Hunter, the big question of the night isn’t about your game—it’s about your relationship. Can you tell us how things started between you and Peyton Collins?”
I school my expression, force a polite smile. “That’s private.”
Another reporter jumps in. “But there's a video of you two at the charity auction. And at the Open House. Fans are dying to know how the NHL’s most notorious bachelor got tamed.”
Tamed.
I bite back a laugh. If only they knew.
“We met through mutual friends,” I say smoothly. “One thing led to another.”
“And now you’re living together?” another reporter presses.
I glance at the cameras, knowing full well that whatever I say will be replayed a hundred times by morning.
“We’re figuring it out,” I answer simply, keeping my voice even.
The questions keep coming, but all I can think about is how fast this thing has snowballed. And how much harder it’s going to be to keep this under control.
Because the more they ask, the more I realize…
Everyone’s watching.
