Page 65 of Bleacher Report
Because the truth is…I’m not sure which part I’m looking forward to more—the next game or getting home to test out that bed with her.
Chapter Fourteen
Peyton
The buzzing of my alarm cuts through the quiet, vibrating obnoxiously against my nightstand. I groan, cracking one eye open and glaring at the ceiling like it personally offended me.
Six a.m.
Why in the world did I agree to hot yoga this morning?
I roll over, grabbing my phone, half-ready to text Abby and bail. But my thumb hovers over the keyboard without typing. Because right below my alarm notification is the last message I got last night.
Hunter: Sweet dreams, Passenger Princess.
My stomach flips—annoyingly, frustratingly flips—and I hate how much I’ve reread that stupid text.
I stare at it for a few seconds longer than I should, then toss the phone onto the bed like it’s on fire.
God, I need to get a grip.
Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffle toward the bathroom. Maybe sweating out all the confusing feelings tangled up in my chest is exactly what I need. If nothing else, Abby will drag me mercilessly if I cancel on her again. She’s already convinced I’m letting this fake relationship spiral out of control.
By the time I tie my hair up in a messy bun and pull on leggings, I’ve almost talked myself out of overthinking Hunter Reed and his stupid, sweet, flirty texts from last night.
Almost.
“Bye Sprouty,” I call out to Sproutacus as I head for the front door. “Going to yoga, be back in a bit.”
Have I actually lost my mind? I’m talking to a plant like Hunter told me to. Some things are just getting weirder around here, but it seems even weirder not to say anything to the little terracotta Frenchie staring at me from the windowsill, tiny green sprouts just now starting to show.
When I step outside, the cool morning air hits me like a slap. The kind of slap that says:Get your shit together, Peyton.
By the time I back out of the driveway, my phone buzzes again.
Abby:Don’t even think about bailing. I’ve got tea and sisterly judgment waiting.
I shake my head, letting the smallest smile tug at the corner of my mouth.
Fine. Yoga, sister time, and maybe a reminder that real life exists outside of hockey players, fake dating disasters, and the looming podcast deal that is hanging in the balance.
I can survive one hour without checking my phone to see if Hunter’s texted again.
Maybe.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into the studio parking lot. Abby’s already posted up on the curb like a judgmental gargoyle with my favorite drink—balancing two iced teas in one hand and her yoga mat slung over her shoulder like a weapon of mass destruction.
“You’re late,” she calls before I’ve even shut the car door.
“I’m literally two minutes early,” I argue, grabbing one of the teas she holds out.
“Which is five minutes late in my world. Also, you look like hell.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She falls in step beside me as we walk toward the studio.
“I blame the bed,” I mutter. “It’s too comfortable. I didn’t want to get up.”
