Page 68 of Bleacher Report
Abby peeks over my shoulder. “What’s that?”
I show her the texts, and she grins. “Oh, you’re so going.”
I chew on my bottom lip, hesitating. “Do you think I should?”
“Peyton,” she says, slinging her yoga mat over her shoulder. “This could be great for the podcast. Ask people questions about Hunter. Get the inside track on some things that might help you understand him better. The girls have all the tea and you know it.”
She’s right. And part of me wants to go—wants to sit in a room full of women who understand what this world is like, even if I’m only faking my way through it.
I text Cammy back.
Peyton: Wouldn’t miss it. See you tonight.
By the time I pull up to Penelope’s house, it’s dark out, but the place is already buzzing. Cars line the curb, porch lights glowing on a beautiful home in a gated community where I’ve heard many of the retired Hawkeyes players live. When I step up to the front door, I can hear the sound of laughter filtering through the windows.
Cammy opens the door before I even knock. “There she is! Seattle’s newest WAG.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, it’s too late. You’ve officially been inducted,” she teases, stepping aside so I can come in.
The living room is already filling up with familiar faces. Penelope’s seated on the massive sectional, a glass of wine in her hand, while Kendall and Isla are huddled over a charcuterie board, laughing about something. I even spot a few of the otherplayers’ wives and girlfriends, some of whom I recognize from press photos.
When Penelope sees me, she waves me over. “Peyton! We were wondering if you’d show.”
I glance at Cammy. “Like I could’ve said no.”
Penelope grins and reaches for another wine glass. “Good. Because tonight is basically a rite of passage. No better way to learn how this crazy club works than by watching the game surrounded by the women who survive it.”
Cammy nudges me. “Come sit. The game is about to start and everyone’s taking bets.”
As I settle onto the couch, wine glass in hand, bets between girls start flying about who ends up racking up the most time in the sin bin. Penelope’s big-screen TV flickers to life, showing the Hawkeyes warming up on the ice. Hunter’s name flashes across the screen as the commentators talk about his defensive game.
And just like that, my stomach flips.
I’m not sure how I ended up here, in a room full of girlfriends and wives who actually belong in this world.
And I definitely don’t know how to convince myself that this isn’t starting to feel real.
The first period is crazy—the game is stacked, no one scores before the break, and Wolf has already been sent to the penalty box with twice as much time as any other player—not a surprise there.
Penelope hits mute as the commercials come, the girls all getting up for refills and snacks. Then Penelope turns to me.
“So,” she starts, voice sly, “how’s fake dating Hunter going?”
I can feel all the girls turn to face us from wherever they are in the room.
I clear my throat, playing it casual. “It’s going well. Just your run-of-the-mill fake relationship.”
Cammy snorts. “Oh, please. The way he looks at you? That man is not pretending.”
Kendall leans forward, smirking. “Did you see the way he shut down those interview questions last night? He basically said,I’m taken, and dared anyone to argue.”
Penelope lifts her wine glass. “It’s the first time I’ve seen him act like that about a woman, honestly.”
I shake my head, trying to fight off the flush creeping up my neck. “It’s just PR. We both know the deal.”
Cammy nudges my knee with hers. “Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”
