Page 70 of Bleacher Report
The breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh, heat crawling up my neck.
I lock my phone and focus on the road, refusing to let the tiny thrill that his words give me take root.
This isn’t real.
It’s not.
And no title from the wives and girlfriends of the players can change that.
I pull into my driveway, the street quiet and the houses dark except for a few porch lights left on. I kill the engine, slumping back in my seat for a second longer than I need to.
My phone’s still in my hand, thumb hovering.
I scroll back up to that photo—Hunter, shirtless in the locker room, grin pure mischief, hockey pants low on his hips, lookinglike sin and sweat and a very bad idea. I should delete it. For my sanity. But I don’t.
Instead, I shake my head and climb out of the car.
The house is dark when I step inside. I lock the door behind me, hang up my jacket, and tiptoe over to the windowsill. “Night, Sprouty,” I whisper, checking on our plant baby like a lunatic. His little green leaves are perky. Thriving. Must be nice.
I head straight for my bathroom, still sore from yoga. My muscles are tight, achy in that post-stretch kind of way that screams for a bath. So, I run one—hot and steaming, with bubbles piled high and my lavender soak dumped in with zero restraint.
By the time I step out, my skin’s flushed and soft, and my brain is just gooey enough to feel like maybe everything in my life is just a little less of a disaster.
I wrap myself in a plush towel and pad into the bedroom. The new mattress Hunter bought cradles me as I sit on the edge of the bed, the sheets cool beneath me.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I reach for it, heart fluttering as Hunter's name lights up the screen.
Hunter: Our flight is about to take off. Sweet dreams, Collins. Tell your pillow wall I said hi.
A laugh escapes me, and I quickly type back.
Peyton: Pillow wall says you’re on thin ice.
I glance at the pillow barrier beside me, a makeshift divide that's become more symbolic than functional. In a matter of hours, Hunter will be back on the other side of that bed. I just hope this pillow wall is a little stronger than the last.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Hunter: Good thing I play well on frozen surfaces.
I scroll back up to the photo—the shirtless locker room selfie, his smirk as cocky as ever. I should delete it, erase the temptation, but instead, I find myself staring, heat pooling low in my belly.
The ache is familiar now, a constant companion since Hunter moved in. I haven't used my vibrator in over a week, not since the tension between us started simmering just beneath the surface. Tonight, it's unbearable.
But before I can make up my mind, sleep creeps in like a thief.
And the next time I blink, the world is soft and dim and far away—and I’m still in my towel.
And still, very much, alone.
Chapter Fifteen
Peyton
Warmth. That's the first thing I register.
Then, the steady thump beneath my ear—a heartbeat.
My lashes flutter open, and confusion strikes. Where am I?
