Page 7 of Bleacher Report
He’s just a player.I remind myself.A player who could make all my dreams come true if he’d just loosen those lips a little forthe mic like he does on the ice, chirping at the opposing team to get them riled up.
She shrugs with an optimistic nod that I wish I could buy into. “Exactly,” she says.
“Okay, I’m going. Wish me luck.”
I head straight for him, ignoring the fact that Trey Hartley—tatted-up ex-special forces turned walk-on left winger—is sitting next to him, nursing a beer and looking every bit as intimidating as his reputation. My pulse kicks up, but I keep walking. I didn’t come here to be intimidated—I came for Hunter. And this might be my only shot.
If Hunter turns me down, it’ll be in front of half the Hawkeyes. But if I don’t ask now, I’ll run out of time to get my interviews up and win the syndication deal.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my toes.
Stress sweat is already creeping through my shirt.
Here goes nothing.
I walk up behind him and clear my throat. Trey glances over his shoulder first but then clocks that I’m trying to get Hunter’s attention and turns back to his beer.
I can already smell the whiskey on Reed. I’d bet my career he’s half-drunk, but I’m not turning back now.
Who knows…maybe he’s a happy drunk.
Or maybe he’ll be so belligerent he forgets he doesn't give interviews and agrees to mine out of pure spite.
“Hunter Reed? Hi, I’m—”
He barely turns his head.
Just enough to even pass as a glance. Then dismisses me.
“Not interested,” he mutters, voice flat. “Find another jersey’s lap to sit on.”
I yank my head back as if his words physically struck me. “Excuse me?” I manage, heat flooding my cheeks.
“Don’t take it personally. You’re beautiful,” he adds, like that’s supposed to soften the blow. Then he takes a slow sip of his drink—dark amber, definitely whiskey. “I’m just not in the mood to fuck anyone tonight. Including you. I’m sure you’ll find a player who’s willing to take you home.”
I see the moment Trey shoots a confused glance at Hunter but then realizes it’s none of his business and turns back again.
The humiliation punches me square in the chest. Not only is he calling me a puck bunny and turning me down before I can even ask the question…but I have a witness to it all.
I straightened back up. Pinning my shoulders back.
Six years of tennis training and a career in male-dominated sports journalism. I’ve taken worse hits and turned them into wins.
“Wow. And here I thought your game was the biggest miss of the night. I didn’t realize that you’re a sore loser too.”
That gets his attention, and I see Trey’s shoulder shake with a muffled laugh.
He shoots a glare over his shoulder, brows lowering, eyes narrowing. It’s the first time he really looks at me—because the first glance didn’t count. He’d already made up his mind.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
He’s not actually sorry. He just can’t believe I hit back.
“Don’t strain yourself to listen. I wouldn’t want you falling off that tall pedestal you have yourself perched upon. You’re drunk enough that a fall might do some damage, and based on the game you played tonight, you can’t afford any more setbacks.”
I hear Trey squeak out another chuckle he tries to hide while Hunter’s eyes blink in a drunken stupor, and his eyebrows knit together in shock at what I just said. He attempts to mutter some reply, but I beat him to it.
“Besides, I’m not interested in anything you have to offer. You’re probably too drunk to get it hard anyway, so I understandwhy you’re not interested in taking anyone home tonight. That's the kind of rumor you wouldn’t want getting around…”
