Page 82 of Bleacher Report
"Right. And who knows—maybe you'll be the one to break the next big story." I can't resist a teasing grin. "Or maybe you'll just end up writing about how your roommate is the hottest player in the league."
Peyton rolls her eyes, but I catch the smile she's trying to hide. "Please, the last thing I need is another headline about you and me."
"Why not?" I tease, leaning in. "We'll give them something to talk about."
The tension shifts again, but this time, it feels lighter—almost playful. Peyton shakes her head, a spark of amusement in her eyes.
"Let's focus on you. The listeners want to hear about you."
"I’m an open book. What would you like to know?" I tease, settling back into my chair as we continue the interview.
By the time we wrap up, I feel a sense of satisfaction. She skated around some of the bigger questions she wanted to ask. I have a feeling that in the next interview, she’s going to dive deeper. But at least this time I didn’t storm out.
Progress.
Half the team’s already gathered around our usual table by the time Peyton and I step into Oakley’s. The familiar din of laughter, the clinking of pint glasses, and the thrum of classic rock vibrating from the old jukebox settles something in me.Warm lighting glows overhead, and the scent of beer and fried food wraps around us like a worn-in hoodie.
Cammy spots us immediately and makes a beeline, looping her arm through Peyton’s. “I’m borrowing her from you,” she says with a grin.
The look on my face must give me away, because Cammy smirks and adds, “I’ll give her back. Promise.”
Reluctantly, I let go of Peyton’s hand.
Trey catches sight of me from across the room and raises his beer. “Look who finally decided to show up.”
I grin. “Yeah, yeah. Where’s the rest of the crew?” I ask, glancing around the bar.
“Easton and Ziegler are at the pool table, Bozeman’s in the bathroom, and Dumont’s getting a round at the bar,” Trey replies. “Mäk’s over there trying to convince Kendall to let him cook her some kind of Finnish sautéed reindeer dish or whatever. Let’s just hope she doesn’t have a soft spot for Rudolph or any of his furry friends.”
“Where’s Popovich?” I ask, knowing that Luka doesn’t usually miss a night out with the team.
“He had a beer and then left with some chick he met at the bar.”
I chuckle, not surprised that Luka left with a puck bunny. That’s about on-brand for him, and it used to be for me, too, on occasion. Until Peyton showed up at the charity event. The last four weeks have been different.
I scan the room until I spot her again—this time deep in conversation with Cammy and Isla. She looks relaxed, at ease. So different from that first night in this very bar.
Trey nudges me with his elbow. “So…heard anything from your agent? Bethany still trying to trade you like a deck of baseball cards?”
I shake my head. “Not a word. I’m taking that as a good sign. Hopefully, this whole fake relationship thing with Peyton is wearing her down.”
I’m mid-conversation when Trey goes quiet. Not silent—just…still. And that’s when I feel it too.
A shift in the air.
I turn.
Bethany.
Striding through the front doors like she’s walking onto a red carpet—flawless posture, red lips, high-end perfume that hits before she’s even within reach.
My stomach knots.
Across the bar, Peyton catches my eye. She’s already seen her. Her spine stiffens as she sets her drink down and heads toward me with measured steps, her eyes locked on mine.
Bethany gets to me first. “Hunter. Good—I’m glad you’re here. I need to talk to you. Later.”
“Anything you want to say, you can say right here. Hart doesn’t care,” I say, glancing at Trey. “Do you, Hart?”
