Page 98 of Bleacher Report
I want the real thing, but I’m not supposed to.
I walk to my bathroom and clean it, then stow it back in my nightstand for future use with zero interest in finding my old vibrator that he hid. Not when I have “him” to use whenever I want.
A few minutes later, a text comes through.
Hunter:Just had to lie to a gate agent about the "bulge in my pants." Apparently, they don’t waive baggage fees for emotional support erections. Hope you're satisfied, Collins.
Peyton:I’m very satisfied. Your gift made sure of that. Also, next time, maybe don’t leave me a replica of your cock if you don’t want consequences.
Hunter:Just wait. Retaliation is coming.
Peyton:Is coming? I’m pretty sure your glittery stunt double already came. I was pretty thorough…in all three speeds and with a backup battery.
Hunter:I’m glad at least one of my cocks gets to slide past rule number one. Lucky fucker.
Peyton:Let me know when you’re rechargeable too, Reed.
Hunter:*searching for human solar panels*
I laugh and then type back, imagining him taking his seat after stowing his belongings in the overhead compartment.
Peyton:Have a safe flight.
And if this fake relationship keeps heading in this dangerously real direction... I’m going to need more drawer space and a lot more backup batteries.
My phone dings again, and my heart thumps against my chest. I grab it to see Hunter’s reply, but it’s not Hunter—it’s an email from Rebecca.
Peyton,
The second interview was a huge success! But the network wants the New Jersey story. Can you deliver on this?
I blow out a frustrated breath. The network wants the one thing that Hunter won’t give me, and by pushing him, it threatens the possibility of things between us turning real.
I want this network deal. I’ve been working toward this for years, a way to honor my father’s memory. But is losing Hunter worth it?
Chapter Twenty
Hunter
Another week has passed since I sent Peyton on her sexy scavenger hunt. We only have three weeks left in our fake relationship.
Now, I’m back on home ice.
We’re tied with three minutes left in the third, and the puck’s a fucking magnet for disaster.
Missouri’s top line is bearing down hard, their winger digging in, and Olsen is crouched in the crease, ready to make the save if I don’t clear it first.
I don’t hesitate.
I throw my body in front of the shot.
The puck ricochets off my pads, but before I can even wheel around to clear it, I catch a flash of blue and white barreling toward me out of the corner of my eye.
No time to brace.
The hit slams into me, a freight train straight to my side, and I hear the sickening pop before I feel it.
My shoulder wrenches back at a brutal angle, my feet flying up over my head. Fire explodes down my arm, and then I hit the ice, headfirst.
