Bleacher Report (2) (The Rookie Hawkeyes Series)

The buzzer screams. The crowd groans. And just like that, the Hawkeyes lose. At home.

The Hawkeyes gave it everything—but effort doesn’t always equal points.

Final Score: 3 – 2

“Well, that was shit,” I hear a fan behind me mutter to the person sitting next to him.

His friend responds with the same annoyed tone. “Can you believe number seventy-two missed that goal in the second period? Maybe New Jersey was right to ship him off to their farm team for the last four years.”

“How the hell did Coach Haynes think Reed was a good enough replacement for Kaenan Altman? What a downgrade.”

Another voice cuts through the press box chatter.

“Fifty bucks says Kauffman trades him before midseason. They need a stronger defender.”

Number seventy-two.

Hunter Reed.

The Hawkeyes’ newest left defenseman—and the player every network executive is foaming at the mouth over.

Not because of his stats, though those speak for themselves.

Because of the scandal.

Everyone wants to know what really happened between Reed, his old team in New Jersey, and Kevin Richards—the billionaire franchise owner who benched him just months after drafting him out of college at twenty-two years old in the first round five years ago. It was supposed to be a career-making move. But instead of headlines about hat tricks and rookie awards, the only thing the media got was silence.

Then the whispers started.

About Richards’s wife. Young. Beautiful. Always in the owner’s box for every home game.

And, allegedly, very interested in the team’s new star defenseman.

Since then, Reed’s been a walking headline—fast on the ice, faster off it. The league might’ve buried the gossip, but fans haven’t. Especially the female ones sitting down by the plexiglass in REED jerseys and glossy lipstick, snapping selfies and begging for his attention.

They don’t care if he broke the rules or just broke hearts. All anyone wants to know is what kind of off-ice skills Hunter Reed has between the sheets—because apparently, they were enough to lure a billionaire’s wife straight out of her country club life. Even if it was just for a few stolen minutes in a dirty locker room.

Or so the rumor goes.

His demotion to the farm team didn’t hurt his game with his female fans—not even a little. The charm, the wit, the hockey uniform…even without an NHL crest on the front of it for the past five years, it still worked just fine for him. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, Reed is a rookie again, and it hasn’t changed his serial dating ways.

For half a decade, Hunter Reed’s been snapped with puck bunnies, models, and a rotating roster of weekend companions who he rarely keeps around longer than a brunch reservation.

For a guy who parades his flings through upscale restaurants and velvet-rope nightclubs, you’d think he’d be more open about his personal life. But when the topic comes up in interviews? He smirks, shrugs, and claims he just likes meeting new people.

Cue the chuckles from the boys’ club press pool. The occasional follow-up gets the usual brush-off—“No comment,” “Nothing to tell,” or my personal favorite, “None of your damn business.”

It’s cocky. Infuriating. And—if we’re being honest—a little bit effective.

But now? Now he’s in Seattle. Back in the NHL, wearing Hawkeyes colors and carrying more than just a bad-boy reputation.

Because if he wants to keep Everett Kauffman happy—the new team owner who signed the purchase deal, with one of the conditions being that Hunter got a spot on the roster—then he needs to start heating up the ice, not just the sheets.

And me? I need to convince him to spill every last scandal-soaked secret if I want to lock down this syndication deal.

Hunter Reed has never talked about New Jersey. Not to the press. Not on any podcast. Not once.

Which means if—and that’s a massive if—I can land the interview, it could finally be enough to clinch the syndication deal I’ve been chasing.

Rebecca Jones, the only woman on the board of network execs making the decision, is rooting for me—quietly. She let it slip that one of the other execs is a massive New Jersey fan and would kill to hear Reed’s side of the story on their network.

It’s the biggest lead I’ve ever had.

My in. My opportunity. And the stakes couldn’t be higher.

Two months. That’s how long I have to prove I can do this—to land Reed, boost my subscriber list from seventy-three thousand to one hundred thousand, and convince the board that The Bleacher Report podcast deserves to go syndicated.

But none of it matters if I can’t get him to say yes.

And that’s the part that’s been gnawing at me all game.

Because this guy only does post-game press.

No appearances. No interviews.

Just his stick, his smirk, his dating record, and the rumor mill nipping at his heels.

He also just so happens to be the holy grail of podcast guests that the execs are looking for—and the most ungettable.

And honestly? I don’t know if I’m enough to land him.

Not when I’m competing against sports podcasters with million-follower platforms and full-time teams. Not when half the board still thinks women in sports media are a cute PR move instead of a serious voice. Not when my twenty-six years of life have most broadcasters mistake me for some press exec’s personal assistant when I walk in the door instead of their equal with a press badge of my very own.

Not when the only real edge I have is hustle. And one exec quietly whispering, “I believe in you. Don’t take no for an answer.”

I pack up my notebook, fingers twitching with nerves as I glance down toward the ice. Reed’s mad after that missed puck. It’s evident in his rigid body movement when he’s usually smooth on the ice.

He skates toward the tunnel, helmet off, jaw tight, hair sweaty and perfect in a way that shouldn’t be allowed.

If I want this deal, I need Hunter Reed.

And if I want Hunter Reed?

I’ll need to be strategic. Persistent. And maybe a little lucky.

Because there are only two months left. And if I blow this shot…

I don’t get another.

I watch as the rest of the players follow suit, skating off the ice with shoulders sagging. Coach Haynes trails them in a sharp navy suit, his jaw clenched like he’s chewing on the taste of defeat. Coach Wrenley is the last to leave the bench, and the scowl on his face could melt the damn rink.

With most of the old roster retired in the last two years, the Hawkeyes are still trying to find their rhythm—though with December breathing down their necks, they’re running out of time to figure it out. If they don’t lock in soon, playoffs will just be another pipe dream.

All around me, fans rise from their seats, the air thick with stale beer, frustration, and hope circling the drain. Turquoise and white jerseys shuffle toward the exits, crumpled popcorn bags and half-empty drinks littering the floor like battlefield debris.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, plastering my phone up to my ear, unsure if I’ll be able to make out a word she says over the crowd around me. “Can you hear me? I’m still in the stadium.”

“Yeah, I can hear you. What a tough loss. How’s the crowd?” she asks, a little loud to make sure I can hear her.

“Pissed off as you can imagine.”

“I’m sure they are. Have you gotten a chance to talk to Hunter Reed yet? That’s who Rebecca wants you to score an interview with, right?”

I let out a sigh, remembering the sight of Hunter skating off the ice only a few minutes ago, chucking his helmet into the player box as he stepped off the ice and then stormed down the player tunnel and out of sight.

He’s not happy with his performance tonight—that I can be sure of. I have a feeling tonight might not be the best night for asking for a favor, but I have to try. If Rebecca is right, and I can deliver on a podcast interview that one of the other network executives wants, it will be worth putting myself out there.

A little self-doubt creeps in as I consider the other players I could ask tonight, who looked a little less pissed off at the loss than Hunter, and might agree to my podcast guest request. But I know who I need.

“Yeah. That’s the one. But maybe I shouldn’t press my luck. He hasn’t interviewed for a podcast in years, and I’m running out of time to get these interviews in before the network makes a decision. Maybe I should just ask someone else who’s more of a sure thing.”

I hear the faint sound of the TV on in the background, and I imagine her sitting on her couch, probably with my nephew Jesse somewhere close by.

“Don’t back down. You can do this. You just have to play by their rules once, and then you’re home free. Besides, your numbers aren’t just going to magically appear because you want them to, and getting this interview with Hunter Reed is going to do wonders for your female listeners.”

She’s right, of course. She usually is—even when I don’t want to hear it.

“My female listeners?” I ask, though I know exactly where she’s going with this.

“Of course. Hunter Reed is a sex pot. And have you heard that deep voice during post-game interviews? Girls will be tuning in just to hear him read the warning label on a bottle of paint thinner—just you wait.”

I laugh, though I know she’s right. “Sex pot? You’re aging yourself, mother. And even if I did convince him to come on my show, I doubt he’ll give me the story everyone wants.”

“Then find another angle that gets him more comfortable. You’re Peyton freakin’ Collins. You didn’t let a blown-out knee stop you from staying in the game, and you’re not going to let one stubborn hockey player tank your shot at syndication.”

Her voice is sharp, encouraging, and exactly what I need.

“Maybe you’re right?” I say.

I could use the vote of confidence right about now.

“I am right. About everything, too. Have you seen him stretch out on the ice before the game? That man can do the splits. On ice. In slow motion. I’m widowed, not dead, Peyton.”

Despite everything, I laugh.

Dad passed away three years ago. A heart attack out of nowhere. One day he was cheering for my podcast launch, and the next…he was gone. He and Mom had been married over thirty years. Since then, she’s taken care of everything and everyone.

“I’m just not sure it’s going to be as easy as you think. He’s impossible to pin down. Unless you’re a puck bunny.” I say the last part under my breath, pulling the phone’s mic away from my mouth as I weave past a couple arguing about missed penalties. “Reed treats basic questions like they’re classified military intel. I doubt he’d even tell me his favorite cereal.”

The guy in front of me wears a REED, seventy-two jersey.

Of course he does.

It’s like the universe is taunting me.

“That’s motivation, sweetheart. Nothing worth doing in life is easy. That’s just a fact. And while I have you, I’m just checking to make sure that you’re going to Jesse’s career day. He’s been telling all his classmates that his aunt is famous.”

I laugh at how my twelve-year-old nephew, Jesse, might be my biggest fan.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

Jesse was born with spina bifida. He’s brilliant—wicked smart—but the world isn’t always built for kids in wheelchairs. This is his third school in four years, each move just to find a building that could accommodate his needs without treating him like a burden.

I get it—I do. Everyone is trying to do the best for Jesse.

But it’s hard enough as a kid to make new friends in a new school, and Jesse’s had to do it more than I feel he should have.

My brother Noah re-enlisted in the Army for medical insurance, and to pay to put him through special physical therapy and surgeries that insurance won’t cover. He’s currently stationed overseas for another three months. Abby, his wife, works full-time as a nurse and saves all her PTO for Jesse’s surgeries and appointments.

Mom’s the one who picks up the slack. Retired, full-time grandma, chauffeur, and emotional backbone of the family. My dad left her a good enough life insurance policy to make sure that she could pay off the house and focus her energy on us instead. His way of still taking care of us even after he left this earth. That’s the kind of man he was.

I’m on for career day—again. And I’m happy to do it. I just wish he had someone besides me—the same aunt he used for career day at his last school.

We chat quickly about my brother Will’s call home from Japan, and we agree on a time for Thanksgiving dinner next week.

“Gotta go. Kiss the kid for me,” I tell her.

“Will do. And Peyton?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got this. He’s just a man. A very limber, very attractive man—but still just a man.”

Sometimes I swear her belief in me is so strong, she could convince me I can walk through brick walls.

And at this very moment, I’d probably rather do that than try to convince Hunter Reed to do an interview with me.

Soon enough, I make my way down to the belly of the Hawkeyes Stadium, flashing the press badge Cammy Wrenley forwarded me earlier.

After two months of trying to wedge myself into Penelope Matthews’s calendar for last week’s interview, Cammy and I have exchanged enough emails to qualify as casual friends.

Or co-conspirators.

She gets it—what it’s like trying to be heard in a room full of men who think their opinions come with a whistle and a clipboard.

The network’s words from two weeks ago still echo in my head: “We love your content, Peyton, but we need to see at least one hundred thousand subscribers and some high-profile interviews before we can talk syndication. You’ve got eight weeks to show us what you can do.”

That was two weeks ago. This means I only have six weeks left and no winning interview guest in my sights—until today.

Twenty-seven thousand short. And one elusive, too-charming-for-his-own-good hockey player who could change everything—if he’d just spill a few details about past or current relationships.

I hang up, shaking my head. This isn’t going to be easy, but I don’t need easy…I just need it to be possible.

Inside, the press room is chaotic. Cameras. Elbows. Six-foot-something reporters with zero spatial awareness.

A pissed-off Coach Wrenley steps up to the podium. I have a feeling that’s how these interviews are going to go. No player enjoys the press when they have to talk about a loss.

I get it—I’ve been there. And as a tennis player, you don’t have a team’s shoulders to help carry a loss. The loss is all your own.

Just like this network loss will be only mine to bear alone if I don’t make something happen.

I rise onto my tiptoes and catch a glimpse of Hunter Reed walking in now.

Jaw clenched. Eyes dark. No signature smirk in sight.

He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

I open up my phone recording app and hit play, doing my best to ignore the twist of anxiety tightening beneath my ribs.

I’m not usually in person for press conferences post-game. I can get the intel I need from watching playbacks online when I’m researching a guest who will be on my show, but since I’m here…why not get the full experience?

However, the experience is turning out to be less than optimal.

I’m squeezed in, wedged behind a wall of tall reporters and a cloud of sweat, post-loss frustration, and whatever cologne the guy from The Seattle Sunrise is practically bathing in.

Perfect.

But it still beats sitting at home before I created The Bleacher Report, pretending I don’t miss the world that used to be mine.

Career-ending injury at fourteen.

Professional tennis dreams—gone.

Wimbledon finals—just a fantasy now.

I tried walking away from sports. Tried pretending I could be someone else.

But it didn’t stick.

I kept looking back in from the outside like a ghost haunting my own past. Until I found podcasting.

Well, podcasting and a push from my dad before he passed for me to find my place in the sports world where I truly wanted to be. He knew me better than anyone, and after his passing, Bleacher Report has been sort of like my therapy to deal with his loss.

His exact words? “If you can’t play—talk. Your voice is just as powerful.”

What would he think now, seeing me vying to get an interview with a player just because he’s clickbaity. Would he tell me that I’m wasting my voice with airtime garbage? Or would he champion me to do whatever is necessary to get a syndication deal to put Bleacher Report on the map?

All I want to do is make him proud.

And now here I am. Back in the game. Just…in a different way.

Hunter’s voice slices through my thoughts—and the crowd. Sharp. Cold.

“No comment on personal matters.”

His eyes sweep the room, daring anyone to try him again.

But I’m buried in the back.

Tucked behind cameras and cargo jackets—too far for his gaze to find mine.

I rise on my tiptoes, catching sight of his profile. His jaw is set, those forest-green eyes hard as he fields questions about tonight’s loss. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

Tension, not nerves. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than here, answering questions from reporters he clearly has no patience for.

“Hunter, that missed goal in the third—” someone starts.

“I saw it happen. You saw it happen. Next question.”

His voice could freeze hell over.

The room falls silent for a beat. Then, the questions resume.

I stay quiet, scribbling notes and pretending I’m not the tiniest bit curious about the man behind the headlines.

I’ve only seen him in person twice before—once in pre-season warm-ups and once outside the locker room. Both times, he barely looked in my direction.

But tonight, up close? The tension rolling off him hums like static—sharp, charged, barely contained. Controlled fury pressed into short answers and that ticking jaw.

My phone buzzes again.

I start to type back, but she follows up immediately.

No pressure. Just the well-known WAGs group of the Hawkeyes players all wanting to meet me.

After the press conference, I grab my bag and head for my car.

Oakley’s is only a couple blocks from the stadium, but I’ve got a longer drive ahead of me after—back to the shiny new townhouse I bought six months ago.

It was a splurge.

Between the down payment and the remodel I did on the second bedroom—now fully converted into a soundproof, pro-level podcast studio—I’m officially the most broke I’ve been since college.

But every time I step into that room, hit record, and hear my voice come through crisp and clean, it feels worth it.

My savings account disagrees, but my soul votes yes.

The drive to Oakley’s gives me just enough time to lie to myself.

It’s just a bar. Hunter is just a player. And the WAGs are just a group of girls. No pressure.

Oakley’s is packed. Post-game buzz is in full swing.

The usual mix of beer, wings, and chatter of people dissecting plays hangs in the air, along with the sports network commentary blaring from every flat screen.

Cammy spots me first. She waves me over from a table near the bar, already deep in conversation with a mix of ladies and team staff.

I’m halfway there when I spot Hunter sitting at the bar, shoulders slumping, elbows leaning over onto the bar top, a whiskey glass in his hand.

Oh…it’s going to be that kind of night, huh?

She turns to see what I’m staring at and then turns back to me.

“Hunter?” she asks.

“I need an interview for the podcast syndication that I was telling you about. An exclusive with him would make the network lose their minds. He’s exactly what I need, but he’s—”

“He’s great,” Cammy says. “Really. I know that he was having an off night in media, but he really is a good guy. I bet he’ll say yes.”

Her smile says she believes what she’s saying, but her eyes tell me that she’s seeing what I’m seeing. A drunk Hunter Reed who had an off night.

The thing is…I don’t have the luxury of waiting for Hunter to have a good night. My opening is closing with every day that passes. It’s been two weeks, and I haven’t been able to come up with any better options. And the man is just sitting there in the flesh.

“Let me introduce you to the girls,” Cammy says and then points to Penelope Matthews first, the gorgeous blonde General Manager for the Hawkeyes who is as down to earth and a sweetheart. Interviewing her for my podcast was a dream. “You already know Penelope, but this is Dr. Kendall Hensen, our team doctor…”

Kendall is beautiful, too, and I’ve seen her interviewed plenty of times during post-game media. She’s smart, quick with an answer, and takes on the “boys club” with a finesse that I admire. I’ve seen her take down a reporter who asked her if she has a hard time focusing in the locker room with half-naked men all around. She said, and I quote, “If you’ve seen one set of hairy, ungroomed balls, you’ve seen them all. Now, if you have a more intelligent question to ask, I’d be more than happy to answer.”

Which earned her a room full of chuckles, though she wasn’t laughing.

After I get through the chaos of making the network happy and delivering on the guest they’re hoping for, I have to convince Kendall to come on my show. She’d be hilarious to interview, I just know it.noveldrama

Kendall lifts her glass to me. “Nice to meet you.” She smiles.

“You too,” I say quickly.

“Then we have Isla Altman.”

I smile back, knowing Isla as the wife of a retired Hawkeyes player, Kaenan Altman. Kaenan and Isla made Seattle home after he retired, and they’re still very involved with the Hawkeyes. Kaenan is one of the head coaches for the Hawkeyes kids league, and I believe I heard that his seven-year-old daughter plays the same position he did in the league.

Cammy starts darting around, looking for someone else. “I’d introduce you to Brynn and Aria, but they disappeared somewhere.”

“No problem. I’m actually here for work as well, but it was lovely to meet you all.”

Cammy turns back to me as if to give us a little privacy.

“You’re going to go over there and ask him?”

“The worst he can say is no, right?” I ask.

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 for the 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 understand why you’re not interested in taking anyone home tonight. That’s the kind of rumor you wouldn’t want getting around…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa…hold on just a second,” he says, trying to get his wits about him.

This conversation has gotten too far out of his control.

“Is that the excuse you planned to give her when you couldn’t get it up?” I ask, knowing that I’ve now gone too far. Goodbye syndication deal…nice knowing you. “This was an obvious mistake. I see that now,” I say, turning around to leave before I say anything else to make this whole situation worse. “Have a nice life.”

I make it to Cammy’s table in record time, my hands shaking a little and my heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of my chest.

She takes one look at me and slides a glass of wine across the table, but I shake my head. “No, I can’t drink because I’m not staying. I need to get out of here, and I live across town.”

“That bad, huh?”

I thought the worst he could do was say no.

I didn’t expect him to treat me like some puck bunny he couldn’t be bothered to screw—and somehow make me feel smaller than I have in a long time. And I didn’t expect that I would snap back that hard. Maybe all this pressure is finally getting to me, and I just released my pent-up frustrations on Hunter—though he deserved it…mostly.

I can see the moment all the girls at the table notice me in distress and then shoot daggers at Hunter. Good to know whose side they turn to first.

“He thought I was trying to get him to take me home and…” I can’t even finish the sentence. His voice is still in my head. That tone. That dismissal.

“I’m sorry,” Cammy sighs, patting my hand. “I should’ve figured he’d be like this tonight after a loss like that. But don’t worry—I’ll get you set up at the charity auction in three days.”

She starts ticking off names like she’s building me a fantasy lineup.

“Olsen clams up in interviews, so I wouldn’t waste your time there. Trey’s got the whole ex-special-forces mystery vibe—he’s taking those secrets to the grave. Luka, though? Loves talking about himself. Aleksi’s a total chatterbox. Scottie’s chasing a sponsorship deal and could use the visibility, and Wolf…okay, people think he’s a jerk, but he’s actually a sweetheart off the ice. He could really use some good PR.”

She leans back with a smirk. “We’ll find you someone.”

She doesn’t mention JP Dumont as an option to interview, which has me wondering what’s going on with Cammy and JP. Seems like there might be some tension there.

But it’s not my business. We’re still newly minted friends, and with me being a podcaster looking for a story, I would never want her to think I was fishing for something.

Even if the tension between her and the Hawkeyes’ new goalie is practically its own subplot.

I take a long, cleansing breath, trying to forget the burn of Hunter Reed’s words.

And the fact that I pinned my best shot at a viral interview—my last chance at network syndication—on a guy who just treated me like a groupie looking for a hookup.

I appreciate Cammy for trying to get me another player to interview, but Hunter is the one I needed to have a shot at the syndication deal. And that just went up in flames.

Happy Thursday to me.