Bleacher Report (2) (The Rookie Hawkeyes Series)

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.

The world tilts, and then everything cuts to black.

When I come to, I’m flat on my back on the ice, the rink lights spinning above me.

Kendall’s crouched over me, her face sharp with worry, and one of the medics is already peeling my glove off.

‘Hunter, look at me,’ Kendall says, voice steady but firm. ‘Can you hear me?’

I grunt, trying to nod, but the motion sends a jolt of pain so sharp through my shoulder that stars dance in my vision.

‘Yeah,’ I rasp out.

‘Good,’ she says. ‘You dislocated your shoulder. Don’t move. And you blacked out when you hit the ice.”

Fuck.

“How long was I out?” I ask.

“Seconds, but I’m still checking you for a concussion. You took a hard hit.”

My heart kicks into overdrive, and it has nothing to do with the pain.

If Everett hears about this—if he thinks I’m a liability—it’s one more excuse to trade me. Or even more reason if anything ripped when it dislocated.

I force my eyes open wider, trying to shake off the dizziness.

I need to get up. I need to show them I’m fine.

I—

My gaze flickers past Kendall, scanning the glass.

And there she is.

Peyton.

Standing, hands pressed against the plexiglass, eyes wide—her face almost ghost white—concern coating her beautiful face.

Not moving. Not blinking.

Just watching me.

And for a split second, the only thing I want to do is be next to her, comfort her, and tell her that I’m going to be okay, though I can’t promise that until Kendall looks at my shoulder.

Trey and Wolf skate over, dropping to their knees on either side of me.

‘We’ve got you, Reedman,’ Wolf mutters under his breath.

They help lift me carefully, supporting most of my weight as I stumble toward the bench, cradling my arm to my chest.

Every step is agony, but worse is the sick, twisting panic in my gut. I can’t be sidelined. I can’t lose this team.

Not now.

Not after four years fighting to get back to the NHL. This can’t be my last game.

The crowd buzzes in my ears, loud and distorted, but I don’t look away from Peyton.

She’s still there, still watching, her hands curled into fists against her chest now.

In the locker room, Kendall doesn’t waste time.

‘Sit down,’ she orders, already snapping on a pair of gloves.

I drop onto the bench, grinding my teeth as she examines my arm.

‘This is going to suck,’ she says almost kindly.

‘No shit,’ I grunt.

Before I can brace myself, she grabs, twists, and with a brutal pop, my shoulder slides back into place.

I grunt out a curse, sweat beading on my forehead, but I don’t black out.

Small miracles.

‘The good news, I think your shoulder is going to be fine, but I want to see you tomorrow before early morning skate. We’ll take X-rays if something seems off tonight. The bad news…you’re out for the rest of the game,’ Kendall says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

‘I can play,’ I snap, already trying to stand. Somehow proving to Kendall that I’m ready to get back out there.

But she’s a hard ass as the Hawkeyes doctor, and she doesn’t let anyone push her around.

‘You can’t,’ Coach Wrenley says from behind her, arms crossed. ‘She’s the doctor here. If she says you’re done, you’re done.’

I glare at both of them, breathing hard, but deep down, I know they’re right.

Still. Doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

Kendall tapes me up quickly and efficiently, hands steady.

‘Practice tomorrow,’ she says quietly. ‘Come see me first thing. I want to reevaluate it after you’ve iced it all night.’

I nod stiffly.

It’s not good for my shoulder, but not career-ending.

I’ll take it.

Back on the bench, I watch my team.

I sit on the far end, shoulder throbbing under the ice pack tucked into my jersey.

The guys are gassed, scrambling for any chance to pull ahead. Every shift, every shot, I want to be out there helping. Instead, I sit and watch.

My eyes drift up into the crowd.

Peyton’s sitting again, but she’s wringing her hands, her eyes locked on me, her eyebrows downturned with concern like she’s willing me not to fall apart.

Something in my chest squeezes tight.

Bethany used to hate coming to games unless there was press coverage involved. Whereas Peyton’s here for me. Not the team—not the win.

I can see it in the way she’s not watching anything but me across the ice—concern in her eyes, her fingers clamped together tight, almost like she’s praying for me to be okay.

We lose three to five.

No one’s fault. We played hard, and so did they. But the weight of it feels crushing. Another uneasy feeling that Everett could have a reason to trade me. Especially if this injury is worse than Kendall thinks it is.

The buzzer sounds, and I skate out for the handshake line. I’ve played with or against most of these guys over the years, and respect for their hard-fought win is how it’s done.

Breathing through the ache in my shoulder, I let the sting of the loss sink into my bones.

And still—when I glance up one last time…

Peyton’s looking at me. Not disappointed. Not angry. Just…there. And that means more than she’ll ever know.

The locker room is a graveyard after a loss like that.

Nobody says much.

I just sit there, jersey peeled halfway off with an ice pack strapped to my shoulder, letting the frustration burn through me like acid. I feel like I let down my team tonight, though there was little I could have done after Kendall and Coach Wrenley took me off the roster.

A few guys mumble curses under their breath. And then Aleksi strolls in singing some oldies song, breaking the dark cloud hovering over most of us. Then chirps start flying, guys start laughing. There’s still an uncurrent of disappointment, but our team is getting back to its normal locker room rumble of lighthearted shit talking and funny YouTube videos making their way around the players.

I head for the shower, ready to get this night behind me and head home with an ice pack, Peyton’s couch sounding pretty damn good about now.

I’m freshly showered and headed for my locker to grab my duffel bag to head home when I hear JP’s voice.

“Reedman…you’ve got a visitor.” He’s standing at the locker room door, smiling and nodding, and just past him, I’d know that blonde hair and smile anywhere.

Peyton stands there, shifting on her heels, my jersey wrapped around her.

The second our eyes meet, her face softens with something achingly close to relief.

I yank my duffel bag off the bench and head straight for her.

‘Hey,’ she says, voice low. “How’s your shoulder?”

“It’s been better. Nothing a night with an ice pack won’t fix,” I tell her, keeping it to myself that it hurts like hell. My neck doesn’t feel all that great from crashing down on top of it either, but I’d still like to hold on to some remnant of my pride. I’m a defender on an NHL hockey team—complaining about getting served up on the ice won’t do well for my reputation.

“Are you going to tell me I’m a sore loser, and that you’re going to avoid me on the night that I…how did you put it again? ‘Suck a big L?’” I say.

The first night we met.

When I’d been an absolute dick to her after a loss, and she’d promised she’d avoid me like the plague next time I blew it.

‘You remember that, huh?’

“Hard to forget it when the most beautiful woman in the room just called out your bullshit.”

“Keep going with that compliment, Reed. You’re almost out of the doghouse.”

Despite the knot of pain in my shoulder, I huff out a laugh.

‘Yeah… sorry about that. Again.’

Her eyes soften even more. ‘You’re forgiven. You were drunk, emotionally stunted, and hangry. Triple threat.’

A real laugh escapes me this time—gravelly, but real.

‘I’m still emotionally stunted, by the way,’ I say. ‘And continuously hangry.’

‘Good to know,’ she teases, stepping closer. ‘I’ll tread carefully.’

There’s something easy between us now, something that wasn’t there before.

Something that feels dangerously close to real.

She looks down at my gear bag.

‘You want me to carry that for you?’ she offers, reaching for the strap.

I snort. ‘It’s fine. I’ve got it on my good side.’noveldrama

But Peyton’s stubborn. She yanks at it anyway—and immediately lets out a surprised ‘oof!’ as the weight nearly topples her forward onto her face.

I laugh, stepping in and yanking the bag back up off the ground.

‘Jesus, Collins. You’re going to dislocate something yourself,’ I tease, slinging it back over my shoulder.

She glares at me, cheeks flushing, but there’s laughter dancing in her eyes too.

‘I just watched you have your entire clock rung out on the ice, suffer a dislocation and a low-grade concussion, and you’re swinging a thousand-pound bag over your shoulder as if it’s nothing,’ she mutters. “Are you even human?”

‘Nope. I’m a hockey player,’ I shoot back easily.

She bumps her shoulder lightly against my good arm as we walk toward the exit.

The simple, casual touch nearly undoes me.

Outside, the night air is sharp against my flushed skin.

Peyton shivers slightly, but doesn’t complain.

‘What’s on for tonight? Are we headed to Oakley’s?’ she asks.

I shake my head. ‘Nah. I should skip it. Ice this thing, get some sleep. If I want any shot at practicing tomorrow, I can’t be worthless.’

Relief flashes across her face so fast I almost miss it.

She’s happy that I’m going home to take care of my shoulder.

She unlocks her car, hesitating.

‘Do you want me to drive you home?” she asks.

I shake my head. ‘Nah. I’m good. Can’t leave my truck here overnight anyway. I won’t have a way to get here in the morning, and Kendall wants to see me early.’

She nods, chewing her lip like she wants to say something more but holds it back.

I toss my gear bag into the bed of my truck, grimacing a little as the movement tugs my shoulder.

Peyton’s still standing there, hands stuffed into her jacket pockets, watching me.

The temptation to just pull her into my arms and say fuck it—to let whatever this is between us snap free—is harder and harder to ignore.

Instead, I flash her a small, crooked smile.

‘I’ll see you at home, Collins.’

Her face lights up in a way that makes the ache in my shoulder feel like nothing.

‘Yeah,’ she says softly. ‘See you at home.’

The second we step inside the townhouse, Peyton flicks on the entry light and turns to me, hands on her hips like she’s ready for a fight.

‘You. Go change into something comfortable, then the couch. Now,’ she orders. ‘I’ll get everything.’

I smirk, cocking a brow. ‘Bossy.’

‘Necessary,’ she fires back, already kicking off her shoes and heading for the kitchen.

I chuckle under my breath and head for the bedroom, peeling out of my jeans one-handed and tugging on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt.

Every movement tugs at my sore shoulder, but I ignore it. Ice, rest, skate tomorrow—that’s the goal.

Barefoot, I make my way back into the living room.

Peyton’s moving around the kitchen with quick, focused efficiency—grabbing a pint of ice cream from the freezer, tossing a gel ice pack over her shoulder, refilling my water bottle.

She’s everywhere at once—like this is second nature—like taking care of me has always been part of our story. There’s a natural ease between us I’ve never had with anyone else, not this fast.

I lower myself carefully onto the couch, grunting a little as I shift into the cushions.

Peyton plops the ice pack onto my shoulder, wrapped in a hand towel, the cold shocking a grunt out of me.

‘Sorry,’ she says, not sounding sorry at all. ‘Ice first, pizza second.’

She snags her phone, already pulling up the pizza place’s app.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asks, glancing over her shoulder.

I snort. ‘Always.’

‘Hawaiian, add bacon and extra pineapple?’

‘You know me so well,’ I say, and it slips out before I can stop it.

She ducks her head but smiles.

God, that smile.

A few minutes later, she pads back over and sets the water bottle on the coffee table.

She grabs the remote, and with a few quick clicks, 10 Things I Hate About You starts playing.

“You’re kidding,” I say, teasing.

She shrugs, all innocence. “House rules: Nights in require chick flicks.”

“Is that a scientific fact?”

“You’re the one who started this new tradition…so you tell me.”

I huff out a laugh, sinking deeper into the couch as she drapes a blanket over my legs. It barely covers them—most throw blankets are too short—but I don’t care, as long as she climbs in under it with me.

And she’s right. I’ve been doing this for her since I moved in. Now, she’s doing it for me.

It’s not lost on me that she picked up my habit.

My mom would be doing the same thing right now if she were here.

Shit.

Mom.

She called after the game, but I was too busy getting out of there with Kendall patching me up.

I grab my phone from the cushion beside me and check.

One missed call. One text.

With the time difference, it’s too late to call now. But she’ll see my text in the morning if I send one.

I hear Peyton on hold with the pizza place. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this domesticated with someone else.

I exhale slowly, thumb flying over the screen.

It’s not long before I see her reply. Now I feel bad. I probably woke her up.

I shake my head. Of course, being with Peyton is her only takeaway there.

I’ve heard this before. My mom is making excuses for Bethany’s behavior. And I get it, because I used to do the same, but Bethany treated me like a stepping stone to get what she wanted when I was there for her, thinking we were building a life together. I don’t owe Bethany anything, and if it were my choice, I’d never see her again.

She fucks up everything she touches, and I’d rather not be in reaching distance.

I stare at the screen a second longer than necessary, my gut twisting with something sharp.

Nothing to tell.

Bethany might be wrong…or she might not be.

Either way, the thought of bringing Peyton home for Christmas sends a rush of panic through me—sharp and immediate.

But just as fast as it hits, it fades. And in its place, a different thought takes hold.

One that whispers about what it might look like if Peyton and I don’t end this in three weeks like we agreed to. If, instead, we let it become something more.

I shift to adjust the ice pack, and a jolt of pain flashes through my shoulder.

A hiss escapes me before I can stop it.

Peyton notices immediately.

‘Hey,’ she says, crouching beside me. ‘Let me.’

Before I can argue, she’s kneeling on the floor next to the couch, reaching for the ice pack.

‘You want me to massage it a little?’ she asks, voice tentative. ‘Might help loosen everything up.’

I hesitate for a second—because the idea of her hands on me, while I’m half-broken and half-hard for her already, feels like playing with fire.

But then I nod. ‘Yeah. That sounds…good.’

‘How do you want to do this?’ she asks. ‘Where are you comfortable?’

I shift, thinking.

‘Probably better if I lie face down,’ I mutter. ‘Take the pressure off.’

She nods, and I roll carefully onto my stomach, resting my cheek against the armrest.

A second later, Peyton climbs up onto the couch and straddles the backs of my thighs, settling low on my ass.

The weight of her—warm, solid, real—sinks into me like a brand.

I bite back a groan as her fingers start working into my shoulder, slow and careful.

‘You’re good at this,’ I mumble into the cushion.

‘Tennis has its own injuries,’ she says, her hands pressing into the tight knots of muscle. ‘I’ve had my fair share. Had to learn fast.’

I grunt, half in pain, half in pleasure.

‘Right. Of course,’ I say, my voice rough.

The movie plays quietly in the background—Kat Stratford telling Patrick Verona he’s not as badass as he thinks—and Peyton’s hands work magic on me.

Slow, confident, devastating.

After a few minutes, she leans down close to my ear.

‘How does that feel?’ she asks.

“Better, but can you reach here?” I squeeze the inner part of my shoulder and bicep.

“Not from this angle. Can you turn over?”

I turn my head to look at her, my heart beating somewhere up in my throat.

‘Yeah,’ I say hoarsely.

She shifts, and I carefully roll onto my back, grimacing as my shoulder twinges. And just like that—Peyton ends up straddling my hips, her perfect ass sitting on top of my pelvis.

My cock reacts immediately, thickening beneath the thin fabric of my sweatpants.

She notices. There’s no way she couldn’t in those thin leggings she’s wearing.

‘You’re smooth, Reed,’ she says, laughing softly.

‘You’re not moving,’ I point out, my voice thick.

She just smiles, wicked and beautiful, and leans forward to start massaging the front of my shoulder and down my arm.

Her touch is lighter now, more teasing.

Every brush of her fingers feels deliberate, and it’s driving me fucking crazy.

‘Thanks for doing all this,’ I say, voice low.

She glances up, confused. ‘All what?’

‘The movie. The pizza. The ice. The massage.’ I shift slightly, sliding my hand to the curve of her hip. ‘I’ve been on my own a long time. I guess I forgot what it’s like…having someone have your back.’

A soft look crosses her face—sweet and a little sad.

‘I’ll always have your back, Hunter,’ she says quietly. ‘Even after our time’s up.’

I grin at the idea of it. ‘Yeah? Are we bonded for life now?’

‘Obviously. Fake exes forever,’ she says, her smile widening. ‘And what about Sproutacus? We have to stay civil for the plant-child.’

I laugh, the sound breaking something open in my chest, and my body shakes, which makes her laugh too and grip onto my chest for stability.

Without thinking, I reach up, pushing back the strands of hair that have fallen in her face when she leaned forward.

Her smile fades slightly, her eyes darkening—finally, we’re on the same page.

‘Warning, Peyton,’ I murmur, giving her one last out.

But she doesn’t take it.

Instead, she makes the first move—she bends down, her mouth slamming against mine, and every thought scatters.

The kiss is rough, desperate, teeth and tongues and hands that can’t get enough.

Her fingers slide into my hair, pulling just hard enough to make me growl against her mouth. She pulls back at the sound, taking it for something else.

“Your shoulder,” she says, concerned.

“Fuck my shoulder. Come here,” I say and then pull her back down to my mouth.

I slip my hands under her jersey, finding the bare skin of her stomach first—hot and smooth—and then I push higher, cupping the soft weight of her breasts.

She gasps into my mouth, arching into my touch, and I nearly lose it right then and there.

She tastes like a home I’ve never known, and everything I didn’t know I was starving for.

I nip at her bottom lip, feeling her shudder against me, and then her hands are under my T-shirt, skating across my abs, dragging little sounds from the back of my throat.

My hands pull reluctantly from her perfect breasts and slide over her hips, gently rocking her over my cock to test her interest. She moans into my mouth at the friction.

I want her.

God, I want her.

I want—

The doorbell rings.

Peyton jerks back like she’s been electrocuted, panting, eyes wide. We stare at each other for one frozen second, chests heaving, the air crackling between us. Then she bursts into laughter—half hysterical, half mortified.

‘The pizza,’ she gasps.

I groan, dropping my head back against the couch.

‘Fucking perfect timing.’

“It’s probably best. Rule number one…remember?” But even I can see the hesitation in her eyes. She wants this as bad as I do. I could already feel her dampening through her leggings.

She scrambles off me, her hair a mess, her jersey wrinkled and riding up.

I watch her go, dazed and more lost for her than I have any damn right to be.