Bleacher Report (2) (The Rookie Hawkeyes Series)

Waking up this morning to an empty bed almost had me wondering if Hunter moving in last night was all a dream.

Then I saw the pillow wall, a small block of his clothes hanging in my walk-in closet, and the image of his toothbrush in the hallway bathroom.

Yep, his signature is all over my place now.

I take a deep breath, sitting in my podcast studio down the hall from my bedroom, trying to calm the jittery nerves swirling in my stomach. Today is the day—the first interview with Hunter Reed—and somehow, it feels like the most important moment of my entire life.

I’ve interviewed arguably bigger names before—hall-of-famers, gold medalists, coaches with decades of legacy behind them—but none of them came with this much baggage. None of them came with the sharp edge of unresolved rumors or the kind of fandom that’s ready to eat me alive if I mess this up.

Because Hunter Reed doesn’t just come with a strong slapshot and a devastating dimple. He comes with a rabid fan base, a trail of half-true headlines, and a stubborn refusal to talk about any of it. He’s never done a podcast interview before—never opened up on record. And now with our deal to help each other firmly in place, evident from the smell of his body wash from his morning shower still wafting through the hallway, I’d say it’s my turn to cash in on our deal.

No pressure.

I glance down at the mic, already set up, double-checked for sound quality and levels. My notes are neatly typed and stacked beside me, along with a backup list of questions in case he clams up on the hard stuff. And he will. I can already feel it.

But I have a job to do.

And it’s more than just scoring a good soundbite.

Because if this goes well? I’ll be one step closer to locking in that syndication deal the network’s been dangling in front of me like a carrot. And if it goes great? I could finally cement The Bleacher Report as a must-listen podcast in the sports world—no longer the underdog in a saturated market.

But if it flops? If I screw this up and Hunter Reed walks out of here with nothing but regret for the deal he made?

Then everything I’ve worked for over the past three years—every late night, every equipment upgrade I couldn’t afford, every guest I begged to take a chance on me—goes down the drain.

And worse than all of that?

It’ll feel like I failed him—my dad.

I roll my chair back from the desk and grab my favorite mug from the shelf—a white ceramic one with “Microphones & Mayhem” printed in bold across the front, a gift from Abby when I hit my first twenty-five thousand subscribers. I never do an interview without it.

Does that make me superstitious? Probably, but I don’t care. Everyone has their thing and this one is mine. The hot tea and honey help to keep my throat from getting scratchy with all the takes I do in the editing process.

I hold it like it’s a lucky charm as I glance at the framed photo on my desk—me at twelve, drenched in sweat after a match, holding a plastic trophy in one hand and my dad’s in the other. He’s smiling like I’d just won Wimbledon. I hadn’t even made it past regionals. But to him? Every win mattered.

He used to say, “Every match tells a story, kiddo. You just have to be brave enough to tell it.”

When I blew out my knee at fourteen and my tennis dreams ended, I lost more than just a sport. I lost the one place where I felt like I knew who I was. And when I lost him, three years ago to a heart attack, I lost my compass completely.

But this podcast? It became my way back. My way to tell the stories he would’ve wanted to hear. To amplify the athletes who’ve fallen and clawed their way back. To find the people who’ve lived through the hard stuff and are still standing.

Just like me.

This isn’t just about audience numbers or ad sponsors or nailing the perfect opener.

This is about making it count. For the girl I used to be. For the man who never stopped believing in her.

And most of all, for the story we’re about to tell.

Because whether he likes it or not, Hunter Reed is part of it now.

My phone buzzes.

A not-so-subtle reminder of the pressure riding on today’s interview. Great.

I glance over at the extra mic I set up last night. Hunter still hasn’t seen the inside of the studio. Not really. When he moved in, he peeked in the door, made a joke about how official it looked, and left it alone. Today, there’s no avoiding it.

The door creaks open.

‘Whoa,’ Hunter says, stepping inside. He’s in a dark Henley and jeans, the kind of casual that shouldn’t be allowed to look that good. His eyes sweep over the soundproofed walls, the acoustic tiles, and the shelf of guest mementos I’ve collected over the years—signed hockey pucks, tennis balls, a coffee sleeve from a certain world-ranked surfer who refused to drink from anything else.

He nods slowly. ‘This is…intense.’

‘It’s just a studio, Reed. Not the Pentagon.’

‘Yeah, but it’s your studio,’ he says, stepping closer to the mic. ‘This is where the magic happens, huh?’

‘Only if you behave,’ I mutter, motioning to the seat across from mine.

He grins and drops into the chair. ‘I’ll do my best.’

The way he flops into the chair gives the dismissive, unserious vibe I’m used to seeing with him. Calm, assured…so cool he couldn’t melt butter. But there’s just a slight tension in his shoulders that I suspect he doesn’t want me to see.

I check the levels on the soundboard and do a quick test record of our intro. He listens without talking, his gaze tracking me, curious.

‘Are you always this focused when you’re working?’ he asks.

‘Only when the interview might decide the future of my entire career.’

That earns me a half-smile.

He reached for a bright pink Post-it notepad sitting between us in the shape of a French Bulldog.

“What are these for?” he asks, his thumb rubbing over the neon pink paper.

“Inspiration I guess? I don’t have time for a dog, so this is the closest thing I have to a pet. But I’m hoping once I get this syndication deal and things calm down, I can get one.”

He nods. “Too busy for real animals…I can relate,” he says, and then sets the Post-it notepad back where it was.

I pull my “interview” mug up to my lips and take a sip of my hot tea.

“What are you drinking?” he asks.

“Peppermint tea with a little bit of honey. It helps soothe my throat during interviews…and it’s calming.”

He nods again and glances around the rest of my desk, trying to find new things he didn’t notice when I showed him the studio yesterday.

‘You ready to get started?’ I ask, adjusting my headphones.

‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

I hit record.

‘Welcome back to Bleacher Report, where the stories run deeper than the headlines. I’m Peyton Collins, and today, I’m sitting down with Seattle Hawkeyes defenseman Hunter Reed. Hunter, thanks for joining me.’

‘Thanks for having me.’

The first few minutes are unexpectedly smooth. Hunter’s good on mic—like, really good. He’s got that natural charisma, the kind that doesn’t need rehearsed lines or heavy edits. He’s funny, confident, just the right amount of cocky. It throws me a little…in a good way. For the first time since hitting record, I start to relax.

And my mom was right. Hunter’s voice is so sexy on radio that even I would tune in to hear him read the warning label on a can of paint thinner.

“So,” I say, leaning into the mic with a smile in my voice, “you’re known in the locker room as being the prankster of the group. Is that a Hawkeyes thing, or have you always been this much of a menace?” I ask, earning me a quiet chuckle from across the room. “And what’s the best prank you’ve ever pulled off?”

He grins, eyes lighting with mischief. “Let’s just say I was born with a calling,” he says. “My poor kindergarten teacher still probably flinches every time she sees a whoopee cushion.”

I laugh, already regretting asking. “Oh no, you were that kid.”

“The worst,” he confirms proudly. “But I only prank people I like. I don’t do it with malice. The best one? Probably the time I hacked the mic during post-game interviews and turned the voice to helium before Coach Wrenley sat down. He had no clue until he started talking and everyone in the press room laughed so hard, tears were streaming down reporters’ faces.”

I choke back a laugh. “It was you who did that?”

I remember that post-game interview. It made its rounds for weeks. Coach Wrenley on the other hand, didn’t seem very happy about it.

“Listen, it was either that or the life-size cutout of his wife in a ref’s jersey. I’m saving that one for the playoffs.”

“Oh my God,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You are a menace.”

He winks. “You invited the chaos, sweetheart. I’m just living up to expectations.”

And somehow…I’m not even mad about it.

“Did he retaliate?” I ask.

“Yep, loosened one of the blades on my skates before he made me do laps the next day at practice. I didn’t know until I was halfway around the rink and I lost my blade. He made me do ten laps with only one skate. He made sure we had leg day in the gym the next morning. I could barely walk for a week.”

I cover my mouth to keep from busting up laughing. I can’t even imagine picking on Coach Wrenley.

I glance down at my notes, and I wish that we could keep up this energy. It’s going so well. But the network and the fans have questions, and it’s my job to get answers…or at least try to.

‘So,’ I say with a teasing tilt to my voice. ‘Hunter, the media has pegged you as a bit of a playboy. Love them and leave them type. How do you feel about that? And are they correct?’

His mouth curves into a smirk, like I just walked right into something he was hoping for. ‘I think if anyone could set that record straight, it would be you, wouldn’t it, sweetheart? Do you think I’m the love ’em and leave ’em kind? And be careful what you say, honey. Remember, you have to sleep next to me tonight.’

I blink.

Right. I forgot we’re fake dating—though, his smug grin across from me says he hasn’t. He just sidestepped my question like a pro, and there’s nothing I can do about it without blowing our cover.

Fine. Two can play at this game.

“Of course,” I say, recovering quickly. “I suppose our relationship dispels that rumor, doesn’t it?”

It’s not a question. We both know that as far as the public is concerned, our “relationship” makes him look like a reformed playboy. A guy who’s finally settled down.

I glance at my notes and decide to push forward. Carefully.

“That’s actually a great segue into the rumors about you that I’m sure your audience would love for you to address. You’ve been publicly connected to the New Jersey owner’s wife, Bethany Richards. Some say that’s the real reason you spent four years in the farm league. Would you like to set the record straight?”

There’s a beat of silence—so still it makes my pulse roar in my ears.

Hunter’s posture changes instantly. Gone is the relaxed slouch, the teasing smile. His eyes narrow. His jaw locks. The air shifts. He leans forward and—without breaking eye contact—reaches up and covers the mic with one broad hand.

We’re not live but he’s being cautious.

His voice is quiet but as sharp as a blade.

“I told you that she wasn’t part of the interview deal.”noveldrama

“If you’ll recall, excluding Bethany was only part of your initial offer. Your counteroffer included the townhouse, and your mother was the only exclusion you presented.”

His eyes narrow and turn dark, maybe he didn’t realize that he forgot to add Bethany back into his exclusion list but that’s not my problem. His body stiffens from its previously relaxed position.

I’ve crossed a line he’s not comfortable with, and I could have gone in softer than I did, but he’s better at sidestepping questions than I thought he’d be which means I need to be more aggressive if I want to get what the network execs are looking for.

I glance at the mic under his hand, then back at him. “This isn’t live,” I say softly, trying to keep things from spiraling. “You’ll have full control over the edit.”

His nostrils flare. “And you think that matters to me? You knew that I didn’t want to talk about my past—you knew I wanted to keep it off the record. Are ratings all you care about?”

“I care about finding the truth,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can, “the truth that everyone else is already digging for. You’ve let them believe New Jersey’s story for four years. This is a chance to set the record straight—your words. Your way.”

He removes his hand from the mic.

“I’m not interested in entertaining trash rumors that no one should be reading into,” he says tightly.

I can practically see the steam rising off his body now.

“So, New Jersey just made a bad call by signing you to a multi-million-dollar contract, only to bench you from the NHL? That’s your story?” I press, my voice steady, but inside, I’m bracing for the fallout.

“I think that people should stick to the facts they know and not rumors circulated by every pop-up podcast with a microphone and sports media sleuths online that have no idea what the hell they’re talking about. Maybe if they were real journalists, they’d have factual information to discuss instead of clickbait trash with no basis.”

Was that a dig at me? Does he consider me a pop-up podcast or a sports media sleuth?

I remind myself to keep my cool. He’s not the only guest I’ve ever hit a rough patch with, and I can usually iron out the issues, but the tension in the room thickens. I can feel the air crackle between us. I open my mouth to respond.

“So, you’re saying that the rumors have no truth whatsoever?”

He leans forward, eyes intense, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “I’m saying that you’re walking on hot coals, Collins, and you’re a few more steps away from getting burned.”

My heart kicks harder. His eyes burn like a warning that if I’m not careful, I’m going to lose this interview.

Whether I’m in the right that his relationship with Bethany and New Jersey should be on the table, there’s obviously far more to this story that has him reacting like this.

I glance at the soundboard, wondering if I should pivot. Defuse. Walk it back. But I can’t—not completely. This was always going to come up. We both knew that. It’s part of the deal. His fame is tangled in this mess. And if I avoid the hard questions now, what does that say about me? What does that say to my listeners or to the network who are watching how I handle hard questions with guests?

Not to mention that part of our deal was that we agreed to discuss Bethany, whether he remembers it or not.

“I’m not trying to blindside you,” I say quietly. “But this is the story people are already telling. I thought you’d want the chance to reclaim it.”

His jaw ticks. A muscle pulses in his cheek. And then, for the briefest second, something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe. Or fury barely held in check.

“You think I don’t know what people say?” he mutters, eyes flashing. “You think I haven’t spent four damn years waking up before the sun, working through injuries, rebuilding every scrap of what I lost—just to have it all reduced to locker room gossip and rumors about a woman I never touched?”

I swallow hard. “Then say that. Say it into the mic. Tell people the truth.”

He stands. Abrupt. The chair screeches against the floor.

“Hunter—wait,” I say quickly, my voice catching. “Please don’t walk out.”

He doesn’t move toward the door. Not yet.

“I don’t owe anyone the truth,” he snaps. “Especially not just so you can land your beloved syndication deal.”

That hurts more than I expect it to. Maybe because he just made an assumption that I have no heart or soul. That I’m willing to sell him out for a network spot. I just want to be taken seriously as a journalist who can give guests a safe place to tell their stories.

But he’s not done.

“I didn’t crawl my way back to the NHL just to be dragged back into the mud,” he says, quieter now—but deadly serious. “I won’t go willingly.”

His gaze cuts into me, sharp and clear. “So next time you come looking for soundbites, maybe pick someone who wants to be part of your story.”

Then he turns.

And this time, when he walks out, he doesn’t look back.

The studio door slams behind him, the walls shaking from his force, and the silence that follows is louder than anything he said.

I sit there, blinking at the empty chair across from me. The mic still recording. The flashing red light like a heartbeat.

And then I hear it—the engine of his truck roaring to life outside, loud and angry. It fades into the distance like a match lit and blown out too fast.

I sit there, frozen, the silence in the room deafening.

Just me. The mic. The blinking red light that shows it’s still recording, and the terrible ache of something I can’t name.

A text from my mom lights up the phone screen.

I don’t respond.

I just turn the phone face down on the desk and stare at the photo of my dad again. The edges are worn. His smile still steady. Still proud.

Even now.

I wish I could believe he’d still be proud of me after this.

Because I don’t know if I am.