18. Peyton
PEYTON
Daltyn tosses the bag full of gloves, two beanies, earmuffs, two pairs of fleece-lined leggings, a pair of fur-lined boots, and a jacket into the trunk. I make a face at the bag with the boots. At least if I get stranded in the Arctic, my feet will survive.
“This is excessive,” I mutter as he helps me into his Escalade.
“Practical,” he corrects, shutting the door. “There’s a difference.”
I roll my eyes, but warmth still spreads through my chest. Not from his hoodie. From him.
He leans over me, fastening my seat belt, checking to make sure it’s tight enough.
“I don’t think you need to worry. You drive like a grandpa, so it’s unlikely I’ll get thrown through the window if we’re in an accident.”
He scowls. “Not funny.”
I smirk. “I think it is.”
He rolls his eyes, then heads to the driver’s side.
“You are such a contradiction. On the ice, you move at the speed of light to guard the net. But put you in the driver’s seat of a vehicle and the Flintstones could pass us.”
He smirks, then reaches over and pokes me in the side. I squeal and squirm away.
“Ohhh. Someone’s ticklish.”
I hold my side protectively. “Don’t you dare.”
He laughs and starts the vehicle. “You ready to stick your foot through the floorboards and go to the rink?” He glances at my boot. “That one won’t get much traction. Plus, it’ll slide too much when we try to stop.”
I laugh and flex my uninjured foot. “I’m ready.”
The drive to the rink is quiet, but not awkward. Music hums softly through the speakers while sunlight filters through the windshield.
I glance over at him as he drives. One hand rests loosely on the wheel while the other taps lightly against his thigh to the rhythm of whatever song is playing.
He’s Relaxed. Comfortable. Beautiful. Dangerous to my emotional well-being.
“I thought training camp didn’t start for two weeks?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Then why are you skating tonight?”
He gives me a look like the answer should be obvious. “Because camp starts in two weeks.”
I snort. “That explains absolutely nothing.”
His lips twitch slightly. “It’s an informal skate. Just Ford, Connor, Cole, Jake, and me. Gives us a chance to shake off the rust before camp starts. We do it every year.”
“Ahh. I get it. You’re perfectionists.”
“Also,” he says quieter, eyes staying on the road, “the ice clears my head.”
Something about the way he says it settles heavily in my chest .
I stare at his profile. Gram’s words about the trauma he hides float through my head.
And I realize, some people meditate or go to counseling. Daltyn skates.
Hockey isn't simply his job. It's the one place where everything inside him quiets.
I stare out the window after that, watching Vermont blur past in shades of green, orange, and gold while my thoughts spiral dangerously.
Because I understand the need for something that makes the world quieter. And somehow, that realization makes me feel even closer to him.
Which feels like a problem.
A huge one.
The second we pull into the parking lot beside Summit Arena, my stomach flips nervously. “Oh my God.”
Daltyn glances over. “What?”
“I’m about to see your teammates again. This time, on the ice.”
“So?”
“So?” I stare at him like he’s insane. “Daltyn, you’re a professional hockey player.”
“And?”
“… I’m homeless and wearing your sweatshirt. And I just know you’re going to make me put on that coat, gloves, and hat. I’ll look like a marshmallow.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re gonna look cute.”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not mocking you.” He sounds sincere, which somehow makes it worse .
I stare at the imposing facility from the parking lot, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
He climbs out, then comes around to help me down. The second my feet hit the pavement, cold air whips around me.
Okay. Maybe the coat isn’t entirely unnecessary.
Daltyn notices me shivering. “Told you.”
“Don’t start.”
He heads to the trunk and rips off the tags, then bundles me into the coat. He hands me the gloves and hat, and I put them on.
A grin flashes across his face before he wraps an arm around me and guides me toward the arena entrance.
Warmth floods me all over again. Not from the coat, either.
Inside, the rink smells like ice, rubber, and faintly of hockey equipment.
A few of the players are already skating warm-up laps when we step into the arena. Music echoes softly through the nearly empty rink while pucks crack against the boards.
Daltyn sets his hockey bag near the bench, then looks down at me. “Stay here with Harper and Allie. I’ll be back.”
And then he disappears through a door near the tunnel leading to the locker room.
I exhale slowly once he’s gone.
“That look on your face is priceless,” Harper says from beside me.
“What look?”
“The one where you just realized hockey players are terrifyingly attractive.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I did not make a face.”
Allie snorts. “You absolutely did.” She beams at me. “ I’m glad you’re here. Your boyfriend was being grumpy about bringing you.”
“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend.”
Allie and Harper exchange a look.
“Yeah, right,” Harper says.
“You’re forgetting I was in Key West with the two of you,” Allie says.
I blush. “No, I’m not forgetting that.”
“So, just selective memory.” Allie grins. “Got it.”
Before I can defend myself, the locker room door opens again.
And out strides Goalie Daltyn.
The man walking toward the ice barely resembles the one who took me coat shopping an hour ago.
Massive leg pads hug his body while Avalanche colors flash across his chest protector and painted mask. His blocker and catcher glove look enormous beneath the arena lights, making him seem even bigger somehow.
He’s intimidating. Untouchable. Dangerous. Like a wall no one can break through.
And somehow, watching him glide across the ice with effortless control makes him even more terrifyingly attractive.
My pulse stutters. “Oh,” I whisper.
Harper grins beside me. “Yeah. That’s usually everyone’s reaction the first time.”
“Impressive, huh?” Allie teases.
“That’s one word for it,” I murmur.
The players scatter across the ice, skating easy warm-up laps while music pulses softly through the arena speakers.
Daltyn stays near the crease.
And then, he begins stretching.
My eyes widen slightly as he drops into a deep lunge, one massive pad sliding smoothly across the ice while he stretches his hips and legs.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Harper snorts beside me. “First time seeing goalie stretches?”
“I didn’t know people bent like that.”
Allie laughs. “Just wait.”
And somehow it gets worse. Or better, depending on how morally questionable my thoughts are.
Daltyn braces his stick against the ice and lowers even farther, broad shoulders flexing beneath his chest protector while his massive thighs strain against the gear.
Sweet baby Jesus.
“He’s basically doing yoga in forty pounds of armor,” Harper says helpfully.
“I’m trying very hard to be respectful right now.”
“That’s cute,” Allie says. “Respect left the building the second he stepped onto the ice.”
My face burns hotter as Daltyn rolls his shoulders, then pushes back upright in one smooth motion before stretching again.
“How are goalies flexible enough to do that?” I ask weakly.
Harper grins. “Trauma.”
Allie nearly chokes laughing.
And then, like he senses me staring, Daltyn’s masked face turns toward me.
Even from this distance, the full force of his attention locks onto mine. My stomach flips violently.
“Oh no,” Harper whispers dramatically beside me. “The goalie has acquired a target.”
“I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Allie says cheerfully .
“You’re right. I don’t.”
I feel his smirk before he turns away. But my eyes don’t leave him.
“I support women’s rights,” I murmur. “And women’s wrongs.”
Harper and Allie howl with laughter, causing the guys to look up. Including Daltyn. My face burns from embarrassment.
Luckily, Ford says something, and the guys turn their attention back to the ice.
The second Daltyn settles into the net and lowers into position, something about him shifts completely.
He’s sharper. Calmer. Focused in a way that steals the air from my lungs. Like this is the one place in the world where he knows exactly who he is.
The guys skate toward the bench for water while Ford and Connor start chirping each other.
But my attention stays locked on Daltyn.
He pulls off his mask, his damp hair curling slightly from sweat as he grabs a water bottle.
Sweet. Lord.
“That should honestly be illegal,” I whisper.
Harper grins. “Told you.” Her eyes are locked on her husband.
Daltyn drinks half the bottle before his eyes lift toward the stands. To me. Then he crooks two gloved fingers, motioning me closer.
My stomach somersaults.
“Oh my,” Allie says dramatically. “He’s summoning you.”
“I’m not going down there.”
“You absolutely are,” Harper says, already helping me up .
Traitors.
Heat floods my face as I carefully make my way to the glass, boot clunking awkwardly against the steps.
Daltyn waits for me near the boards, towering behind the plexiglass in full goalie gear.
Up close, he somehow looks even bigger. More intimidating.
My brain short-circuits. “You’re really big.”
He blinks.
Then a slow grin spreads across his face. “Careful, Peyton.”
Heat rushes into my cheeks. “T-that’s not what I meant.”
“Sure it wasn’t.”
I glare at him while he chuckles softly. The sound does dangerous things to my insides.
He rests his forearms against the top of his stick. “Having fun?”
“I was until your weird goalie yoga traumatized me.”
His grin widens. “That bad, huh?”
“You folded in half while wearing forty pounds of armor. I don’t think I’ll ever recover.”
Connor skates behind him. “She was staring at you like you invented orgasms, buddy.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Daltyn doesn’t even look back. “Keep skating, Byrns.”
Connor cackles while Ford nearly crashes, laughing.
Meanwhile, I consider launching myself directly into the Zamboni entrance and never returning.
Daltyn’s eyes stay locked on mine the entire time. Like he enjoys watching me unravel.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before lifting again.
Sweat beads on my skin from the heat burning in his eyes.
He smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
I hear Harper and Allie giggling behind me, but I can’t look away from Daltyn. I can’t even muster the strength to try.
His eyes flick briefly to the Avalanche hoodie swallowed beneath my oversized coat before returning to my face. Something dark flashes in his expression.
My mouth goes dry. I swallow hard.
Why does talking through plexiglass feel so intense? So strangely erotic?
This is a problem.
A huge one.