19. Daltyn
DALTYN
“Break’s over,” Ford yells from center ice.
The sound finally snaps me out of whatever the hell just happened at the glass.
Peyton still stands there staring at me, cheeks pink, lips slightly parted, blue eyes wide in a way that makes my chest feel too damn tight.
I should skate away. Instead, I grin at her. Actually grin. “See you soon.”
Her breath catches slightly.
Fuck.
My eyes drop briefly to the boot on her foot. “Be careful with that ankle.”
She nods.
I still don’t move.
I just stand there behind the plexiglass like some lovesick idiot while she slowly turns and starts making her way back toward Harper and Allie.
My gaze tracks every movement. The oversized Avalanche hoodie beneath her coat. The way her hair brushes her shoulders. The careful way she navigates the steps in the boot.
Mine. The thought hits hard enough to rattle me.
Not mine.
She can’t be.
Cole slams his shoulder into mine as he skates past. “Get your ass to the goal, Romeo.”
I scowl at him. “Fuck off.”
Connor cackles loudly from center ice. “He’s down catastrophically, boys.”
“Shut up, Byrns.”
Ford grins. “Never seen the brick wall flirt through plexiglass before. Kinda romantic.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck despite my best efforts.
Jesus Christ.
With one final glance at Peyton, I skate back toward the crease and settle into position.
But something feels off. Not bad. Just... different.
Usually after moments like that—moments where I let myself want too much—the darkness crashes in.
The reminders. The memories.
The voice in my head, telling me exactly why I should stay the hell away from women like Peyton Sinclair.
She’s too good. Too soft. Too bright.
The kind of woman you ruin just by touching.
I automatically brace for the guilt. For the panic to swirl through me. For the reminder that men like me don’t get things like her.
But the thoughts never come.
Instead, all I can think about is the way she looks at me. The blush that spreads across her cheeks .
She’s wearing my hoodie in the stands. And she’ll still be there when this skate ends, waiting for me.
My pulse hits harder against my ribs. “Guyer!”
I snap my attention toward Connor right as he takes a shot.
Instinct takes over.
I drop low and glove the puck cleanly out of the air. Cheers and groans echo across the ice.
But even as the guys chirp each other again, my eyes flick briefly back toward the stands. To Peyton.
Because for the first time in years...
I can’t wait for practice to end so I can get back to someone.