26. Daltyn
DALTYN
The next morning feels wrong the second I open my eyes.
Birds chirp outside my window. Leaves rustle softly in the breeze.
But inside? It’s quiet.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling for a long moment, too fucking aware of the woman sleeping downstairs.
Exhaustion grinds behind my eyes.
I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those photos again. The comments. The headlines. The look on my own face staring at Peyton like she’s already mine. Like I’d die before I let anyone take her from me.
My jaw tightens.
The sun is barely up, pale morning light creeping through the windows of the loft, but my mind is already running at full speed.
Damage control.
Media. Tags. Her name spreading.
Training camp is coming up.
Sponsors .
Interviews.
Questions.
How the hell do I protect Peyton from this?
I drag a hand over my face before shoving out of bed.
The cabin is quiet as I head downstairs.
She’s still asleep on the couch, tangled in the blanket I threw over her sometime around two in the morning after I caught myself checking to make sure she was warm.
My chest tightens painfully.
Jesus Christ. She’s been through too much already.
I force myself to look away.
Then I head back upstairs, throw on a hoodie, and go for a run.
Normally, running clears my head. Today it just gives my thoughts more room to destroy me.
The cool Vermont air burns in my lungs as I follow the trail near the lake, my shoes pounding against dirt and gravel.
But all I can think is that Peyton is visible now.
Because of me.
By the time I get back to the cabin, sweat dampens the back of my shirt, and my pulse still hasn’t settled.
Inside, I find Peyton standing in the kitchen wearing one of my sweatshirts and soft gray leggings.
My fucking sweatshirt.
Her hair is messy from sleep. Coffee brews behind her. Sunlight spills across the hardwood floors.
And for one dangerous second… it feels domestic. Real. The kind of thing I swore I’d never let myself have.
“Morning,” she says softly .
My throat tightens. “Morning.”
She studies me for a second too long. Probably noticing the exhaustion. The tension. The fact that I haven’t relaxed once since last night.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
No. Not even remotely.
“Yeah.” The lie comes automatically.
Her eyebrows pull together slightly, like she knows I’m full of shit.
I move toward the coffee maker instead of toward her. Because I don’t trust myself enough.
She’s quiet while I pour a cup.
That silence somehow feels worse.
Usually, she fills the cabin with noise. Teasing. Talking. Laughing.
Now there’s caution in the air. Like she can feel me pulling away even though I’m trying not to.
That realization twists something ugly in my chest.
I hate it. I hate that I’m doing this. I hate that I don’t know how to stop.
We make breakfast together.
Or at least… pretend to.
She scrambles eggs while I make toast.
Our shoulders brush once, and I step back like the contact burns me.
I catch the flicker in her expression.
Fuck.
After breakfast, I clean the kitchen, mostly because I need something to do with my hands besides drag her against me and forget every rational thought I’ve had in the last twelve hours.
My phone buzzes on the counter .
Unknown anxiety spikes through me before I realize it’s my agent.
I answer, walking toward the back deck.
“Tell me you’ve seen the coverage,” Brent says without preamble.
“I’ve seen it.”
There’s a pause.
“Well… on the bright side, engagement numbers are insane.”
I stare out toward the woods, my jaw tight. “I don’t give a shit about engagement numbers.”
“Daltyn—”
“She’s not part of this.”
Another pause.
His tone shifts slightly, becoming more careful. “Okay. Listen to me. Right now, people are interested because you’ve spent years avoiding publicity outside hockey. That mystery factor feeds this stuff.”
I rub a hand over my mouth.
“I want her left alone.”
“We can try to minimize things, but honestly? The more you react publicly, the worse it’ll get.”
That makes my stomach twist harder. Because reacting is exactly what every instinct inside me wants to do.
Protect. Control. Contain.
She’s mine.
I shut that thought down.
After the call ends, I stay outside another few minutes, trying to get myself under control before heading back inside.
Peyton looks up from the couch when I enter. Something soft flickers across her face at the sight of me.
And like an asshole, my immediate instinct is still to go to her.
Instead, I shove my hands into my pockets. “I’ve got some work stuff I need to handle upstairs.”
The disappointment in her expression is subtle. Barely there. But I still notice.
“Okay,” she says quietly.
Fuck.
I spend the next few hours in the loft pretending to answer emails while actually spiraling hard enough to qualify for medical intervention.
I check social media every twenty minutes.
Google her name twice.
Mine fifteen.
At one point, I catch myself zooming in on paparazzi photos looking for security details in the background like a complete fucking psychopath.
By lunchtime, I feel like I’m crawling out of my own skin.
When I finally come downstairs, Peyton is standing at the kitchen island, cutting vegetables.
She glances up. “There you are.” The warmth in her voice hits me like a punch to the ribs.
I nod once because speaking feels dangerous right now.
We make lunch together. Or, once again, pretend to.
I’m hyperaware of every little thing. The way she moves around the kitchen. The way she keeps glancing at me. The distance between us.
The distance I created.
And the worst part? I can tell she feels it.
After we finish eating, Peyton wipes her hands on a towel. “Want to get out for a little while?”
I tense .
“We could go get coffee,” she continues. “Or we could?—”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be in public together right now.”
The words come out harsher than I intended. Silence fills the kitchen.
Peyton blinks. I watch the hurt spread slowly across her face before she tries to hide it. Like she’s pretending it doesn’t affect her.
Which somehow makes it even worse.
I open my mouth to apologize. To explain. To... I don’t even know anymore.
But Peyton’s already turning away.