35. Daltyn
DALTYN
My lungs burn by the final drill.
Good. Maybe the exhaustion will knock some sense back into me.
Coach blows the whistle sharply as another wave of players resets across the ice. Sweat drips down my neck beneath my gear while I settle deeper into my crease.
Lock in.
A puck. A shot. A save.
That’s all this is supposed to be.
Nice and simple.
Easton cuts hard down the right side before snapping a quick pass toward Connor.
Connor immediately redirects it toward the net.
I stop it cleanly.
Jake crashes into the crease an instant later.
I shove him backward with my blocker.
“Jesus Christ,” Jake barks. “You trying to kill me?”
“Move.”
Connor skates by laughing. “There he is. Murder goalie’s back. ”
Cole points his stick at me. “He remembered hockey exists.”
“Shut up and skate,” I mutter.
Honestly?
The chirping helps. Because it’s familiar. Predictable.
Unlike the complete psychological warfare my life has become lately.
Coach blows the whistle. “Again.”
The next drill comes faster. Harder. Bodies flying through the neutral zone. Skates cutting across fresh ice. Sticks clashing. Controlled chaos.
This time, I lock in.
No distraction. No spiraling. Just instinct.
Connor comes down low.
I read it.
Jake tries screening.
I shove him out of the way.
Easton fires high glove side.
I snag it cleanly out of the air.
The rink goes quiet for half a second before Coach nods once. “Better.”
That single word hits something ugly and relieved inside my chest. Because hockey has always been the one thing I could control.
And for a few terrifying minutes earlier?
I wasn’t controlling a damn thing.
Coach finally blows the whistle long and sharp. “That’s it. Hit the showers.”
The team starts chirping at each other again while everyone skates toward the bench.
Connor skates backward in front of me. “So,” he says casually. “Excited to go home to your fake girlfriend?”
I slam my shoulder into him as I pass .
He nearly wipes out laughing. “ABUSIVE!” he yells.
“You deserve worse.”
Jake tosses me a water bottle near the bench. “You gonna bring Peyton to media day?”
My jaw tightens automatically. “No.”
Connor gasps dramatically. “You’re hiding her from the world?”
“She’s not a zoo animal.”
Ford steps beside me while peeling off his gloves. “Pretty sure he means because the media’s gonna be insane.”
Exactly. Every reporter in Vermont suddenly wants a quote about my nonexistent relationship.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut during that interview.
But the second they started talking about Peyton like she belonged to Landon? Something in me snapped.
A woman in a navy Avalanche polo intercepts me near the tunnel.
Fantastic.
“Daltyn,” she says carefully. “Quick heads up—there are already requests for additional interviews tomorrow.”
Of course there are.
I stare at the ceiling briefly. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
“Terrible answer.”
Her mouth twitches slightly. “Also… social engagement surrounding you and Peyton is extremely high right now.”
I physically recoil at the phrase "social engagement.” We sound like a marketing campaign.
“Great.”
“There may be questions tomorrow,” she warns gently. “Just be prepared.”
Prepared .
Right.
Because I’ve handled all of this so well thus far.
By the time I finally leave the arena, exhaustion settles heavily in my bones.
The drive back to the cabin is quiet except for the low hum of the engine.
No sports radio this time. No interviews. No teammates.
Just silence.
The trees and houses blur past outside the windows as my grip loosens on the steering wheel.
Weirdly, the tension in my chest eases the closer I get to home.
Home.
The realization hits me hard enough that I almost miss the turn toward the cabin road.
My house has never felt like a home. Just a place I lay my head at night and hide away from the world during the day.
The isolation and silence used to be comforting.
But now, Peyton’s there... and the part I look forward to the most is coming home to her. That’s the first place my brain wants to go after the longest practice of the day.
That should probably concern me more than it does.
The porch light glows softly through the trees by the time I pull in.
Something low in my chest loosens at the sight of it.
At the thought of her inside, waiting for me.
Jesus Christ.
I kill the engine and grab my bag before heading toward the front door.
The second I step inside, I know something’s wrong.
Peyton is curled up on the couch with a blanket around her legs, but the second she sees me, she bolts upright. Her expression is somewhere between embarrassed and mildly traumatized.
Every exhausted part of me sharpens. “You okay?”
She grimaces. “That depends.”
I close the door slowly behind me. “That bad?”
“Gram came over.”
I go completely still. “Today?”
“Yes.”
Poor Peyton.
I drop my hockey bag near the wall. “What happened?”
She opens her mouth.
Then closes it.
That’s never a good sign.
“Peyton.”
“Thelma brought laundry out.”
Confusion flickers briefly through my exhaustion. “Okay…”
“And the black lace panties fell out.”
Oh no.
The ones I worked so hard to sneak into the laundry. The ones I took from Peyton’s drawer and used to pleasure myself.
I was hoping to snag them and put them back in my drawer before Thelma could return them to her.
I stare at her silently.
Color floods her cheeks. “Then Gram came inside, and somehow I accidentally admitted you stole them.”
I stare at her in silence.
I blink once.
Twice.
“How,” I say slowly, “does someone accidentally admit I stole their panties? ”
Her horrified expression somehow makes this worse. “I panicked!”
A laugh threatens to break loose. I fight it, barely keeping it inside.
Peyton points at me accusingly from the couch. “Don’t you dare laugh. I almost threw myself off the deck.”
That’s what breaks me.
A rough laugh escapes before I can stop it.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“Rude.”
I toss my keys onto the counter before pulling the athletic tape loose from my wrists.
God. I didn’t realize how badly I needed her.
Training camp already feels a thousand miles away instead of twenty minutes.
Peyton watches me carefully. “You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
Concern softens her expression.
Something low in my stomach pulls tight enough to piss me off.
I sit on the opposite end of the couch with a tired groan.
“How bad was it?” she asks softly.
“Connor called me Mrs. Guyer’s husband.” I rub my forehead. “Jake changed my locker nameplate to Peyton’s Husband.”
She shakes her head. “Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
I stare at her for a moment. I get the feeling she already knows, but I don’t question it. I’m sure Harper or Allie gave her an update.
“Connor put it back after I threw it.”
Her lips twitch .
I point at her. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You’re failing.”
A quiet laugh slips out of her.
The sound settles something restless inside me far too easily.
I lean my head back against the couch cushion, my smile fading. “There’s media stuff tomorrow.”
Peyton stiffens. “What does that mean?”
“There’ll probably be more questions. More videos. More idiots online.”
Her gaze drops briefly to her hands. “Lovely,” she mutters sarcastically.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
Her brows pull together. “For what?”
“For dragging you into this.”
The words sit heavy between us. Because I mean them. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.
Not the fake dating. Not the internet buzz. Not the attention on her like a damn neon light.
And especially not the way Peyton somehow became the center of my entire goddamn life without me noticing.
Peyton studies me quietly for a long moment. Then softly says, “I’ve had much worse things happen to me, Daltyn. I can handle it.”
Something in my chest twists painfully hard.
She shouldn’t have to.