41. Daltyn
DALTYN
By the time Connor skates toward me, grinning like a psychopath, I already know my day is about to get worse.
“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY GIRLFRIEND!” he bellows across the ice loud enough for the entire arena to hear.
Every player on the rink loses it.
Jake doubles over against the boards, laughing.
Cole nearly drops his stick.
Even Easton looks like he’s trying not to smile.
I seriously consider removing Connor’s head from his shoulders.
Coach Decker blows his whistle sharply. “Byrns.”
Connor straightens. “Yes, Coach?”
“Shut the hell up.”
Connor nods solemnly. Then he whispers dramatically as he skates past me, "You called her your girlfriend."
“I’m going to bury your body in the mountains.”
Connor gasps. “Threatening me won’t make you less in love. ”
Ford skates between us before I can commit a felony during morning drills.
“Both of you knock it off,” he mutters.
Connor points at me. “Tell Romeo to stop attacking innocent civilians in coffee shops.”
“I didn’t attack anybody.”
“You verbally murdered a barista.”
“He leaned over Peyton.” The words leave my mouth without hesitation or thought.
The second the silence hits around us, I realize my mistake.
Connor’s eyes widen slowly. “Oh my God,” he whispers.
Jake points his stick at me from across the ice. “HE ADMITTED IT.”
I rub both hands down my face.
This team is a disease.
Coach blows the whistle again before things spiral further. “Line drills. Now.”
Thank Christ.
The team spreads across the ice while I settle into position near the goal crease.
Normally, conditioning shuts my brain off because all I'm focused on is the pain, exhaustion, and routine of it.
It’s simple.
But right now? It doesn’t work.
Not when Peyton fills my thoughts every few seconds.
Like right now. I see her laughing in my kitchen before stealing a piece of garlic bread from my plate. She fell asleep against my chest, a blanket tucked around her, while the fire crackled nearby.
Jesus Christ.
Coach points toward the blue line. “Again.”
We skate. Hard.
Suicides.
Backward transitions.
Goalie movement drills.
Butterfly recoveries.
Explosive pushes across the crease.
Sweat burns down my neck beneath my gear while my lungs feel like they're being torn apart.
Good. Maybe exhaustion will finally shut my head up.
But it doesn’t.
All I can think about is Peyton waking up alone at the cabin, wrapped in the blanket I tucked around her before I left this morning. Still wearing the stained sweater because we got too busy in the bathroom to remove it properly.
Maybe Thelma can get the stain out. I’ll ask her.
Coach fires another puck toward the net.
I stop it cleanly.
Another one follows immediately after.
Then another.
Bodies crash the crease while Jake attempts to screen me. I shove him backward hard enough that he almost eats shit on the ice.
“Jesus Christ!” he barks.
“Move.”
Connor skates past, laughing. “Brother’s fighting demons today.”
If by demons he means emotional attachment, then absolutely yes. And I have no idea what to do about it.
Coach blows the whistle sharply. “Again.”
The drills get harder. Faster. More brutal. And the worse my body feels, the calmer my head becomes.
Until my phone buzzes inside the bench area during a water break .
Connor sees the screen before I can grab it. His eyes widen dramatically. “Ohhhhhhhhhhh.”
I already hate that tone.
Connor clutches his chest. “He slept on the couch with her.”
I snatch the phone out of his hand. “You’re obsessed with me. I’m going to tell Allie.”
“No,” Connor says. “I’m obsessed with this romance novel you accidentally turned your life into.”
Ford nearly chokes on his water.
Jake skates over. “Wait. Read it.”
“No.”
Connor wipes imaginary tears from his eyes. “He made her coffee.”
Cole slaps the boards, laughing.
Easton looks deeply concerned.
Honestly? That’s fair.
Connor points at me accusingly. “You tucked her in, too, didn’t you?”
I glare at him silently.
Apparently, that's enough of an answer. The entire team erupts again.
“Oh my God!” Jake yells.
“He’s domestic now!” Connor shouts.
“Next thing you know, he’ll be shopping for throw pillows,” Cole adds.
“I hate every single one of you.”
Connor grins. “Not as much as you love Peyton.”
That shuts me up.
Not because he’s wrong. Because I don’t know if he’s right.
And that’s somehow worse .
Coach blows the whistle again before Connor can emotionally devastate me further.
“Last drill,” Coach barks.
Thank fuck.
I pull my helmet back on while Connor skates beside me.
“Seriously, though,” he says quieter this time. “You good?”
The question catches me off guard.
Because beneath all the chirping and chaos… Connor actually sounds serious.
I glance toward the ice at the net that used to make sense before Peyton crashed into my life.
“No,” I finally admit.
Connor blinks. Probably shocked that I admitted something real for once.
My grip tightens around my stick. “Everything’s different now.”
Connor studies me for a long moment.
Then unexpectedly says, “Yeah, it is.”
No jokes. No chirping. No teasing.
Just understanding.
Which somehow feels worse than the mocking.
Deep down? I know exactly what happened.
Everything changed because of her.