45. Daltyn
DALTYN
The second the scrimmage starts, I begin playing better.
Connor still sneaks one past me five minutes in because he’s annoying as hell and incapable of acting normal for even thirty consecutive seconds.
But overall? I’m sharper. Faster. Locked in.
Coach Decker notices it, too. “Better,” he barks after I glove a shot from Jake clean out of the air.
I barely hear him. Every time play stops, my eyes drift toward the stands automatically. Toward her.
Peyton sits between Harper and Allie, wearing an Avalanche hoodie with her sleeves pulled over part of her hands. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders while arena lights reflect softly across her face.
And every damn time I look up? She’s already watching me.
It does something violent to my chest.
During the next whistle, Connor glides into my crease before the ref can yell at him. “You smiled at her.”
“Get out of my net. ”
Connor actually looks offended. “Brother, you look like you’re one missed paycheck away from writing poetry.”
Jake skates by laughing.
Ford shakes his head from farther down the ice. “This is getting hard to watch.”
I glare at all of them.
Unfortunately, Connor isn’t finished. “She’s wearing the hoodie.”
I don’t respond.
Mostly because I know if I do, these idiots will never let me live it down.
But something ugly and possessive still tightens low in my chest every time I see her in it.
Mine. The thought hits me hard.
It’s dangerous. Wrong.
But way too fucking satisfying.
The whistle blows again before Connor can keep talking.
Thank God.
The rest of the scrimmage blurs together after that.
I stop three consecutive shots.
I flash the glove, making a high-profile catch that has the crowd going wild.
Connor gets shoved into the boards after trying to chirp me during a breakaway attempt.
And through all of it, I still keep looking toward the stands. At Peyton.
Like some part of me needs visual confirmation she’s still there.
When the final whistle blows, the crowd cheers loudly while we skate off the ice.
I glance up one last time before disappearing into the tunnel.
Peyton’s still watching me.
And somehow?
That feels bigger than the entire fucking game.
Steam still clings faintly to my skin when I step out of the locker room nearly forty minutes later.
Most of the crowd has cleared out now. The hallway outside the tunnel is quieter.
I shift my gear bag higher on my shoulder and pick up my pace.
Then I see her waiting near the wall beside Harper and Allie.
My pulse slows.
Peyton looks up the second she notices me approaching. Her eyes drift briefly over my navy hoodie and damp hair before snapping back to my face.
Too late. I noticed.
Connor notices, too, unfortunately. “Ohhhh my God,” he whispers dramatically behind me.
I don’t even look at him. “Leave,” I say flatly.
“I’m witnessing romance.”
“Connor,” Allie warns.
He grins anyway before Ford physically drags him away down the hallway.
Idiots.
My focus shifts back to Peyton. I stop in front of her, close enough to catch the faint scent of vanilla and laundry detergent beneath the cold arena air.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
Her cheeks are slightly pink. Mine probably are, too.
I lean down slightly toward her. “Ready to go? ”
The second the words leave my mouth, she jerks slightly. Like the roughness in my voice affected her more than she expected.
My entire body tightens.
Peyton steps closer instead of away. Then she slowly rises onto her tiptoes.
My breath catches when her lips brush near my ear.
“Let’s go,” she whispers softly.
Fuck.
She pulls back slightly.
I do the same.
And for one suspended second, we just stare at each other.
The noise around us dulls.
The hallway. The team. Everything.
Until it’s just her.
Then I take her hand.
And together, we walk out of Summit Arena.