Don’t Fall for the Goalie (Pucked Up Hearts #3)

1. Peyton

PEYTON

I take one step down the aisle and stumble. I would’ve fallen if strong hands hadn’t caught my waist.

“You okay?” Daltyn is so close to my ear that his deep baritone sends shivers down my spine. Goosebumps erupt across my skin from the warmth of his breath.

“I-I’m fine.” My voice shakes, but it’s not from the turbulence the plane experienced before landing.

It’s from him.

“Sorry you had to go through that.” He moves his hands but watches me, ready to catch me if I stumble again.

Let him think it’s from the plane turbulence. He knows I hate flying.

When my legs don’t buckle like a newborn deer, he whispers, “We need to exit.”

Oh yeah.

Right.

I start moving, acutely aware of his presence behind me.

Who wouldn’t be?

Daltyn Guyer. The six-foot-two goalie for the Avalanche hockey team. Bulging muscles and the kind of face that should come with a boxer-brief endorsement. Golden brown hair, baby blue eyes, and the flash of his dimple on the rare occasion he smiles is enough to ruin any woman.

Including me.

Not that I’d tell him that.

As if that package isn’t enough, the man has a serious hero complex. At least he does when it comes to me.

He falls in step beside me as soon as we’re off the plane, casually strolling into the airport, completely unbothered by my presence. I’m breaking into a sweat just being so close to him.

That could also be because he runs at least five degrees warmer than I do.

Burlington International Airport is chaotic. People rushing. A baby is crying. Two teenagers are fighting over a bag, and it’s giving me a headache.

I feel him watching me before I glance up and catch him doing exactly that. Smirking down at me like my reaction is the best entertainment he’s had all day.

“What?” I ask defensively.

“Nothing.” His mouth twitches.

“Does this noise just... irritate you?”

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Not really.”

“Why not?”

“I’m used to it. I play in front of thousands of screaming fans, remember?”

“Yeah. I know. Still, this doesn’t grate on your nerves?”

Someone bumps into me, knocking me into Daltyn’s side. He wraps his arm protectively around me, glaring at the man until he apologizes.

“Wait a minute,” the guy says, his face lighting up. “Aren’t you Daltyn Guyer? ”

“Great,” I murmur. “Here comes the fan club.”

I don’t miss Daltyn’s smirk deepening as he shakes the guy’s hand and patiently stands there while the man gushes about last season and how pumped he is for this one.

I tune it out and reach for my purple suitcase. But Daltyn’s huge arm reaches over me and snatches it before I can.

“I had it.”

He raises a brow, looking down at the suitcase that now rests by his boots. “No, you didn’t.”

I roll my eyes. “I meant, I could’ve gotten it while you interacted with your fan.”

He stares at me. “You seem irritated. Is it because I grabbed your luggage? Or the dude talking to me?”

I rub my temples. “Neither. It’s from life in general.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches me.

I hate that. Being the center of attention makes me babble.

And he knows it.

“In case you’ve forgotten, my life hasn’t been a barrel of roses lately. Stalked by my psycho ex. A hurricane hit during my vacation. Losing my home and belongings. Turbulence on the plane.”

I sigh.

“The universe hates me.”

Which makes Daltyn Guyer make even less sense.

He looks amused, irritating me even more. “The universe doesn’t hate you.”

“Oh yes. I can see that by all the good luck it just keeps throwing at me.” I point at him. “Stop smirking.”

“Can’t. You’re cute when you’re melting down.” He grabs the rest of my luggage while I’m simultaneously flattered and pissed by the words “cute” and “ melting down.”

I cross my arms. “I’m not melting down.”

I glare at him, hating the way the lights highlight the golden strands in his hair.

Turning, I reach for the handle of my suitcase, but he somehow wrangles it away and starts dragging four suitcases and two carry-ons like it’s nothing.

“Come on, Peyton. Let’s go home.”

Home.

That word should be outlawed by Webster’s dictionary for reminding me I’m homeless and about to shack up with the hot goalie that won’t stop smirking at me.

Fuck my life.

My heels click over the floor as I race after his long legs. And he’s not even walking at his normal speed. In fact, he’s moving much more slowly than usual.

When I fall in step beside him, he glances at my sandals. “Those things are an accident waiting to happen.”

“They are not,” I pant, ignoring the pain in my feet. I glance down at them. They’re damn cute and make my pedicure look amazing.

“Four-inch heels aren’t practical. Especially not in an airport.”

“Neither are ice skates. Yet you skate around in them.”

He chuckles. “On ice, Peyton. Not in an airport.”

“How is that any better?”

I almost get a smile out of him. Almost.

“Just... be careful.”

“I’m always careful. Besides, what’s going to happen in an airpo—yowl!”

He abandons the suitcases, catching me before I go down.

Again.

See? Hero complex .

“Sorry, miss.” The teenage boy from earlier says, his eyes on Daltyn. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Clearly,” Daltyn says icily, glaring at the kid.

“Ouch.” I wince, rubbing my sore ankle.

“Let me see.” Daltyn’s head is bent, already looking at my ankle that’s beginning to swell. His fingers unbuckle the strap before I can protest.

“I’m really sorry,” the teenager says.

Daltyn gives him a look that could freeze hell. “You’re going to follow us with our luggage while I carry her.”

He says it like there’s no universe where I won’t be carried.

“What?” The boy and I say in unison.

Daltyn glares at him. “You heard me.”

The boy jumps into motion, gathering our luggage while Daltyn scoops me up in his arms like I weigh nothing, my shoe dangling from his hand.

“This is unnecessary,” I protest as he steps through the automatic doors. “Really.”

“You’re hurt,” he says.

“I’m not broken. I can walk.”

He ignores me, striding into the sunshine like a superhero saving the day.

I glance over his shoulder at the boy struggling with our luggage, trying to keep up. “You’re tormenting that poor boy.”

Daltyn grunts. “He deserves it. He hurt you.”

“I’m fine. I’m not made of glass. I’ve been through much worse.”

“I know. But you also deserve a break.” He grins at me, and the air leaves my lungs. “I’m the break life’s finally giving you.” He winks, then turns his head, navigating through traffic with me in his arms like I weigh nothing.

He winked.

Freaking winked at me.

Thank goodness he’s carrying me, or I might be on my ass right now. No way are my legs strong enough to survive that.

It isn’t until he sets me on the passenger seat in his Cadillac Escalade and leans over me, clicking my seat belt into place, that my brain registers the warning again.

Living with this man is a very bad idea.

Even if it’s only temporary.

For one thing, I’d like to drag my tongue up the side of his neck just to taste him.

For another, his vehicle smells like cedar, leather, and bad decisions.

Or maybe that’s him.

He pauses and looks at me. “Behave, Peyton.”

Then he grins, steps back, and shuts the door, leaving me in here sweating, my stomach flip-flopping.

Oh, God.

Is he a mind reader?

The luggage is tossed in the back. Voices float through the open trunk, but I don’t hear them. I’m too busy having an existential crisis.

When Daltyn climbs in beside me and starts the vehicle, I glance at him, my fingers digging into the seat to hide the way they’re shaking.

“Behave? What’s that mean?” My voice shakes, betraying me.

He glances at me, amused, then hands me my shoe. “What do you think it means?”

Oh, no.

We aren’t doing that .

I release the death grip on the seat and take my shoe from him. “I don’t know.”

He backs out of the space without saying a word. Every second feels like a bomb about to detonate.

“What does it mean?” My voice is shrill.

He glances at me. “It means, stop fighting me when I’m trying to help you.”

The light turns green, and he accelerates, turning onto the highway.

“Do you want a coffee?” he asks, like he didn’t just make me speechless and tick me off.

I sigh, staring at my pretty shoe, then down at my swollen ankle “Yeah.”

Damn. I sound pitiful.

“Prop it on the dash.”

I glance over at him. He’s frowning at my ankle.

Without a word, I lift it, trying not to moan in pain. The damn thing hurts like hell.

“Good girl.” His voice is low and raspy, sending goosebumps racing across my skin. Again.

I don’t say anything.

I can’t.

Not while my panties are wet from his words.

I’m terrified that if I open my mouth, I’ll offer myself to him on a damn silver platter.