4. Daltyn
DALTYN
Any enjoyment I get from Peyton’s shocked expression at where I live is overshadowed by her swollen ankle, which seems even puffier, despite her having it propped up during the drive home.
Home.
That word suddenly seems odd now that Peyton’s here.
Pine, oak, and cedar wrap around me as I step outside, back into the calming quiet of nature. Back to the place where I’m most comfortable.
It’s been a long time.
My boots crunch over gravel as I head to the back of my Escalade. I’d barely arrived home and settled in after the season ended when Connor, left wing for the Avalanche, contacted me about Ford Brooks’s wedding. Which was odd as hell because he wasn’t even dating anyone when the season ended.
In fact, he’d come off a break-up only to return to his grandmother’s house—affectionately nicknamed Gram—and bumped into his former girlfriend. What follows is a story so chaotic it barely sounds real, ending with the two crazy kids getting married, then taking the wedding party to Vegas.
Vegas. The place where I met Peyton.
I yank open the trunk and pull out our luggage, trying to distract myself from the fact that I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. I’m out of my element here.
I glance toward the large window and see her shadowy figure on the couch. The stubborn-as-hell blonde refused to let me take her to urgent care.
The memory of our argument makes me grin.
“I’m not going to urgent care or the ER,” she shouted, her hands clenched around her coffee cup like she was trying to keep her claws from latching onto my skin for suggesting such a thing. “It’s Saturday night. It’ll take forever to get seen.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she was on a tangent.
“I’m exhausted and just want to eat and get settled. I can rest, ice, and elevate it and see if it improves. Plus, I’m not going to inconvenience you more ? —"
“You’re not an inconvenience,” I snapped, irritated that she thinks of herself like that.
But she continued, unaffected by my outburst. “Those places are also stressful and expensive.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
She exploded. “I’m not spending six hours in an ER waiting room while homeless.”
Silence descended over us, the sound of the engine louder as I drove.
“You’re not homeless. You’re staying with me.”
“Temporarily. Which means I need to do everything possible to be prepared to be on my own again.”
I don’t know why the thought of her on her own bothered me so much. Maybe because I hated the thought of someone like her having no one to rely on. That she could be hurt or—God forbid, something even worse—and no one would know.
Or maybe I’m still not confident that Landon Cross, her psycho ex-boyfriend who played for our rival team, Seattle Vengeance, will suffer any real consequences for what he’s done. That he’ll get off with a slap on the wrist and be free to terrorize her again.
In the end, I give in and agree we’ll monitor it through the weekend and reevaluate on Monday.
Birds chirping in a nearby tree bring me back to the present.
I pull out my phone. Within minutes, I’ve ordered a gray Cam boot. I even paid for overnight shipping so she can use it tomorrow.
She’ll be happy to be weight-bearing.
With a last inhale of the calming, early September air, I close the trunk and head back inside.
As I wheel the suitcases over the sidewalk, I see glimpses of the fall colors creeping into the green of the leaves.
My favorite season is upon us—what I refer to as fall hockey season.
Only this time, I’m not going to be alone when training camp begins. Not when the regular season begins, either.
And I’m not sure how to deal with that.
The second I step inside, warmth hits me again.
And so does Peyton.
She’s still curled beneath my blanket on the sectional, sunlight pouring across her blonde hair while she scrolls through her phone. The second she notices me, she starts shifting like she’s about to stand.
“Don’t,” I warn.
Her lips flatten. “I was just going to help.”
“With what?”
“The luggage.”
I stare at her swollen ankle that I propped up on a pillow. “Absolutely not.”
Her eyes narrow in irritation as I wheel the suitcases farther into the living room.
“I’m not helpless.”
“I didn’t say you were.” I shove the handle down and point toward her foot. “But that ankle looks worse.”
She glances down like she forgot it existed. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
Peyton sighs dramatically and sinks back against the couch cushions. “You’re being intense.”
“I’m being smart.”
“You’re bossy.”
“So are you. And stubborn.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. Which weirdly feels like a victory.
I crouch in front of her and carefully add another pillow beneath her ankle to elevate it higher.
“You need to stay off it for the rest of the night.”
She opens her mouth.
“And keep it elevated,” I continue before she can argue.
“Daltyn—”
“You need to ice it.”
“I already said I would.”
“And sit on your ass.”
That gets a glare. “I need to unpack and get settled.”
“I’ll help you get settled after dinner. ”
Her brows lift. “You’re helping me unpack, too?”
The second the words leave her mouth, she tries to stand again.
Jesus Christ.
I put both hands on her hips and guide her right back onto the couch before she fully gets upright.
“I’ll help?—”
“No.”
“I’m capable of carrying my own?—”
“Peyton.”
“That tone is getting really old.”
“And watching you almost face-plant every twenty minutes is getting old for me.”
She gasps softly, like I’ve deeply offended her.
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“I just don’t want to sit here while you do everything for me.”
Something about that hits me square in the chest. Like she genuinely isn’t used to someone taking care of her.
My grip on her hips tightens slightly before I force myself to let go.
“You can survive one night on the couch while I unpack your bags.”
She crosses her arms. “No. I need to unpack?—"
“I’ll tie you to the sectional.”
She falls silent. Then her cheeks turn pink.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t enjoy that reaction as much as I do.
I think I’m in trouble.
And I’m not quite sure how to get out of it.