30. Daltyn
DALTYN
The cabin is quiet when my phone buzzes against the kitchen counter.
Peyton’s in the shower, and I’ve been trying to distract myself from thoughts of her naked, water beading over her skin. Blood keeps flowing south, leaving me with a painful erection.
I glance automatically toward the hallway before grabbing the phone. It’s Brent, my agent.
Anxiety tightens in my chest.
This can’t be good.
I answer as I head for the back deck. “What’s up?”
“Good morning to you, too,” Brent says dryly.
I grunt.
There’s a pause before his tone shifts into business mode. “We’ve got a situation.”
Cold dread settles low in my stomach. “What now?”
“We’re getting hammered with media requests already. Training camp hasn’t even started, and hockey social media is acting like you secretly got married.”
Jesus Christ .
I pinch the bridge of my nose and stare out at the trees behind the cabin. “Tell them to fuck off.”
“Can’t.”
“Watch me.”
“Daltyn.” That one word carries years of exhausted agent patience.
I exhale sharply.
Brent keeps going before I can interrupt. “The airport photos blew up. Then the lingerie store photos hit. Now people are connecting Peyton to Landon Cross, and sports blogs are sniffing around trying to figure out whether she’s his ex.”
My entire body goes rigid. “What?”
“Relax,” Brent says quickly. “Nothing major has surfaced yet.”
Yet. The word slams into me like a body check.
“She’s not part of this,” I bite out.
“I know. Which is exactly why we need to get ahead of it before the media turns it into a circus.”
I pace the deck slowly, my shoulders tense.
“I’m setting up a five-minute Zoom interview this afternoon with a couple of reporters. Team PR. Easy.”
“No.”
“It’s happening.”
I glare out at the woods like Brent’s physically standing in front of me. “I’m not dragging Peyton into this shit.”
“Then don’t.” Brent sighs. “Just smile. Be vague. Don’t swear.”
“Got it.”
A beat passes.
“Mostly.”
Brent groans softly. “Jesus Christ.”
“You knew what you signed up for. ”
“Unfortunately.”
I end the call and stand there for another minute trying to get myself under control.
Protect. Control. Contain.
Every instinct inside me is screaming.
This isn’t just hockey gossip anymore.
It's Peyton.
And the idea of strangers digging into her life makes something ugly twist inside my chest.
The back door slides open softly behind me.
I turn to find Peyton standing there wearing one of my sweatshirts, sleep still lingering in her eyes.
My chest tightens.
This is so damn dangerous.
“Everything okay?” she asks softly.
No. Not even remotely.
But I nod anyway. “My agent, Brent, called.”
Her expression shifts. “Uh-oh.”
I huff out the closest thing to a laugh I can manage. “Apparently, we’ve become entertainment for the entire hockey world.”
Peyton winces slightly. “Sorry.”
The apology pisses me off.
I step closer before I can stop myself. “None of this is your fault.”
Her eyes search mine carefully. “Then why do you look like you want to fight someone?”
Because I do.
Instead, I drag a hand through my hair. “Brent scheduled a Zoom thing later. Trying to calm the media down before training camp.”
Her brows lift. “A press conference?”
“Basically. ”
“You hate press.”
“I hate people.”
That gets a small smile out of her.
Worth it.
“What are they gonna ask?” she asks carefully.
I hold her gaze for a second too long.
“Questions... about you.”
Her smile fades slightly.
Guilt claws through my chest.
Fuck.
I step closer without thinking, my hand instinctively settling against her waist. “I’m not gonna let them turn you into some headline,” I say quietly.
Something shifts in her expression, her eyes softening as she stares at me like I’m her hero.
And that somehow scares me more than the media ever could.
Ten minutes before the Zoom meeting starts, I’m already irritated.
Peyton sits across from me at the kitchen island, sipping coffee while I glare at my laptop like it personally offends me.
“You look homicidal,” she informs me.
“I feel like I am.”
“That’s probably frowned upon during interviews.”
I grunt.
The Zoom connects, and my screen fills with too many faces. PR people. Reporters. And Brent. All staring at me like I’m a bomb they’re hoping won’t explode .
Brent adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. “Everybody ready?”
No. Absolutely not.
But I nod, knowing nobody gives a shit that I’m not remotely ready for this.
“Okay,” Brent says professionally. “We’re just doing a few quick questions regarding offseason coverage before training camp begins.”
One reporter smiles too widely. “Daltyn, thanks for joining us.”
I nod once.
“Fans have been very interested in the recent photos circulating online. Particularly the woman you were seen leaving Burlington International Airport with.”
My jaw tightens.
Keep it together.
“She’s a friend,” I say evenly. “She’s staying with me temporarily after her apartment building was destroyed during the hurricane in Florida.”
Another reporter cuts in quickly. “And that friend would be Peyton Sinclair?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting,” the first reporter says. “There have also been rumors linking Ms. Sinclair to former NHL player Landon Cross. Given Cross’s recent arrest, are those rumors accurate?”
My pulse spikes. “No.”
“So the two of them are no longer involved?”
“Correct.” The question scrapes across my nerves like skates against concrete.
I feel Peyton’s eyes on me from across the kitchen. But I don’t make eye contact with her.
The reporter keeps talking. “Some fans have expressed concern over whether Ms. Sinclair may still be connected to Cross while he awaits trial?—”
Something inside me snaps clean in half. “She’s not. She’s with me.”
The Zoom goes silent.
The words hang there, heavy and absolute. Something I can’t take back.
My brain catches up half a second too late.
Oh, fuck.
Every face on the screen freezes.
Brent looks like he just watched a car crash in slow motion.
The reporter blinks once. “So… it’s official?”
Realization slams into me like a puck to the ribs. “Wait. That’s not what I?—”
Too late.
Excited murmurs fill my ears before everyone thanks me for my time. The reporters disappear one by one.
The second the final reporter vanishes, Brent drags both hands down his face.
“Well,” he says finally. “Congratulations, Guyer. You just hard-launched your relationship to the entire hockey world.”
I groan and slump back in my chair. “Can we spin it?”
“Nope.”
My eyes close briefly.
“We’re leaning into it,” Brent continues. “‘Avalanche Goaltender Daltyn Guyer Confirms Relationship with Peyton Sinclair.’ Give it twenty minutes. It’ll be everywhere.”
Fantastic.
Just fucking fantastic.
I drag a hand through my hair. “What was supposed to be a five-minute cleanup interview somehow turned into a relationship reveal.”
Brent points at me through the screen. “To be fair, I specifically told you not to emotionally malfunction in public.”
“I didn’t emotionally malfunction.”
“You practically beat your chest and announced she was yours.”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
Because honestly? That’s exactly what it sounded like.
Brent sighs heavily. “I’ll call you later after the internet loses its collective mind.”
He exits the Zoom meeting.
Silence settles over the kitchen.
Slowly, I lift my head.
Peyton’s still sitting across from me, holding her coffee mug, watching me.
Her cheeks are pink. Blue eyes wide.
“You know,” she says carefully, “most people usually ask before announcing a relationship.”
I drop my head into my hands.
“Fuck.”