31. Peyton
PEYTON
For a solid ten seconds after Daltyn’s laptop screen goes black, neither of us says a word. Even the cabin seems to hold its breath.
Daltyn sits at the kitchen island with his head dropped into his hands, shoulders tense, elbows braced on the counter like he’s physically holding himself together.
I’m across from him, both hands wrapped around my coffee mug.
My coffee is probably cold. I haven’t taken a drink in several minutes. Mostly because my brain is still stuck on the three words he blurted out on Zoom.
“She’s with me.”
The way he said it was low, sharp, and final. Like the reporter had crossed some invisible line, and Daltyn’s entire body reacted before his brain could stop him.
I should probably be mad.
Maybe I am. A little.
He did just accidentally announce… something neither of us has actually defined yet. To sports media. On camera. While I was sitting ten feet away wearing his sweatshirt and holding coffee he made for me.
So yes, there’s definitely some panic happening.
But also, I caused chaos at Connor and Allie’s when I told his hockey teammates we were in a relationship.
I panicked and it just… came out.
So what Daltyn did… it really isn’t much different.
Right?
It’s totally different, my brain argues. He just launched your relationship publicly.
Our fake relationship.
It’s hard to be mad about it, though.
Because underneath it all? Something warm keeps spreading through my chest.
Because he didn’t hesitate.
The second they brought up Landon, something in him snapped. Not because reporters were asking about him . Not because the media was digging into his life.
Because they were digging into mine.
Daltyn finally lifts his head. His eyes find mine. “I’m sorry.” His voice is rough.
My fingers tighten around the mug. “Which part?”
His jaw flexes. “All of it.”
“That’s vague.”
“I know.”
Silence stretches between us again.
He drags a hand down his face. “I wasn’t trying to make it worse.”
“I know.”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he doesn’t believe me.
“I mean it. I know you weren’t.” I glance at the laptop. “You were trying to protect me.”
His expression tightens .
There it is. That word. Protect.
It’s written all over him. In every tense muscle. Every sharp breath. Every haunted look he thinks he hides.
He looks away first. “I should’ve handled it better.”
“Probably.”
His gaze cuts back to mine.
I shrug one shoulder. “What? You did accidentally hard-launch us to the entire hockey world.”
He winces.
I should not find that cute. I really shouldn’t.
My phone buzzes against the counter.
Then his.
Then mine again.
Then his.
We both look down.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Allie: ARE YOU OKAY??? Also… HOLY SHIT.
Then another from Harper.
Harper: Please tell me you’re breathing. Also Peyton Sinclair, official goalie whisperer, has a nice ring to it.
I choke on air.
“What?” Daltyn asks.
I hold up my phone. “Allie and Harper.”
His expression goes flat. “They know?”
“Daltyn, I think everyone knows.”
As if summoned by stupidity, his phone starts ringing. It’s Connor.
Daltyn declines it .
It rings again.
He declines it again.
Then my phone buzzes.
Connor: TELL YOUR BOYFRIEND TO ANSWER HIS PHONE.
I stare at the message.
Your boyfriend.
My stomach flips.
Which is extremely inconvenient because I’m trying very hard to be emotionally stable.
Daltyn’s phone buzzes again. Daltyn reads the messages, winces, then shows me his phone.
Jake: SHE’S WITH ME
Cole: Bro hard-launched like he was protecting state secrets.
Ford: For the record, that reporter was an asshole.
Connor: FOR THE RECORD, THAT WAS ROMANTIC AS HELL.
I press my lips together. Daltyn makes a sound like he’s being strangled.
Do not laugh.
He looks at me. “You’re smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“Well.” I lift my mug. “In my defense, they’re funny.”
“They’re assholes.”
“They’re your assholes.”
His mouth twitches. And for one second, some of the panic drains from his face .
That stupid, tiny, almost-smile hits me directly in the chest.
My phone buzzes again.
This time, it’s a notification.
Then another.
And another.
My stomach drops.
I tap the screen before I can talk myself out of it.
Big mistake.
Hockey Hub already has the clip posted.
Of course they do.
The video is only twenty-two seconds long. But it’s long enough to capture the reporter asking if I was still connected to Landon Cross. Long enough to capture Daltyn’s jaw tightening. Long enough to capture those three words leaving his mouth.
I shouldn’t play it, but I do.
Daltyn’s voice fills the kitchen, low and lethal through my tiny phone speaker. “She’s with me.”
My lungs forget how to work.
The clip ends, then loops.
I stop it quickly, but the damage is already done.
The comments are multiplying so fast, I can barely read them.
That man was ready to fight a reporter through Zoom.
Protective goalie era unlocked.
Peyton Sinclair, blink twice if you need us to buy wedding gifts.
The way he said, “She’s with me”??? I need to lie down.
Goalie Whisperer confirmed.
Landon Cross had better stay FAR away because Daltyn looks unwell.
That last one makes my stomach twist .
I know Landon can’t come after us. But the thought of all he’s done... what he did in Key West... it makes me feel ill.
Daltyn sees my expression change. “What’s wrong?”
I lock the phone. “Nothing.”
“Peyton.”
“It’s fine.”
His eyes sharpen. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend something doesn’t bother you.”
I look down at my coffee mug.
Of course, he noticed. He notices everything.
“I just don’t love strangers talking about Landon and me like they know anything.” The words come out softer than I intend.
Daltyn goes still. “They don’t know shit.”
“I know.”
“They don’t get to define what happened to you.”
My throat tightens. “I know.”
His hand closes into a fist on the counter before he forces it open again. The restraint is visible. Almost painful.
“I hate this,” he says quietly.
“Being public?”
“No.” His eyes meet mine. “That they’re putting your name anywhere near his.”
Oh. My chest squeezes hard enough to hurt.
For a second, I don’t know what to say.
Because that is the thing, isn’t it? Daltyn doesn’t care that the internet is calling him my boyfriend. He doesn’t care that his teammates are screaming. He doesn’t even really care that reporters are suddenly interested in him for something besides hockey .
He cares that my name is being dragged through a story I didn’t choose. A story I’ve been trying to survive.
And something about that realization makes my eyes sting.
“Daltyn,” I whisper.
He looks away, his jaw tight. “I’m sorry.”
“You already said that.”
“I’m still sorry.”
I stand slowly and round the island.
His gaze tracks me the whole way.
I stop beside him, close enough that my hip brushes his knee.
He turns slightly toward me. Still tense and angry, looking like he wants to physically stand between me and the entire internet.
Which is ridiculous.
And it may be the most heartbreakingly romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.
“I’m overwhelmed,” I admit.
His face tightens.
“But not because of you,” I add quickly.
He still doesn’t relax.
“I mean, partly because of you,” I say.
His brows pull together.
I sigh. “You publicly announced me as yours without asking.”
His mouth opens.
I lift a hand. “I know. You didn’t mean it that way.”
Except maybe he did. A little.
Maybe more than a little.
His silence tells me he knows it, too.
My voice softens. “But I also know why it happened.”
“Do you? ”
“Yes.” I swallow. “Because someone brought up Landon, and you lost your mind.”
His eyes close briefly.
When they open, there’s something raw there. “I don’t like hearing his name near yours.”
The words slide under my ribs and stay there.
I should back up. Make a joke. Diffuse this before it becomes too much.
Instead, I whisper, “Neither do I.”
Daltyn reaches for me slowly, like he’s giving me time to move away.
I don’t.
His hand settles on my waist, warm, steady, and possessive in a way that should scare me more than it does.
“I made this worse,” he says.
“You made it louder,” I correct softly. “That’s not the same thing.”
His thumb flexes once against his sweatshirt that I’m wearing.
His eyes drop to it, then back to my face. “I don’t want anyone hurting you.”
“I know.”
“No,” he says, his voice rough. “I don’t think you do.”
My breath catches.
The air between us changes, becoming heavy.
He looks like he wants to say more. Like the words are right there, clawing up his throat.
But then his phone starts ringing.
It’s Connor. Again.
A muscle jumps in Daltyn’s cheek.
“Answer it.”
“No.”
“Daltyn. ”
“No.”
I bite my lip. “You know they’re going to show up if you keep ignoring them, right?”
He freezes.
A second later, someone pounds on the front door hard enough to rattle the cabin walls.
BANG. BANG. BANG. “OPEN UP, LOVER BOY!” Connor’s voice carries through the wood.
Daltyn closes his eyes.
I burst out laughing.
Another voice joins him.
“WE brOUGHT CELEbrATORY DONUTS!” Cole yells.
A pause.
“Okay, regular donuts,” Jake adds. “But we can pretend they’re celebratory!”
Daltyn drops his forehead against the table with a groan.
And despite everything—the media, the fear, the public exposure, the way my life suddenly feels like it’s moving too fast again—I laugh harder.
Because somehow, in the middle of the storm, this ridiculous group of people keeps showing up.
Loud. Chaotic. Uninvited.
Daltyn lifts his head, scowling toward the door. “I’m going to kill them.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I might.”
The pounding starts again.
Then Gram’s voice booms through the door. “OPEN UP BEFORE I CLIMB THROUGH A WINDOW AND brEAK A HIP.”
“Oh my God,” I wheeze .
Daltyn stands slowly, looking like a man walking to his execution.
Before he can move away, I catch his hand. He looks down at me.
For a second, everything quiets again.
“I’m still overwhelmed,” I say softly.
His face tightens.
“But…” I take a breath. “I liked hearing you say it.”
His eyes flare.
My cheeks heat. “I probably shouldn’t.”
His voice drops. “Peyton.”
The door rattles again.
“WE CAN HEAR SEXUAL TENSION THROUGH THE DOOR,” Connor yells.
Daltyn’s eyes close.
I start laughing again.
And for the first time since the clip went live, Daltyn lets out a rough laugh, too.
Then he squeezes my hand once and heads for the door.
And my heart does something very stupid in my chest.
Because this is what scares me most. Not the media. Not the comments. Not even the fact that the entire hockey world suddenly thinks I belong to Daltyn Guyer.
It’s that part of me that likes it. Way too much.