36. Daltyn
DALTYN
I would rather take a slapshot to the throat than participate in media day. Unfortunately for me, the Green Mountain Avalanche organization disagrees.
“Smile, Guyer.”
“No.”
The photographer sighs loudly from behind the camera. “You look like you’re being held hostage.”
“I am.”
Connor nearly falls off the stool beside me, laughing.
“Can you at least pretend to enjoy being here?” the photographer asks.
“I’d rather not.”
“Jesus Christ,” Cole mutters from nearby. “You really do hate happiness.”
Ford adjusts the collar of his team polo calmly. “No. He hates people.”
“Accurate,” Jake says.
The photographer pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Let’s try this again.” He points toward me. “Less serial killer. ”
Connor gasps dramatically. “Impossible. That’s his default setting.”
I stare blankly ahead while camera flashes go off around me.
This is hell.
Bright lights. Too many people. Too much noise.
And somehow every single person here keeps looking at me like I’m carrying state secrets in my hockey bag.
Which, apparently, I am. And her name is Peyton Sinclair.
A PR assistant rushes across the room holding a clipboard. “Okay, guys. We’re splitting into interview groups now.”
Connor points at me. “Daltyn requested a private room because he misses his girlfriend.”
“I requested noise-canceling headphones so I don’t have to hear you breathe.”
“See?” Connor says to the PR girl. “He’s flirting now.”
Ford physically drags Connor away before I can murder him on camera.
The second I sit down at the interview table, I know I’m fucked. Three reporters already have their phones open. And judging from their whispered comments, they are extremely curious about my “relationship” with Peyton.
Jesus Christ.
I lean back in the chair, already irritated.
The first few questions are normal enough. They ask questions about training camp. Conditioning. Team chemistry. How the team is doing . How I feel about Easton joining the roster.
Easy, safe questions.
Then one reporter smiles, and I tense, knowing what’s coming .
“So,” she says, “how’s Peyton handling all the attention?”
I tense.
They say her name like she belongs in the conversation.
“She’s fine,” I answer shortly.
Another reporter jumps in. “The internet seems pretty obsessed with you two.”
I stare at him.
“I noticed,” I say flatly.
A few awkward chuckles ripple through the room.
I don’t laugh. None of this is funny.
Not when Peyton’s getting threats from strangers online. Not when people are dissecting every photo of her like she belongs to them.
“The fans seem convinced things are serious between you two,” another reporter says carefully. “Would you say that’s accurate?”
Something low and dangerous twists in my chest. The problem is, I don’t know how to answer that anymore.
My silence stretches a second too long.
One reporter actually leans forward. “Daltyn?”
I exhale slowly through my nose. “The attention wasn’t her choice,” I say flatly. “People should remember that.”
The room quiets.
Good. Maybe now they’ll back off.
Another reporter glances down at her notes. “There’s been a lot of speculation online since your interview. Especially after the ‘she’s with me’ comment.”
Connor starts choking somewhere behind the cameras.
Traitorous bastard.
I ignore him.
“Were you surprised by the reaction?” the reporter asks.
“Yes. ”
“Why?”
Because I didn’t realize how obvious it had become. Because I didn’t realize how protective I sounded until I watched the clip later. Because hearing another man talk about Peyton wakes something violent inside me.
Instead, I shrug once. “I don’t pay attention to that stuff.”
“That’s hard to believe considering social media basically exploded.”
I stare at him blankly. “It’s easier when you hate social media.”
That earns a few more laughs.
Again, I don’t laugh.
Another reporter smiles carefully. “Fans are calling Peyton ‘Mrs. Goalie’ online.”
My jaw tightens. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Thoughts on that?”
Connor makes a wheezing noise somewhere in the background.
I’m going to kill him. Slowly. Painfully.
“I think people online should get hobbies.”
That actually gets a bigger laugh.
One reporter lifts her brows. “You seem protective of her.”
Protective. That’s one word for it.
I glance briefly toward the floor before answering. “She didn’t ask for any of this.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
The room stills slightly again.
Then another question comes, sharp and too personal. “Do you think the relationship will affect your performance this season?”
Something cold flashes through me. I know exactly what the question means.
Distraction. Weakness. Problem. Like Peyton is something damaging.
My expression hardens. “No.”
The reporter opens his mouth again, but I cut him off before he can say a word.
“Hockey’s hockey,” I say evenly. “Peyton has nothing to do with that.”
Except she has everything to do with it. That’s the terrifying part.
Another reporter jumps in quickly before the tension gets worse.
“You’ve always been pretty private. Has it been difficult having your personal life become such a public topic?”
Yes. More than you realize.
Peyton was never supposed to become visible.
She was supposed to be safe. Untouched by this world. Especially from people like my father and Landon. From people who consume women and spit them back out for entertainment.
Instead, the entire internet suddenly knows her name. And somehow that feels unbearable.
I lean back in the chair slowly. “I care whether she’s okay,” I say finally.
The room goes still enough that I realize too late what I just admitted.
Fuck.
Connor audibly whispers, “Oh my God.”
The reporters immediately start talking over each other.
“Daltyn—”
“Can you elaborate on?—”
“Would you say you’re in love with?— ”
I stand up. This interview is over. “Thanks, guys.”
“Daltyn—”
I’m already walking away.
The PR assistant jogs beside me the second I step out of the media area.
“Well,” she says carefully. “That clip is definitely going viral.”
Fantastic.
Exactly what I wanted.
I scrub a hand over my face while Connor catches up to me.
“You said you care whether she’s okay,” he whispers dramatically.
“I’m going to hit you with my car.”
Connor clutches his chest. “You’re in LOVE.”
Ford walks past us, shaking his head. “You basically handed the internet engagement rings.”
I ignore all of them.
Suddenly, all I want to do is leave.
Go home.
See Peyton.
Make sure she’s okay before the internet tears apart every word I just said.