40. Peyton
PEYTON
I blink against the morning sunlight streaming through the large, glass windows. I raise my hand, shielding my eyes, wondering why I’m on the couch.
Then it hits me.
Last night, I was curled up against Daltyn and must’ve fallen asleep.
He was so warm and comfortable. I felt safer than I have in a very long time.
I stretch my arms over my head, then search for my phone. My fingertips graze it on the small table beside the couch.
I curl my fingers around it and squint at the screen, trying to see what time it is. There's a text from Daltyn waiting for me, and warmth spreads through my chest when I read it.
Daltyn: Good morning. You fell asleep on the couch. I was too afraid of waking you so I stayed there. Hope you’re not sore.
Daltyn: Also, the coffee is ready. Just hit the button and it’ll brew
I blow out a breath, butterflies swarming in my stomach.
He’s so thoughtful. And super sweet.
He stayed cramped on the couch all night instead of carrying me to my room because he didn’t want to wake me. The man, built like a six-foot-two brick wall, sacrificed his spine for me without hesitation.
My chest aches at the thought.
With a smile, I respond.
Me: Thank you for staying with me. I hope you’re not sore from sleeping on the couch. Have a great day at training camp. Thanks for getting the coffee ready.
I hit send, and a notification pops up.
But it’s not from Daltyn.
It’s not a text, either.
It’s an Instagram reel.
Holding my breath, I click on it. My eyes widen as I watch the clip of what happened in the coffee shop, beginning with Tony leaning over me, then Daltyn bursting inside and stomping toward the table Allie and I were sitting at, his jaw clenched, fists balled at his sides.
He was a man on a mission as he stormed in, then stopped behind Tony.
He looked like an impenetrable wall as he glowered at the back of Tony’s head, then growled, “Get the fuck away from my girlfriend.”
My stomach flips as I watch him.
God. The way he publicly claimed me does something dangerous to my heart .
Heat rushes through me all over again.
I watch it again… and again.
Daltyn could’ve laughed it off. Could’ve called me a friend.
Instead, he looked the barista in the eye and called me his girlfriend in a coffee shop like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then I see a notification from TikTok.
I click on it, watching a video of the same scene, only someone slowed this one down. It’s even hotter than the first one I watched.
My face is flushed as I go to the comments section. And it only gets worse when I read them.
THE WAY HE SAID MY GIRLFRIEND!?!?! HOT!!!
I would’ve folded instantly.
That barista just survived a near-death experience.
Not him following her into the bathroom after. Lucky bitch
Green Mountain Avalanche goalie Daltyn Guyer seen exhibiting concerning levels of possessiveness
I’m internally combusting as I read each of the feral comments, feeling like the luckiest woman on the planet because Daltyn called me his girlfriend.
And he never retracted it, although we spent the entire day and night together.
I gaze out the window, feeling way too comfortable here. Wishing I’d never have to leave, but deep down, knowing this is temporary.
I’m living in denial. And yeah, I’m staying here a bit longer.
My phone is blowing up with notifications when I finally tear my gaze from the window, forcing thoughts of me sitting in the stands as his actual girlfriend away .
Good lord.
I’m tagged in videos and photos on social media. A few of them show Daltyn and me exiting the coffee shop, hand-in-hand. Our hair is mussed, clearly indicating that what we were doing in the bathroom wasn’t innocent. At all.
My face is on fire as I read through more comments. I stare at photos where I look dazed and flushed, post-orgasm glow impossible to hide, while Daltyn smirks like a man who knows exactly how to please a woman. Videos where we look very cozy and comfortable, like we are actually a couple.
And it makes me… happy. Yet sad.
Because the truth is, this isn’t real.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Daltyn: Ignore the internet today if it gets overwhelming.
I bite my lip, holding my phone against my chest.
This is fake. It’s not real.
But it’s so hard to remember that when we’re cooking and laughing together.
When we stare at each other while eating with goofy smiles, until one of us throws something at the other.
When I curl up on the couch in his arms, he puts the blanket over me without asking.
Because he doesn’t need to. He knows when I’m cold.
A long, mournful sigh escapes as I study a picture of his handsome face. My finger caresses his jawline on the screen of my phone.
I’m in trouble.
Big, big trouble.