42. Peyton
PEYTON
By noon the next day, I’m officially restless.
I’ve reorganized the kitchen drawers. Folded laundry. Checked my email. Scrolled social media until I almost threw my phone into the fireplace after seeing another edit of Daltyn glaring at Tony like a homicidal lumberjack.
Now I’m pacing the cabin in leggings and one of Daltyn’s sweatshirts like a feral Victorian widow waiting for her husband to return from war.
Which is ridiculous. Training camp is twenty minutes away.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Allie: Emergency yoga session. You, me, Harper. We’ll come rescue you from the cabin before you emotionally spiral into the forest.
My lips twitch.
Me: Too late. I’m already halfway there mentally.
Harper: We’re picking you up in twenty.
Thank God.
Because if I watch one more slow-motion TikTok edit of Daltyn calling me his girlfriend, I may genuinely lose my mind.
By the time Allie’s SUV pulls into the driveway, I’ve changed into black leggings and a fitted long-sleeve top. My hair is twisted into a messy bun while I shove my phone into my bag and walk down the porch steps carefully.
Allie rolls down the passenger-side window. “Wow. You look like the emotionally conflicted heroine in a hockey romance novel.”
I stick my tongue out at them. “I hate you bitches.”
Harper snorts from the driver’s seat. “No, you don’t. Now get in.”
Unfortunately, she’s right.
The second I climb into the SUV, the chaos begins.
“So,” Allie says as Harper backs down the driveway, “how many times have you watched the coffee shop video?”
“I don’t want to answer that.”
Harper gasps dramatically. “That many?”
I fidget.
“He called you his girlfriend in public,” Allie says.
“I know.”
“And then followed you into the bathroom.”
“I’m aware.” Heat floods my face as I turn toward the window.
Harper presses a hand to her chest. “Honestly? If a six-foot-two NHL goalie publicly threatened another man over me, I’d simply pass away.”
My face burns hotter. “You’re married to the team captain and one of the star players on the team. ”
She sighs. “I know.”
Allie grins. “Connor replayed the video six times last night while laughing so hard he cried.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“He said Daltyn looked like he was about to challenge the barista to a duel.”
That’s accurate.
The yoga studio sits near the edge of downtown Burlington between a bookstore and a little bakery overflowing with pumpkins and fall wreaths.
The second we step inside, warmth wraps around me.
Soft music drifts through the studio while candles flicker along the walls. The entire place smells faintly like eucalyptus and lavender.
It’s peaceful. Calming. Exactly what I need.
We grab mats near the back corner and get settled. Harper stretches beside me, her eyes on me.
“You know,” she says casually, “the internet thinks you and Daltyn are basically married now.”
“I’m aware.”
“There are edits.”
“I KNOW.”
“There’s one set to a Taylor Swift song.”
I glare at her.
Harper grins innocently.
The instructor walks into the room smiling serenely. “Welcome, everyone. Let’s settle into our space and release all outside stress?—”
The studio door SLAMS open.
Every head turns .
Oh no.
Gram struts inside wearing skin-tight black yoga pants with NAMASTE written across the ass in giant pink sequins. She’s also wearing a matching glittery headband, oversized sunglasses, and a tank top that says BENDY & HORNY.
I choke on air.
Allie takes one look at her and folds in half, laughing, her forehead on the mat.
Harper grabs my arm, looking mortified. “Gram,” she hisses loudly. “What are you doing here?”
She shrugs like it’s obvious. “Got banned from my last class. Something about ‘disrupting the sacred energy’ when I tried to drop into a split to prove a point.” A grin curls her lips. “I farted and ripped my pants.”
I duck my head, trying hard not to howl with laughter.
“There she is!” Gram yells. I lift my head and groan from the glint in her eyes. I want the floor to swallow me whole.
The instructor blinks rapidly, as if she isn’t quite sure what to do with Gram. Which is valid, honestly.
The entire class stares at Gram like she's an alien who crash-landed directly into the yoga studio.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Gram marches across the studio, carrying a leopard-print yoga mat under one arm. “Oh, good,” she says loudly. “You saved me a spot.”
“I absolutely did not.”
Gram ignores me and drops her mat directly beside mine.
The instructor clears her throat carefully. “Welcome…”
“Lucinda,” Gram says proudly. “But my friends call me flexible.” She beams at the bewildered instructor. “I brought my own mat. And snacks.”
Harper groans. “You can’t eat during yoga.”
She unrolls her mat and pulls a granola bar from her bra, ignoring her.
Harper makes a strangled noise.
Allie is laughing so hard she’s crying into her yoga mat.
I’m going to die here.
The instructor looks like she regrets every life decision that led her to this moment.
She claps her hands and begins the class. “Let’s start with some deep breathing.”
Everyone inhales.
Gram exhales loud enough to shake the windows. “Namaste means your energy greets my energy,” Gram loudly whispers to me.
“I know, Gram.”
“I think your goalie greets you with his tongue.”
I nearly faceplant on my mat. “Gram!” I hiss.
Harper collapses onto the floor, laughing.
“What?” she whispers loudly. “I saw the bathroom videos online. That man looked downright biblical coming out of there.”
The instructor glances toward us nervously.
I bury my face in my hands. This is my villain origin story.
The instructor clears her throat delicately. “Let’s begin in child’s pose.”
Gram claps her hands. “Let’s get bendy, bitches.”
One woman gasps. Several people flinch.
We move through poses—or at least, we try to. Every time the instructor says flow with your breath , Gram grunts like she’s deadlifting furniture .
At one point, she falls out of downward dog and blames the “slippery energy of Mercury.”
By the time we reach savasana, the instructor’s forehead vein is pulsing. “Now,” she whispers, “find stillness. Release all negativity.”
Gram raises a hand.
“Yes?” the instructor asks cautiously.
“I’m trying,” Gram says. “But Peyton’s goalie keeps glaring at people like he’s one bad day away from homicide.”
The entire class erupts in laughter.
I seriously contemplate fleeing into the Vermont wilderness.
“Now,” the instructor says, “inhale slowly, filling your lungs?—”
“Filled mine with tequila last night," Gram chirps. "Same thing, right?”
Dear God. Would the floor open up and swallow me?
Somehow? It gets worse.
Twenty minutes later, the studio door opens again.
My heart stops the second I spot him.
Daltyn stands there, wearing a pair of sweatpants and an Avalanche sweatshirt. He’s massive, broody, and still sweaty from practice. And somehow even hotter than usual.
Every woman in the studio visibly straightens.
His eyes meet mine.
Gram gasps dramatically. “THERE’S HER MAN!”
Oh my God.
Daltyn closes his eyes briefly, as if questioning his existence. Then he walks toward me anyway.
We are sitting cross-legged, our hands pressed together.
“Namaste,” the instructor says.
“Namaste,” the class answers .
The room practically vibrates with female interest as he stops beside my mat. “Fun class?”
I stare at him like he’s lost his mind.
His eyes narrow slightly. “You okay?”
“Gram’s here.”
He smirks, glancing over at her. “I noticed.”
He glances toward Gram, proudly standing there with her hip jutting out, showing off her sequined ass slogan. “Why does her ass say namaste?”
Harper practically falls over laughing.
“Because she’s Gram.”
She rolls her mat and steps closer to us. “So, when’s the wedding?” she asks, her voice echoing around the room.
“Gram!” I shout, mortified.
But she has no shame. “What? I’m already looking at leopard print bridesmaid dresses. They’re slimming.”
Daltyn looks visibly uncomfortable. He runs a hand through his hair, avoiding everyone’s eyes.
“You ready?” he asks me.
Meanwhile, every woman in a ten-foot radius looks ready to risk it all.
“Yes,” I squeak. “Let’s get out of here.”
I grab his arm, pulling him behind me like I’m fleeing a burning building.
So much for finding peace through yoga.