44. Peyton
PEYTON
I stare at myself in the mirror for way too long.
This is ridiculous. It’s a scrimmage, not the Met Gala.
Still, I tug nervously at the sleeves of the oversized Avalanche hoodie stretched over my leggings. Daltyn bought it for me two days ago after we went to Pine & Steam. Which somehow feels more dangerous.
The navy fabric hangs low enough to cover part of my hands while the Avalanche logo stretches across my chest.
There’s a knock on my door. My stomach flips.
Calm down. You’re acting like you’re going on a date.
This absolutely is not a date.
Right?
I slowly turn from the mirror and open my bedroom door.
Daltyn stands there wearing dark joggers, an Avalanche quarter-zip, and a backward baseball cap. My brain forgets how language works.
His eyes sweep over me once. His entire expression changes slightly.
Something warm curls low in my stomach .
“You okay?” he asks after a second.
I blink. “What?”
“You’ve been staring at me for like ten seconds.”
Heat floods my face.
“S-sorry,” I stammer, tugging at my sweatshirt.
A grin tugs briefly at his mouth.
His eyes drift back to the hoodie again. “You wore it.” The quiet satisfaction in his voice absolutely should not affect me this much.
“I figured it would help me blend in.”
His brows rise. “Peyton.”
“What?”
“You’re walking into an Avalanche arena beside me.”
Right.
Fair point.
He steps aside slightly, motioning toward the hallway. “You ready?”
Honestly? No. Not even remotely.
But I nod anyway.
The drive to Summit Arena is quiet at first. We sit in comfortable silence while soft rock music plays quietly through the speakers. Daltyn drives with one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel.
Outside, Burlington glows with autumn color beneath the cloudy afternoon sky.
I stare out the window, trying very hard not to think about how natural this feels.
Like I belong here. Like I belong with him.
This is only temporary.
I need to remember that word .
Unfortunately, Daltyn keeps making it impossible.
“You nervous?” he asks suddenly.
“A little.”
His grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel. “You’ll be with Harper and Allie.”
I glance over at him.
He says it automatically. Like making sure I feel safe matters to him.
It probably shouldn’t affect me this much.
“What if people stare?”
“They will.”
His honesty is horrifying.
Daltyn glances over briefly. “But they stare at me too.”
I snort softly. “That’s because you’re a six-foot-two NHL goalie with serial killer energy.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“Says the man who threatened a barista.”
“He leaned over you.” There’s no shame or hesitation, just pure possessive instinct.
Heat rushes through me all over again.
Good lord.
The arena comes into view a few minutes later. My stomach flips.
Summit Arena towers over the street beneath gray skies while fans stream toward the entrance wearing Avalanche jerseys and hoodies.
Cars line the surrounding lots while music and crowd noise drift through the chilly air.
“This is only a scrimmage?” I ask weakly.
Daltyn parks smoothly near the player entrance.
“Preseason gets worse.”
Oh no .
The second we step out of the SUV, people notice him immediately.
And by extension? Me.
Whispers ripple nearby. Phones appear. Someone audibly gasps, “Oh my God. It’s them.”
Panic crawls up my throat.
Daltyn’s hand settles against my lower back, warm and grounding. My breathing steadies.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
The chaos around us suddenly feels farther away. Muted. Because all I can focus on is his hand. His voice. And the fact that he’s watching me instead of the crowd.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine for another second before he nods once and guides me toward the arena doors like this is normal. Like I belong here with him.
And somehow?
That thought feels more dangerous than the entire crowd combined.
I follow Harper and Allie up the concrete stairs, trying not to stare too hard at the sheer size of Summit Arena from the inside.
We take our seats and try to chat, which feels more like yelling since the arena is already loud.
Several minutes later, there’s a cheer as the players come out of the tunnel and begin skating warm-up laps.
I realize three things:
One: Hockey fans are terrifying.
Two: Connor Byrns somehow has more energy on the ice than off it, which feels scientifically impossible.
Three: Watching Daltyn Guyer step onto the ice in full goalie gear might actually ruin my life.
Music pounds through the speakers while fans filter into the stands wearing Avalanche jerseys and hoodies. Kids press against the glass near the ice, waving signs at the players.
Cold air drifts upward from the rink.
“This is insane,” I mutter.
Harper grins beside me. “Wait until the regular season.”
Allie laughs softly. “Connor once got into a chirping match with a man dressed like a penguin mascot.”
I blink. “What?”
“He lost,” Allie says.
“I did not lose,” Connor calls suddenly from the ice.
I nearly jump.
Down below, Connor skates backward near center ice, pointing accusingly toward the stands.
“You absolutely lost,” Allie yells back.
Connor gasps dramatically before placing a hand over his heart and skating away.
I stare after him. “This team is unwell.”
“That’s actually the nicest description anyone’s ever given them,” Harper says.
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
Movement near the net catches my attention.
Daltyn.
My breath snags.
He glides backward through the crease in full practice gear, his mask briefly pushed up as he talks to another player.
Massive. Focused. Intimidating.
There’s something different about him on the ice. Something sharper.
The easy warmth from earlier disappears beneath cool concentration as he adjusts his blocker glove and taps the ice with his stick.
The arena lights gleam off the navy and white Avalanche colors stretched across his broad shoulders.
I suddenly understand why people lose their minds over hockey players.
“He gets scary goalie-focused before games,” Harper says casually beside me.
I tear my eyes away from Daltyn. “Scary?”
Allie snorts. “Connor says he turns into a feral cryptid.”
“I heard that!” Connor shouts again from the ice.
“How do you keep hearing us?” I yell.
He grins. “Supersonic hearing.”
“Unfortunately, he never shuts up,” Harper replies.
“I heard that, too,” Connor yells.
I laugh again before my gaze drifts back toward the net. Right as Daltyn looks up. Our eyes lock and hold.
Even across the ice, the shift in him is immediate. His shoulders loosen slightly, and I see the smile on his face beneath his mask.
Something warm flickers low in my stomach.
He was looking for me. Not the crowd. Me.
The realization hits hard enough to make my pulse stumble.
“Oh,” Harper says quietly beside me.
I swallow. “What?”
Harper smirks faintly. “Nothing.”
Liar.
Down below, Jake skates past Daltyn and says something through a grin. Daltyn shoves him with one gloved hand. Jake laughs harder.
Then Connor skates over .
Oh no.
Connor looks toward the stands, specifically toward me. A slow, shit-stirring grin spreads across his face.
Allie groans. “And there it is.”
“What’s he gonna do?” I ask nervously.
“Connor noticed Daltyn keeps staring up here,” Harper says.
I nearly choke on air. “He couldn’t possibly.”
Allie and Harper both just look at me. Heat floods my face.
Down on the ice, Connor says something else to Daltyn. His head snaps toward Connor.
Connor points toward the stands. At me.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Daltyn looks genuinely homicidal now.
Connor, unfortunately, looks delighted by this development.
Then the whistle blows, and the scrimmage starts.
And within the first two minutes, I realize something horrifying.
Watching Daltyn play might actually be dangerous for my mental health.