46. Daltyn
DALTYN
I hate media days.
Too many cameras. Too many questions. Too many people trying to turn every sentence into a headline.
Unfortunately, training camp means I’m stuck doing one anyway.
“You look thrilled,” Connor says beside me as we walk through the lower-level hallway beneath Summit Arena.
“I’m thinking about faking my own death.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“You’ve met reporters.”
Connor grins. “True.”
A staff member waves us toward a curtained media backdrop set up near one of the smaller event rooms. Players rotate through stations while cameras flash and interviewers wait with microphones already in hand.
My patience evaporates.
Then I glance toward the private lounge area off to the side and see Peyton sitting on one of the couches.
The tension in my chest eases .
She looks up from her phone the second she notices me watching. Her expression softens.
Mine probably mirrors it.
Connor notices, unfortunately. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “You literally relaxed.”
“Shut up.”
“She’s your emotional support blonde.”
I glare at him.
Connor looks delighted by this information.
Beside Peyton, Harper snorts into her coffee while Allie outright laughs.
Peyton tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, looking faintly amused as I walk closer. “You surviving?” she asks.
“Barely.”
She smiles softly.
And Christ, that smile does dangerous things to me.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell her quietly.
The words come out automatically, even though some selfish part of me desperately wants her here.
Peyton’s brows pull together slightly. “Do you want me to leave?”
"No," I say without hesitation.
Something softens in her expression. “Then I’ll stay.”
Fuck.
Connor makes a choking sound behind me. “I need everyone to understand,” he says loudly, “that our goalie just asked a girl to stay for media day.”
“Connor,” Ford warns.
“No, because this is historic.”
I ignore him completely. Mostly because Peyton’s trying not to smile right now, and the sight of it is wrecking my ability to function normally.
A staff member calls my name. I sigh heavily.
“Go be famous,” Peyton says teasingly.
I stare at her for a second too long before leaning down over her. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Maybe.” Her eyes hold mine for another second.
Then I force myself to walk toward the media setup before I do something reckless in front of half the organization.
The interviews blur together after that.
Questions. Flashbulbs. Microphones shoved in my face.
“How’s camp feeling this year?”
“Thoughts on the new defensive pairings?”
“Expectations for the season?”
I answer automatically. Controlled. Short. Professional.
But every few minutes, my eyes drift toward the lounge. Toward Peyton.
And every single time, she’s watching me.
Sometimes giving me an encouraging smile. Other times, laughing at something Harper or Allie says.
Once she catches me staring and lifts a brow, like she knows exactly what I'm doing.
It throws me completely off balance.
“You seem to be in a good mood today,” one reporter says carefully.
Connor snorts loud enough nearby that I hear it from across the room.
Asshole.
“I’m always in a good mood,” I deadpan.
Several players burst out laughing behind the cameras.
Even Peyton covers her mouth, trying to hide her smile.
The reporter looks terrified.
Nearly an hour later, I finally escape the last interview station.
The second I step away from the cameras, my eyes find Peyton automatically. Like they’ve been doing it my entire fucking life instead of a few weeks.
She’s already standing when I reach her. “You finished?”
“Thankfully.”
Her smile widens slightly.
And just like that?
The entire day stops feeling exhausting.