53. Daltyn
DALTYN
I regret agreeing to this charity event.
There are balloons everywhere.
Children are running in every direction like tiny caffeinated tornadoes while Blizzard—the Avalanche mascot—dances near a bounce house in a way that honestly feels medically concerning.
And Connor somehow has a microphone. Which should probably violate several laws.
“WELCOME,” he shouts dramatically across the crowded community center parking lot, “TO THE FIRST ANNUAL AVALANCHE FAMILY FUN DAY!”
Jake snorts beside me. “We had one last year.”
Connor points at him. “NEGATIVITY.”
I drag a hand down my face.
Beside me, Peyton laughs softly. The sound cuts through my irritation like sunlight.
She’s wearing one of my navy sweatshirts again with leggings and a pair of sneakers. Her golden hair falls loose around her shoulders.
She looks like she belongs here .
That realization hits me harder than expected.
Fans wave as we move through the event area.
Kids rush toward the players holding mini sticks and jerseys.
Parents hover nearby, trying to act normal while secretly freaking out.
And through all of it? Peyton stays beside me.
“Can I get your autograph?” a little girl asks shyly, holding out a jersey almost bigger than she is.
I crouch slightly to take it from her. “What’s your name?”
“Mia.”
I sign carefully before handing it back.
“Thanks, Guyer,” she whispers like I just handed her the moon.
Something in my chest tightens unexpectedly.
Beside me, Peyton smiles softly while watching the interaction.
And Christ. Her expression alone nearly ruins me.
Connor appears suddenly at my shoulder like an emotionally unstable raccoon.
“She’s looking at you like you rescued puppies from a burning building.”
“Go away.”
“No.”
Peyton laughs again.
A few minutes later, Harper pulls Peyton toward one of the craft tables where kids are painting mini hockey pucks.
I watch her go, already feeling the loss of her beside me.
The realization hits a second later. I’m watching her leave. Like some instinct inside me constantly tracks where she is.
Ford notices, too, unfortunately. “You’re staring at her. ”
“No I’m not.”
“Bullshit.”
I roll my eyes but don’t say anything else. I don’t particularly enjoy how accurate he is.
Across the event space, Peyton kneels beside a little boy, helping him hold a paintbrush steady while he paints what appears to be an extremely aggressive stick-figure goalie. Her laugh carries faintly through the noise.
The entire scene does something dangerous to my chest. Because suddenly I can picture this too easily.
Peyton here. With me. Permanently.
The thought hits hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.
Before I can spiral further, movement near one of the folding tables catches my attention.
A little boy stands alone, clutching a juice box against his chest. He looks to be around seven years old. His eyes flick over the scene, panic lining his face. And when he shifts, his sleeve slides up.
My jaw clenches as I see the bruises. Fingerprints line one small wrist.
Ice floods through my bloodstream.
Every sound around me dulls. The smile disappears from my face.
I know those bruises.
I know what fingers pressed too hard look like.
I automatically move toward him.
The kid startles slightly when I crouch in front of him.
“Hey.”
His eyes dart downward, fear on his face.
Something old and ugly shifts violently inside my chest. “What happened to your wrist? ”
The boy freezes. “Nothing.” The lie comes automatically.
And suddenly I’m not standing at a charity event anymore.
I’m ten years old again.
Watching my father slam a beer bottle against the kitchen wall while my mother flinches.
Rough hands grab a hold of me, leaving marks on my skin.
Hearing the words, “Don’t tell anybody.”
Not just a threat, but a promise of more pain if I do.
My jaw tightens hard enough to hurt. “Did somebody grab you?”
The kid’s breathing changes slightly, becoming faster. His round eyes are panicked.
Before he can answer, a man appears behind him suddenly. He’s large, with broad shoulders and dark hair.
“Ethan.” He puts his hand on his shoulder.
The boy jerks at the contact.
Fear flashes across his face before it disappears so fast that most people probably wouldn’t notice.
But I notice.
Oh, I fucking notice.
The man smiles too quickly when he sees me.
“Sorry about that,” he says casually while gripping the kid’s shoulder. “He wanders.”
My entire body goes rigid because I saw the kid flinch.
And something inside me snaps quietly in half.
“You’re hurting him.” The words come out flat. Cold.
The man’s smile flickers slightly. “Excuse me?”
Ethan’s breathing turns shallow. Panicked.
I know that look.
Jesus Christ, I know that look .
My pulse pounds harder as old memories claw their way up my throat.
My father’s hand wrapped around my arm hard enough to bruise.
My mother sobbing behind locked bathroom doors.
The sound of glass shattering.
“You heard me,” I say evenly.
The man laughs like I’m overreacting. “He bruises easily.”
Bullshit.
Ethan flinches again when the man’s fingers flex against his shoulder. It’s a tiny movement, barely noticeable, but I see it.
Rage slides cold and sharp through my bloodstream.
Around us, the sounds of the charity event continue. Children laugh. Music plays. Connor yells something about raffle tickets.
But all of it feels distant now. Muted.
All I can see is a scared little boy trying to disappear inside himself.
And I remember exactly what that felt like.
“Take your hand off him.”
The man’s expression hardens. “You got a problem?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out rougher this time. More dangerous. “I do.”
The guy straightens slightly, puffing himself up. “I’m his father.”
The second the words leave his mouth, Ethan visibly goes still.
Fear.
Pure fucking fear.
My vision sharpens dangerously.
And that old rage ?
It surges higher.
“You don’t grab kids hard enough to leave bruises,” I say.
The man scoffs. “Mind your own business.”
I step closer before I can stop myself.
Suddenly, my skin feels too tight, and my chest feels full of broken glass, and all I can think about is someone should’ve stopped my father, too.
Someone should’ve fucking done something.
“Daltyn.” Ford’s voice comes from behind me.
I barely hear him.
The man notices the other players approaching and shifts uncomfortably.
Connor steps up beside Ford, his usual grin completely gone. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” the father says quickly.
Bullshit.
Ethan’s eyes dart toward me again.
And then, he takes one tiny step sideways, closer to me.
The movement nearly stops my heart.
Abused kids know exactly what safety looks like. Even when they’ve barely experienced it.
Behind Ford and Connor, I spot Peyton moving toward us.
Her eyes lock on mine. Concern flashes across her face.
And suddenly I become horribly aware of myself.
My clenched fists. My rapid breathing. The rage burning just under my skin.
Don’t scare her. The thought cuts through the fury hard enough to ground me slightly.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
The father grips Ethan’s shoulder again. “We’re leaving. ”
Ethan flinches again.
Jesus Christ.
Every instinct inside me screams not to let them walk away.
But before I can move, one of the event coordinators rushes over nervously. “Everything okay over here?”
The father forces another fake smile. “Fine.”
Coward.
Connor steps slightly closer to me. Like he knows exactly how close I am to losing my shit.
The father starts steering Ethan through the crowd.
He glances back at me one last time. And I see the fear again. Followed by a brief flare of hope before confusion sets in.
The same look I used to wear when adults noticed bruises but looked away anyway.
Something twists violently in my chest.
Beside me, Peyton’s fingers slide carefully into my hand.
The contact should calm me down.
Instead, it nearly wrecks me completely.
All I can think about is Ethan.
Because I know exactly what he’s going home to tonight.