58. Daltyn
DALTYN
Training camp feels wrong all day.
Everything’s off.
My timing. My focus. My head.
Coach blows the whistle halfway through drills and skates backward toward me with narrowed eyes. “Guyer.”
I already know what he’s gonna say.
“You’re distracted.”
No shit.
I shove my mask onto the top of my head and wipe sweat from my jaw. “I’m fine.”
Coach Decker snorts. “That’s hockey player code for ‘my life’s on fire.’”
The guys laugh lightly around me.
I don’t.
Because every time I stop moving long enough to think, all I see are flashes of yesterday.
Ethan flinching.
The hurt look on Peyton’s face when I walked away last night.
The expression on her face when I shut her out .
Guilt sits like broken glass in my chest. It’s been like this all fucking day.
Practice finally ends two exhausting hours later.
I head toward the locker room, already reaching for my phone.
The second the screen lights up, my stomach drops. Notifications explode across it.
Connor suddenly goes dead silent beside me. “Um… Daltyn.”
I already see it.
A video thumbnail of Peyton fills my screen.
She’s surrounded by cameras, a terrified look on her face.
My blood turns to ice.
The clip starts automatically.
Flashbulbs explode around her while a female reporter fires questions into her face.
Then the reporter grabs Peyton’s arm.
Peyton recoils, fear flashing across her face so fast and sharp it nearly stops my fucking heart. Something inside me detonates.
“Jesus Christ,” Ford mutters somewhere behind me.
I’m already ripping my blocker off hard enough to send it skidding across the floor.
Pads next.
Chest protector. Gone.
The locker room blurs around me.
All I can hear is my pulse roaring violently in my ears.
“She had a panic attack,” Connor says quietly after checking his phone again .
The words hit like a bullet straight through my ribs.
Panic attack.
Because I wasn’t there.
Because I pulled away.
She needed me, and I left her alone with this shit.
Self-loathing crashes through me so hard it makes me physically nauseous.
I pull on my jeans and hoodie without even showering.
“Daltyn,” Ford warns carefully.
Too late. I’m already moving.
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” Ford calls after me.
I don’t answer.
Because right now, all I know is I need to get to her.
The drive into town feels endless.
Every red light makes my rage climb higher.
Every second stretches tighter.
By the time I shove through the doors of Pine & Steam, adrenaline is burning so hard through my veins I can barely fucking breathe.
The entire coffee shop goes silent.
Tony looks up from behind the counter.
His posture shifts when he sees me, like he’s bracing for impact.
Honestly? I probably look insane.
Still half-dressed from practice. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth.
“Where is she?” My voice comes out rough and sharp.
Tony studies me for half a second before something in his expression changes. Like he suddenly realizes I’m not angry .
I’m terrified.
“In the back,” he says carefully. “She’s okay.”
Relief hits so hard my knees almost give out.
I start moving, but Tony steps slightly into my path, just enough to stop me for one second.
“She had a panic attack,” he says quietly.
I nod, even as the guilt slices brutally through my chest.
I close my eyes briefly.
Even though I know that, hearing it from him hits different.
Tony’s expression softens slightly. “She kept asking for you.”
His words completely wreck me.
All I can think about is Peyton sitting here scared and overwhelmed while still wanting me specifically.
My throat tightens painfully.
Tony steps aside.
And this time?
Nothing stops me from going to her.
The hallway behind the kitchen suddenly feels too narrow and long.
Every step pounds harder through my chest.
I round the corner—and immediately stop.
Peyton sits curled on a chair beneath the back window, both hands wrapped tightly around a mug she clearly hasn’t touched.
Her eyes are red.
Her breathing is still uneven.
And the second she looks up and sees me? Relief floods across her face so fast it physically hurts to look at.
Something inside my chest caves in completely.
“Daltyn.” My name leaves her mouth like she’s been holding herself together by a thread, waiting for me to appear.
Fuck.
I close the distance between us.
Peyton sets the mug down, then stands so fast the chair tips back, hitting the wall.
She moves before I can react, crashing into me so hard that the force nearly knocks the breath from my lungs.
I catch her automatically, my arms locking around her waist while she buries her face against my chest.
Shaking.
Still fucking shaking.
Every protective instinct inside me turns violent.
My hand slides into her hair while I hold her tighter.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur roughly against the top of her head. “I’ve got you, Pey.”
She clutches fistfuls of my hoodie like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
Guilt slices viciously through my chest.
She needed me, and I wasn’t there.
“I’m sorry,” I say before I can stop myself.
Peyton pulls back just enough to look up at me, confusion flickering across her face. “What?”
My jaw tightens.
“I shouldn’t have pulled away last night.” The words scrape painfully up my throat. “I saw that video and?—”
Rage flashes hot through my bloodstream again.
“She grabbed you. They had you cornered.”
Peyton visibly flinches at the memory.
My entire body goes rigid.
Fuck.
I cup her face, gentler this time. Like she might break if I touch her too hard.
“Did they hurt you?”
Her eyes soften. Not because of the question, but because of the panic underneath it.
“No,” she whispers softly. “They just scared me.”
No, they didn’t just scare her. The correction screams through my head. Panic attacks aren’t nothing. Fear isn’t nothing.
Especially not for her.
Especially after Landon.
My thumb brushes beneath her eyes gently, wiping away the tears.
“I should’ve been there.”
“Daltyn—”
“I left you alone.” The words come out rougher now. “I shut you out, and then this happened.”
Something painful flashes across Peyton’s face.
But instead of agreeing or pulling away, she steps closer until there’s no space left between us at all.
“You were hurting too.”
The words hit like a punch straight to my ribs.
I stare down at her, marveling at the concern in her eyes. At the softness still there even after everything.
And suddenly I understand something terrifying.
Peyton sees the worst parts of me. And she stays anyway.
My throat tightens painfully.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” I say quietly.
Her brows pull together slightly. “Like what?”
“Like I’m something good.”
Everything around us goes silent .
Even the coffee shop noise fades, becoming distant and muffled.
Peyton's expression changes, pain and heartbreak written all over her face.
And somehow that feels even worse.
“Daltyn,” she whispers softly, “who made you believe you weren’t?”