61. Peyton
PEYTON
I should’ve known something was wrong the second Connor pulled the door open wearing sunglasses indoors.
“Why do you look like a divorced nightclub owner?” I ask suspiciously as I step inside the arena event room beside Daltyn.
Connor gasps dramatically. “Fashion is art, Peyton.”
Allie snorts from nearby. “He found those in a gas station.”
“They called to me spiritually.”
Daltyn mutters, “Burn them.”
Connor points aggressively. “See? This is what happens when goalies fall in love. They become bullies.”
I nearly choke.
Beside me, Daltyn goes completely still.
Connor’s grin turns feral.
“Oh my God.” He whips toward the rest of the team. “HE DIDN’T EVEN DENY IT.”
Ford closes his eyes briefly, like he’s exhausted already.
Jake nearly drops his sports drink. “ Holy shit.”
Cole clutches his chest dramatically. “Brother’s cooked.”
Heat rushes into my face while Daltyn glares murderously at all of them. “Try shutting the fuck up for once.”
Connor points toward him again. “LOOK AT HIM. Defensive. Emotional. Irritated. Classic symptoms.”
Allie leans toward me conspiratorially. “He’s been unbearable all morning.”
“I can still hear you,” Connor says.
“No one cares.”
I bite back a laugh while Daltyn’s hand settles automatically against my lower back.
The contact feels natural now.
Steadying. Possessive. Safe.
And judging by the way every single teammate notices? Not subtle.
Today’s event is some kind of Green Mountain Avalanche community kickoff thing before the season officially starts.
Fans everywhere.
Kids running around.
Tables set up for autographs and photos.
Media cameras.
And apparently chaos.
The second we walk farther inside, Connor’s mouth falls open dramatically. “Oh my God.”
Daltyn narrows his eyes. “What?”
Connor points at me like he’s witnessing a supernatural event. “The jersey.”
I blink, then glance down.
Right.
The jersey.
Daltyn gave it to me this morning after staring into my closet for a solid thirty seconds before muttering, "You need better hockey-related clothing."
So now I’m standing in the middle of the event wearing his Avalanche jersey.
His name and number stretched across my back.
GUYER.
35.
The room suddenly feels significantly warmer.
Jake lets out a low whistle.
Cole looks emotional. “We lost him, boys.”
Ford folds his arms while staring directly at Daltyn. “You gave her your jersey?”
Daltyn looks completely unbothered, which honestly might be the craziest part.
“She needs more hockey clothing.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Team spirit.”
Connor clutches his chest violently. “He’s lying to himself.” His eyes glance wildly around the room. “Somebody sedate him.”
Allie is openly laughing now.
Harper appears beside her, holding an iced coffee. “Did I miss the emotional devastation?”
“Daltyn voluntarily gave Peyton his jersey,” Allie says.
Harper gasps. “No.”
Connor points again. “This is openly domestic.”
My face burns hotter with every second.
But the worst part? I kind of love wearing it.
Which feels dangerous.
Standing here beside Daltyn with his hand on my back while his teammates lose their minds somehow feels… right.
The realization hits hard enough to momentarily steal my breath.
Daltyn glances down at me. “You okay? ”
There’s immediate concern in his voice, like noticing my moods is instinct now.
My chest squeezes painfully.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I am.”
His thumb brushes lightly against my back once before he guides me toward the autograph tables.
The entire event blurs into organized chaos after that.
Kids swarm Daltyn constantly.
And somehow? Watching him with them nearly destroys me emotionally.
Because now I understand him better.
I witness his patience.
His gentleness.
His protectiveness.
His hyper-awareness.
Every scared kid gravitates toward him.
And Daltyn notices all of them.
The shy ones.
The overwhelmed ones.
The nervous ones lingering behind parents.
He notices everything.
At one point, a tiny little girl freezes during a photo, clearly intimidated by the players towering around her.
Daltyn crouches down, softening his voice and making himself smaller. He says something to her, and within thirty seconds, she’s giggling.
My heart actually hurts watching it.
Abusive men don’t move through the world trying to make people feel safe.
Traumatized men with a heart of gold do.
Hours later, while Connor is dramatically pretending to die beside a table because “social interaction is exhausting,” a photographer catches Daltyn and my attention .
“Can I get one of you two together?”
I tense automatically.
“You don’t have to,” he says quietly near my ear.
He’s giving me a choice. Removing the pressure.
And somehow that makes me want to do it more.
I look up at the man who notices my moods, holds me like I’m precious, and looks at me like I hung the fucking moon.
Then I glance down at his jersey that I’m wearing.
And suddenly the decision feels easy.
“Okay,” I say softly.
Connor gasps somewhere in the background like a Victorian woman witnessing a scandal.
Daltyn ignores him completely.
His hand settles against my waist while the photographer lifts the camera.
“Closer,” she says brightly.
Daltyn glances down at me, silently asking permission.
Butterflies explode wildly in my stomach.
I move closer first.
The smallest hint of surprise flickers across his face before something softer replaces it. Something dangerously close to happiness.
Flash.
Another photo.
Unexpectedly, Daltyn lowers his head and presses a soft kiss against my forehead.
The entire room erupts.
Connor screams.
Jake yells, “HE’S GONE.”
Cole starts fake sobbing.
But I barely hear any of it .
Because all I can focus on is the way Daltyn’s lips linger against my skin for half a second too long.
Like he forgot other people exist for a moment, too.