70. Daltyn
DALTYN
The second practice starts, I know I’m fucked.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Coach blows the whistle while pucks fly across the ice, but my brain is somewhere else entirely.
It’s on Peyton.
The possibility of her leaving me for Florida. For a promotion she absolutely deserves.
I miss an easy save.
Connor skates backward in front of me. “Oh, this is BAD bad.”
“Move,” I snap.
“Nope.” He points at me dramatically. “You let in a shot from Jake. That’s medically concerning.”
Jake throws his gloves in the air. “FINALLY. SOME RESPECT.”
I barely hear him.
Because all I can think about is Peyton sitting across from me at breakfast while another life opened back up in front of her .
A life that doesn’t include me.
Coach blows the whistle again. “Guyer.”
I look up.
He narrows his eyes. “Wake the hell up.”
I force myself to focus.
I really do.
But then Ford scores on me fifteen seconds later.
Ford slows, deeply disturbed. “Oh no.”
Connor clutches his chest. “He’s dying.”
“I’m not dying.”
Connor skates closer. “Then why do you look like a divorced father listening to sad country music?”
“Connor,” Ford warns.
“No, no. Let me cook.”
I launch my water bottle at his head.
Unfortunately, he catches it.
Practice somehow gets worse after that.
By the time we finally hit the locker room, I’m exhausted from fighting my own head.
The room buzzes around me—gear hitting the floor, showers running, teammates talking.
Meanwhile, I sit at my stall staring blankly at my skates while untying them.
Connor drops onto the bench beside me. “You gonna tell us what’s wrong, or should we start guessing?”
“Maybe he committed tax fraud,” Jake offers.
Ford leans against the next stall. “You’ve looked miserable all day.”
“That’s because he is miserable,” Connor says.
Cole points at me from across the room. “You’ve got the emotional energy of a man watching his wife leave on the Titanic.”
I close my eyes briefly.
That silence alone tells them everything.
The locker room slowly quiets.
Connor’s expression shifts first. “Oh.”
Ford straightens slightly.
Jake lowers his towel.
Finally, Connor asks carefully, “What happened?”
I stare down at my gloves for a second before answering quietly. “She got a job offer.”
The words feel wrong in my mouth. Like saying them out loud somehow makes everything more real.
“Florida?” Ford asks.
I nod once.
“Promotion,” I mutter. “Relocation.”
Nobody jokes now.
Nobody chirps.
Because they all know exactly what Peyton means to me.
“She’d be stupid not to take it,” I say finally.
The second the words leave my mouth, something ugly twists in my chest.
Because I hate them. Hate how true they sound.
Connor stares at me like I’ve personally offended him. “You don’t actually believe that.”
I shrug tightly. “She had a whole life before me.”
“Yeah,” Jake says slowly. “And?”
“And maybe this—” I gesture vaguely, frustrated, “—was truly temporary.”
Even saying it feels like swallowing glass.
Because nothing about Peyton feels temporary anymore .
Not when her clothes are in my dresser.
Her coffee mug sits beside mine.
Her laughter floats through the cabin.
Not when I get to wake up with her tangled against me every morning.
She became part of my life so quietly that I never even realized it was happening.
Until now.
Until I might lose it.
The room goes quiet again.
Then unexpectedly, Easton speaks from across the locker room. “I don’t usually bring this shit up,” he says carefully.
I look over.
Easton tosses his tape into his locker before continuing. “But I remember her from my Seattle days.”
Everything inside me stills.
“She’d come to the games,” he says. “Landon made her. Flew her in.”
Connor glances between us silently.
Easton leans back against the locker. “She was nice. Quiet.” He shrugs slightly. “But honestly?”
Something in my chest tightens.
“She never looked happy there.”
The room stays completely still.
“Not like she does here,” he continues quietly. “Not like she does with you.”
Jesus Christ.
Hope is a dangerous fucking thing.
But it blooms anyway.
Small. Fragile. Terrifying.
Easton holds my stare for another second before pushing off the locker. “Don’ t discount that.”
They’re simple words, but they hit harder than they should.
Connor points at me. “Also,” he says firmly, “that woman looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Ford nods. “She does.”
“And women generally don’t move their emotional support systems across state lines for fun,” Jake adds.
A reluctant huff escapes me.
Connor grins. “There it is.” He pauses dramatically. “Hope.”
I shake my head, grabbing my bag.
For the first time all day, I can breathe a little easier.
Which is probably why when I get home after practice and step inside the cabin, the sight waiting for me nearly wrecks me completely.
Peyton stands barefoot in the kitchen, wearing my hoodie while stirring something on the stove. Soft music plays while she cooks.
She looks comfortable. Domestic.
Like she’s home.
She looks up the second I walk in, and smiles.
Just like that, every terrifying thought in my head crashes painfully against one brutal realization.
I am completely, hopelessly in love with this woman.
And if she leaves, I don’t know how I’ll survive it.