“So the two of them are no longer involved?”
“Correct.” The question scrapes across my nerves like skates against concrete.
I feel Peyton’s eyes on me from across the kitchen. But I don’t make eye contact with her.
The reporter keeps talking. “Some fans have expressedconcern over whether Ms. Sinclair may still be connected to Cross while he awaits trial?—”
Something inside me snaps clean in half. “She’s not. She’s with me.”
The Zoom goes silent.
The words hang there, heavy and absolute. Something I can’t take back.
My brain catches up half a second too late.
Oh, fuck.
Every face on the screen freezes.
Brent looks like he just watched a car crash in slow motion.
The reporter blinks once. “So… it’s official?”
Realization slams into me like a puck to the ribs. “Wait. That’s not what I?—”
Too late.
Excited murmurs fill my ears before everyone thanks me for my time. The reporters disappear one by one.
The second the final reporter vanishes, Brent drags both hands down his face.
“Well,” he says finally. “Congratulations, Guyer. You just hard-launched your relationship to the entire hockey world.”
I groan and slump back in my chair. “Can we spin it?”
“Nope.”
My eyes close briefly.
“We’re leaning into it,” Brent continues. “‘Avalanche Goaltender Daltyn Guyer Confirms Relationship with Peyton Sinclair.’ Give it twenty minutes. It’ll be everywhere.”
Fantastic.
Just fucking fantastic.
I drag a hand through my hair. “What was supposed tobe a five-minute cleanup interview somehow turned into a relationship reveal.”
Brent points at me through the screen. “To be fair, I specifically told you not to emotionally malfunction in public.”
“I didn’t emotionally malfunction.”
“You practically beat your chest and announced she was yours.”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
Because honestly? That’s exactly what it sounded like.
Brent sighs heavily. “I’ll call you later after the internet loses its collective mind.”
