“She’s not a zoo animal.”
Ford steps beside me while peeling off his gloves. “Pretty sure he means because the media’s gonna be insane.”
Exactly. Every reporter in Vermont suddenly wants a quote about my nonexistent relationship.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut during that interview.
But the second they started talking about Peyton like she belonged to Landon? Something in me snapped.
A woman in a navy Avalanche polo intercepts me near the tunnel.
Fantastic.
“Daltyn,” she says carefully. “Quick heads up—there are already requests for additional interviews tomorrow.”
Of course there are.
I stare at the ceiling briefly. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
“Terrible answer.”
Her mouth twitches slightly. “Also… social engagement surrounding you and Peyton is extremely high right now.”
I physically recoil at the phrase "social engagement.” We sound like a marketing campaign.
“Great.”
“There may be questions tomorrow,” she warns gently. “Just be prepared.”
Prepared.
Right.
Because I’ve handled all of this so well thus far.
By the time I finally leave the arena, exhaustion settles heavily in my bones.
The drive back to the cabin is quiet except for the low hum of the engine.
No sports radio this time. No interviews. No teammates.
Just silence.
The trees and houses blur past outside the windows as my grip loosens on the steering wheel.
Weirdly, the tension in my chest eases the closer I get to home.
Home.
The realization hits me hard enough that I almost miss the turn toward the cabin road.
My house has never felt like a home. Just a place I lay my head at night and hide away from the world during the day.
The isolation and silence used to be comforting.
But now, Peyton’s there... and the part I look forward to the most is coming home to her. That’s the first place my brain wants to go after the longest practice of the day.
