I lean my head back against the couch cushion, my smile fading. “There’s media stuff tomorrow.”
Peyton stiffens. “What does that mean?”
“There’ll probably be more questions. More videos. More idiots online.”
Her gaze drops briefly to her hands. “Lovely,” she mutters sarcastically.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
Her brows pull together. “For what?”
“For dragging you into this.”
The words sit heavy between us. Because I mean them. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.
Not the fake dating. Not the internet buzz. Not the attention on her like a damn neon light.
And especially not the way Peyton somehow became the center of my entire goddamn life without me noticing.
Peyton studies me quietly for a long moment. Then softly says, “I’ve had much worse things happen to me, Daltyn. I can handle it.”
Something in my chest twists painfully hard.
She shouldn’t have to.
36
DALTYN
I would rather take a slapshot to the throat than participate in media day. Unfortunately for me, the Green Mountain Avalanche organization disagrees.
“Smile, Guyer.”
“No.”
The photographer sighs loudly from behind the camera. “You look like you’re being held hostage.”
“I am.”
Connor nearly falls off the stool beside me, laughing.
“Can you at least pretend to enjoy being here?” the photographer asks.
“I’d rather not.”
“Jesus Christ,” Cole mutters from nearby. “You really do hate happiness.”
Ford adjusts the collar of his team polo calmly. “No. He hates people.”
“Accurate,” Jake says.
The photographer pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Let’s try this again.” He points toward me. “Less serial killer.”
Connor gasps dramatically. “Impossible. That’s his default setting.”
I stare blankly ahead while camera flashes go off around me.
This is hell.
