Bright lights. Too many people. Too much noise.
And somehow every single person here keeps looking at me like I’m carrying state secrets in my hockey bag.
Which, apparently, I am. And her name is Peyton Sinclair.
A PR assistant rushes across the room holding a clipboard. “Okay, guys. We’re splitting into interview groups now.”
Connor points at me. “Daltyn requested a private room because he misses his girlfriend.”
“I requested noise-canceling headphones so I don’t have to hear you breathe.”
“See?” Connor says to the PR girl. “He’s flirting now.”
Ford physically drags Connor away before I can murder him on camera.
The second I sit down at the interview table, I know I’m fucked. Three reporters already have their phones open. And judging from their whispered comments, they are extremely curious about my “relationship” with Peyton.
Jesus Christ.
I lean back in the chair, already irritated.
The first few questions are normal enough. They ask questions about training camp. Conditioning. Team chemistry. How the team is doing . How I feel about Easton joining the roster.
Easy, safe questions.
Then one reporter smiles, and I tense, knowing what’s coming.
“So,” she says, “how’s Peyton handling all the attention?”
I tense.
They say her name like she belongs in the conversation.
“She’s fine,” I answer shortly.
Another reporter jumps in. “The internet seems pretty obsessed with you two.”
I stare at him.
“I noticed,” I say flatly.
A few awkward chuckles ripple through the room.
I don’t laugh. None of this is funny.
Not when Peyton’s getting threats from strangers online. Not when people are dissecting every photo of her like she belongs to them.
“The fans seem convinced things are serious between you two,” another reporter says carefully. “Would you say that’s accurate?”
Something low and dangerous twists in my chest. The problem is, I don’t know how to answer that anymore.
My silence stretches a second too long.
One reporter actually leans forward. “Daltyn?”
I exhale slowly through my nose. “The attention wasn’t her choice,” I say flatly. “People should remember that.”
The room quiets.
