Cars line the surrounding lots while music and crowd noise drift through the chilly air.
“This is only a scrimmage?” I ask weakly.
Daltyn parks smoothly near the player entrance.
“Preseason gets worse.”
Oh no.
The second we step out of the SUV, people notice him immediately.
And by extension? Me.
Whispers ripple nearby. Phones appear. Someone audibly gasps, “Oh my God. It’s them.”
Panic crawls up my throat.
Daltyn’s hand settles against my lower back, warm and grounding. My breathing steadies.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
The chaos around us suddenly feels farther away. Muted. Because all I can focus on is his hand. His voice. And the fact that he’s watching me instead of the crowd.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine for another second before he nods once and guides me toward the arena doors like this is normal. Like I belong here with him.
And somehow?
That thought feels more dangerous than the entire crowd combined.
I followHarper and Allie up the concrete stairs, trying not to stare too hard at the sheer size of Summit Arena from the inside.
We take our seats and try to chat, which feels more like yelling since the arena is already loud.
Several minutes later, there’s a cheer as the players come out of the tunnel and begin skating warm-up laps.
I realize three things:
One: Hockey fans are terrifying.
Two: Connor Byrns somehow has more energy on the ice than off it, which feelsscientifically impossible.
Three: Watching Daltyn Guyer step onto the ice in full goalie gear might actually ruin my life.
Music pounds through the speakers while fans filter into the stands wearing Avalanche jerseys and hoodies. Kids press against the glass near the ice, waving signs at the players.
Cold air drifts upward from the rink.
“This is insane,” I mutter.
Harper grins beside me. “Wait until the regular season.”
Allie laughs softly. “Connor once got into a chirping match with a man dressed like a penguin mascot.”
I blink. “What?”
“He lost,” Allie says.
