I hate media days.
Too many cameras. Too many questions. Too many people trying to turn every sentence into a headline.
Unfortunately, training camp means I’m stuck doing one anyway.
“You look thrilled,” Connor says beside me as we walk through the lower-level hallway beneath Summit Arena.
“I’m thinking about faking my own death.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“You’ve met reporters.”
Connor grins. “True.”
A staff member waves us toward a curtained media backdrop set up near one of the smaller event rooms. Players rotate through stations while cameras flash and interviewers wait with microphones already in hand.
My patience evaporates.
Then I glance toward the private lounge area off to the side and see Peyton sitting on one of the couches.
The tension in my chest eases.
She looks up from her phone the second she notices me watching. Her expression softens.
Mine probably mirrors it.
Connor notices, unfortunately. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “You literally relaxed.”
“Shut up.”
“She’s your emotional support blonde.”
I glare at him.
Connor looks delighted by this information.
Beside Peyton, Harper snorts into her coffee while Allie outright laughs.
Peyton tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, looking faintly amused as I walk closer. “You surviving?” she asks.
“Barely.”
She smiles softly.
And Christ, that smile does dangerous things to me.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell her quietly.
The words come out automatically, even though some selfish part of me desperately wants her here.
Peyton’s brows pull together slightly. “Do you want me to leave?”
"No," I say without hesitation.
Something softens in her expression. “Then I’ll stay.”
Fuck.
