Connor makes a choking sound behind me. “I need everyone to understand,” he says loudly, “that our goalie just asked a girl to stay for media day.”
“Connor,” Ford warns.
“No, because this is historic.”
I ignore him completely. Mostly because Peyton’s trying not to smile right now, and the sight of it is wrecking my ability to function normally.
A staff member callsmy name. I sigh heavily.
“Go be famous,” Peyton says teasingly.
I stare at her for a second too long before leaning down over her. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Maybe.” Her eyes hold mine for another second.
Then I force myself to walk toward the media setup before I do something reckless in front of half the organization.
The interviews blurtogether after that.
Questions. Flashbulbs. Microphones shoved in my face.
“How’s camp feeling this year?”
“Thoughts on the new defensive pairings?”
“Expectations for the season?”
I answer automatically. Controlled. Short. Professional.
But every few minutes, my eyes drift toward the lounge. Toward Peyton.
And every single time, she’s watching me.
Sometimes giving me an encouraging smile. Other times, laughing at something Harper or Allie says.
Once she catches me staring and lifts a brow, like she knows exactly what I'm doing.
It throws me completely off balance.
“You seem to be in a good mood today,” one reporter says carefully.
Connor snorts loud enough nearby that I hear it from across the room.
Asshole.
“I’m always in a good mood,” I deadpan.
Several players burst out laughing behind the cameras.
Even Peyton covers her mouth, trying to hide her smile.
The reporter looksterrified.
Nearly an hour later,I finally escape the last interview station.
The second I step away from the cameras, my eyes find Peyton automatically. Like they’ve been doing it my entire fucking life instead of a few weeks.
She’s already standing when I reach her. “You finished?”
