I drag a hand down my face.
Beside me, Peyton laughs softly. The sound cuts through my irritation like sunlight.
She’s wearing one of my navy sweatshirts again with leggings and a pair of sneakers. Her golden hair falls loose around her shoulders.
She looks like she belongs here.
That realization hits me harder than expected.
Fans wave as we move through the event area.
Kids rush toward the players holding mini sticks and jerseys.
Parents hover nearby, trying to act normal while secretly freaking out.
And through all of it? Peyton stays beside me.
“Can I get your autograph?” a little girl asks shyly, holding out a jersey almost bigger than she is.
I crouch slightly to take it from her. “What’s your name?”
“Mia.”
I sign carefully before handing it back.
“Thanks, Guyer,” she whispers like I just handed her the moon.
Something in my chest tightens unexpectedly.
Beside me, Peyton smiles softly while watching the interaction.
And Christ.Her expression alone nearly ruins me.
Connor appears suddenly at my shoulder like an emotionally unstable raccoon.
“She’s looking at you like you rescued puppies from a burning building.”
“Go away.”
“No.”
Peyton laughs again.
A few minutes later, Harper pulls Peyton toward one of the craft tables where kids are painting mini hockey pucks.
I watch her go, already feeling the loss of her beside me.
The realization hits a second later. I’m watching her leave. Like some instinct inside me constantly tracks where she is.
Ford notices, too, unfortunately. “You’re staring at her.”
“No I’m not.”
“Bullshit.”
I roll my eyes but don’t say anything else. I don’t particularly enjoy how accurate he is.
Across the event space, Peyton kneels beside a little boy, helping him hold a paintbrush steady while he paints what appears to be an extremely aggressive stick-figure goalie. Her laugh carries faintly through the noise.
