The nervous ones lingering behind parents.
He notices everything.
At one point, a tiny little girl freezes during a photo, clearly intimidated by the players towering around her.
Daltyn crouches down, softening his voice and making himself smaller. He says something to her, and within thirty seconds, she’s giggling.
My heart actually hurts watching it.
Abusive men don’t move through the world trying to make people feel safe.
Traumatized men with a heart of gold do.
Hours later, while Connor is dramatically pretending to die beside a table because “social interaction is exhausting,” a photographer catches Daltyn and my attention.
“Can I get one of you two together?”
I tense automatically.
“You don’t have to,” he says quietly near my ear.
He’s giving me a choice. Removing the pressure.
And somehow that makes me want to do it more.
I look up at the man who notices my moods, holds me like I’m precious, and looks at me like I hung the fucking moon.
Then I glance down at his jersey that I’m wearing.
And suddenly the decision feels easy.
“Okay,” I say softly.
Connor gasps somewhere in the background like a Victorian woman witnessing a scandal.
Daltyn ignores him completely.
His hand settles against my waist while the photographer lifts the camera.
“Closer,” she says brightly.
Daltyn glances down at me, silently asking permission.
Butterflies explode wildly in my stomach.
I move closer first.
The smallest hint of surprise flickers across his face before something softer replaces it. Something dangerously close to happiness.
Flash.
Another photo.
Unexpectedly, Daltyn lowers his head and presses a soft kiss against my forehead.
The entire room erupts.
Connor screams.
