Jesus Christ.
With one final glance at Peyton, I skate back toward the crease and settle into position.
But something feels off. Not bad. Just... different.
Usually after moments like that—moments where I let myself want too much—the darkness crashes in.
The reminders. The memories.
The voice in my head, telling me exactly why I should stay the hell away from women like Peyton Sinclair.
She’s too good. Too soft. Too bright.
The kind of woman you ruin just by touching.
I automatically brace for the guilt. For the panic to swirl through me. For the reminder that men like me don’t get things like her.
But the thoughts never come.
Instead, all I can think about is the way she looks at me. The blush that spreads across her cheeks.
She’s wearing my hoodie in the stands. And she’ll still be there when this skate ends, waiting for me.
My pulse hits harder against my ribs. “Guyer!”
I snap my attention toward Connor right as he takes a shot.
Instinct takes over.
I drop low and glove the puck cleanly out of the air. Cheers and groans echo across the ice.
But even as the guys chirp each other again, my eyes flick briefly back toward the stands. To Peyton.
Because for the first time in years...
I can’t wait for practice to end so I can get back to someone.
20
DALTYN
The rest of the skate is a disaster.
At least for me.
Connor scores twice because I’m distracted. Ford chirps me nonstop from center ice. And Jake nearly crashes into the boards, laughing, after I completely miss an easy save because Peyton laughed at something Harper whispered to her in the stands.
“Holy shit,” Connor yells. “He’s gone.”
“I’m not gone,” I snap.
“You let Jake Monroe score on you.”
Jake places a hand over his heart. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Cole skates backward past me, grinning. “You’re smiling again.”
