Page 95 of Don't Fall for the Goalie
That silence somehow feels worse.
Usually, she fills the cabin with noise. Teasing. Talking. Laughing.
Now there’s caution in the air. Like she can feel me pulling away even though I’m trying not to.
That realization twists something ugly in my chest.
I hate it. I hate that I’m doing this. I hate that I don’t know how to stop.
We make breakfast together.
Or at least… pretend to.
She scrambles eggs while I make toast.
Our shoulders brush once, and I step back like the contact burns me.
I catch the flicker in her expression.
Fuck.
After breakfast, I clean the kitchen, mostly because I need something to do with my hands besides drag her against me and forget every rational thought I’ve had in the last twelve hours.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Unknown anxiety spikes through me before I realize it’s my agent.
I answer, walking toward the back deck.
“Tell me you’ve seen the coverage,” Brent says without preamble.
“I’ve seen it.”
There’s a pause.
“Well… on the bright side, engagement numbers are insane.”
I stare out toward the woods, my jaw tight. “I don’t give a shit about engagement numbers.”
“Daltyn—”
“She’s not part of this.”
Another pause.
His tone shifts slightly, becoming more careful. “Okay. Listen to me. Right now, people are interested because you’ve spent years avoiding publicity outside hockey. That mystery factor feeds this stuff.”
I rub a hand over my mouth.
“I want her left alone.”
“We can try to minimize things, but honestly? The more you react publicly, the worse it’ll get.”
That makes my stomach twist harder. Because reacting is exactly what every instinct inside me wants to do.
Protect. Control. Contain.
She’s mine.
