Chapter 39
WREN
Ikeep my fingers curled around Atlas’s.
I can’t believe I’m holding his hand in secret—on camera, no less—as he reveals tiny fragments and glimpses into himself through the questions this reporter has insisted on.
Some of them I pretend I don’t see and skip over the paragraph completely. They’re invasive questions, leading to prying into his personal life, and trying to dig for some sort of gossip. No one needs to know if he ever brings one of the shelter dogs along as an icebreaker on a first date.
Although I hate just how much I do secretly want to know if he has other friends who join him at Wagging Tails from time to time.
Shaking off that intrusive and far too goddamn possessive thought, I catch the tail end of his answer to the question about volunteering and donating here.
“… rugby scholarships set me up for being able to play at a professional level. I’m blessed to turn up to work every day and play the sport I love, so it’s an honor to be able to support a cause that does great things.
It’s not just because I play for the Wolves, but because these dogs need a home and somewhere they can feel safe and cared for. ”
A rock wedges in my throat when I scan the next question. It’s innocent enough, I think, but Atlas is such a mystery, it could go any direction.
“We hear you were the one who initiated the process with the Wolves coming on board as a major sponsor for Wagging Tails. What prompted you to pitch their cause directly to your team’s owner, Theo Brennan?
” As I say his name out loud, reading the words on the page, there’s the tiniest flutter in my pulse.
It gives me an excuse to give Atlas’s fingers another little squeeze.
Hopefully, conveying that he doesn’t have to get too personal with his answers if he doesn’t want to.
Atlas sits for a moment, contemplating his response.
“The Wolves are all about being a family. It’s at the core of what we do to show up for each other as players on the field, to show up for our community, to go all in for the fans.
” His strong throat dips, and he wets his lips briefly.
“We lost my mom when I was very young, and my father lives back in Samoa. He’s had heart problems for a long time but wanted me to have the best opportunities for playing professionally, which means I’ve grown up here in the US—living with extended family who took me in—then been blessed with my rugby family.
I guess you could say these dogs and I see eye to eye on a lot of things about second chances and finding your way in life when things aren’t always easy.
Just because they don’t currently have a place to call home doesn’t mean they don’t deserve one. ”
I’m blinking rapidly. I had no idea Atlas has lived for so long without his dad, or without feeling like he has a place to call home.
His face doesn’t give away any hint of emotion about what he’s just shared for the camera, and I feel like the dumbest bitch alive that I didn’t know this about him.
Atlas has been my brother’s best friend for years, and not once did I ask enough questions.
I’d always assumed his dad was still here in the US, not living a world away.
My cheeks grow hot as I feel the pause lengthening out, so I fumble my way to the next question. As I ask, it leaves me cringing, because it’s just so fucking meh, after something as deeply moving as what he’s just opened up about.
“If you were a dog, what would be your favorite type of toy…” I swallow, trying to hide the wince in my voice. “And why?”
Christ, it makes me want to climb across the table and yell at this reporter.
These questions are a roller coaster, and purposely so.
That old trick where they toss inane, brainless questions scattered among stuff that hits right in the feels.
For whatever reason, he’s trying to mess with Atlas.
I fucking hate the way people like this weasel will treat athletes, as if they’re some show pony to roll out for the cameras and demand trick after trick.
What’s he gonna ask for next? Balance a ball on the end of his nose? For fuck’s sake.
My hackles are up for every single question remaining until we finally cross the finish line, and the last one has been wrapped.
“Fantastic. Now, before we’re done here, I’ll just need some general footage around the dog shelter.”
Atlas has already lurched to his feet, the noise of his chair scraping across the concrete floor is shrill, and feeling the loss of his touch is more acute than I expected.
He doesn’t look at me or ask me to join him, but I trot in his wake anyway.
I mean, that was what today was about, after all, and like hell I’m going to risk leaving him to be bulldozed by that reporter and his snotty behavior.
We file back out through the enclosure leading to the grassy area, and this time, the dogs must sense there’s something out of the ordinary going on.
Either that, or they’re always this excited to see Atlas walk through those doors.
From the way the majority of them crowd at the second gate, with full-body tail wags and happily excited whines filling the air, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s the latter.
Gareth stops abruptly, peers at his dress shoes, then out at the grass. His nose wrinkles, and he casts a quick look around. “If you can take them all over there, I’ll be able to film everything I need from this position.”
Yeah. That tracks. Asshole of the week doesn’t even like dogs.
Atlas mutters something under his breath that I don’t quite catch, but it sounds an awful lot like he just told the guy to go fuck himself in Samoan.
I keep on persisting with acting as his shadow, even if the guy doesn’t want me to loiter around, even if he’s pretty much ignoring my presence.
Following straight behind as we head out to join the mass of excited hounds.
They flock to him like he’s a ray of sunshine in their lives, and I wouldn’t be surprised at all if this is a special greeting they reserve exclusively for him.
Atlas grunts at the mass of furry bodies as he reaches into a bucket hanging from the fence, pulling out a couple of tennis balls. “Careful. Watch for the teine aulelei.”
He clicks his tongue, and they start streaking ahead as a pack in anticipation of the game.
“What does that mean?” I’m doing my utmost not to perfume at the way those words roll off his tongue so easily.
He studies the grass long and hard. Not looking at me. “Told them to piss on that guy’s leg if he walks out here.”
While it makes me smirk to myself, something tells me I don’t believe him.
One of the dogs lopes up to me and drops the tennis ball at my feet, and we both indulge them all in some playtime, silently standing side by side.
It’s crisp and blue skies today, and even with snow on the ground, these dogs don’t mind at all.
They’re all lolling tongues and pure delight at the opportunity to romp around.
A loud whistle makes us all turn, the dogs included, to see Linda waving her arms to say we can finish up, and I catch sight of Gareth ducking through the doors with a curt wave. Thank god for that.
“At least that’s over.” I hesitantly flash a smile up at his stony expression.
Atlas crouches down to give one of the dogs a scratch behind the ears, keeping his focus on them.
“That guy was a prick… there’s no excuse for the likes of him. But I know you hate doing media in general,” I blurt out. “Let me help you… if you want.” Jesus, why do I feel like I just can’t do or say the right thing?
He remains guarded, his expression is completely closed off, and one thing is for certain… this man doesn’t want to let me in.
“I’ll think about it.”
It’s so noncommittal, his words leave me feeling two feet tall. Serves me right for thinking today might have broken down some of his fortress walls.
“See you around, Wren.”
Oh, so he’s really gonna just push me away?
I’m left in stunned silence, watching Atlas Palamo walk off toward the kennels.
There’s no mistaking his body language. He doesn’t want me to follow.
He doesn’t want me near. And I can’t help the twist in my stomach as I suddenly wonder, does that mean he’s not going to move in and be part of this plan of Connor’s at all?
After everything, has he abruptly changed his mind?