Chapter 2
Atlas
Five hundred pounds.
The barbell bent slightly under the weight, a steel arc of pressure resting across my traps.
The knurling dug into my skin, biting through the thin cotton of my cut-off shirt, but I welcomed the pain.
Pain was honest. Pain was simple. Pain was a transactional relationship: you give the effort, and the iron breaks you down to build you back stronger.
Unlike Aurelia St. James.
I squatted, the movement slow, controlled, hydraulic. My quads screamed as I hit the bottom of the rep, the heavy rubber plates hovering an inch off the mat. I held it there. One second. Two seconds. Three.
My muscles trembled, vibrating with the strain, begging me to stand up, to relieve the tension.
Behave.
The word echoed in my head, unbidden. It wasn't my voice. It was the memory of my voice, guttural and unrecognizable, whispering into the ear of a girl who smelled like vanilla and ruin.
I surged up, driving through my heels, exhaling a sharp hiss of air as I racked the weight with a deafening metal clang that reverberated off the concrete walls of the Sentinels’ weight room.
It was 5:00 AM. The sun hadn’t even thought about rising over the Green Mountains yet.
The locker room was a tomb of silence, smelling of stale sweat, rubber floor mats, and the lingering, chemical ghost of industrial bleach.
This was my church. This was the only place in the world where the chaos couldn't find me.
Usually.
I grabbed my towel and wiped the sweat from my face, careful around the scar that bisected my eyebrow. My hands were shaking. Not from the lift. From the adrenaline dump that hadn’t stopped since I walked away from her last night.
I looked down at my right hand. It looked normal. Large, calloused, wrapped in black athletic tape around the wrist. But it felt... marked.
I could still feel the curve of her. The shock of impact. The way her body had gone rigid, not with fear, but with something else. Something that felt like a lock clicking into place.
You hit the donor’s daughter.
I squeezed my hand into a fist until the knuckles turned white. I was a disciplined player. I was the Enforcer. My job on the ice was to control the violence, to dispense it with surgical precision to protect my team. I didn't lose my temper. I didn't act on impulse.
Last night, I had done both.
"Jesus, Atlas. You trying to bring the building down?"
I didn't turn around. I knew the voice. Jax Vane. My defensive partner, my roommate at The Hive, and the only person rich enough to be hungover on a Tuesday morning without fearing the consequences.
I grabbed my water bottle, taking a long pull before answering. "You're late. Practice starts in twenty."
"It starts when the Captain steps on the ice," Jax groaned, slumping onto a bench. He looked like death warmed over—hair a mess, eyes bloodshot, wearing sweatpants that cost more than my truck. "My head feels like someone took a slap shot at my temple."
"Maybe don't do keg stands on a school night," I said, my voice flat. I walked over to my locker—a metal cage that held my entire life. Skates, pads, a single change of clothes. Minimal. Efficient.
"It wasn't a school night, it was a... mental health evening," Jax mumbled, leaning his head back against the lockers.
Then, he cracked one eye open, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
"Speaking of mental health... are we going to talk about the fact that you went full Fifty Shades on the Princess of Burlingham last night? "
I froze. I was halfway to pulling my jersey over my head. I slowly lowered it.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit," Jax laughed, though it sounded painful for him. "I saw the handprint, man. I saw her face. She looked like she’d seen God, and apparently, God drives a rusted F-150."
I slammed my locker shut. The sound was like a gunshot in the empty room.
Jax flinched. "Okay. Touchy subject. Got it."
"She was drunk," I said, the words tasting like ash. "She was acting out. I stopped her from breaking her neck. That’s it."
"Right. That’s it." Jax stood up, stretching his arms. "Just remember who she is, Anvil. That girl is radioactive. You touch her, you get burned. Her dad doesn’t just own the team; he owns the zip code. You piss him off, you don't just lose your scholarship. You lose your future."
I knew that. I knew it better than Jax ever could.
Jax had a trust fund. If he got kicked out, he’d just go travel Europe for a year. If I got kicked out, I went back to the trailer park in Ohio. I went back to the noise. I went back to being nothing.
My phone buzzed on the bench.
I stared at the screen. The area code was from Ohio.
Sunnyvale Rehabilitation Center.
My stomach dropped. It was a physical sensation, heavier than the five hundred pounds I’d just squatted. I picked up the phone, swiping to answer, turning my back on Jax.
"Thorne," I answered.
"Mr. Thorne?" The voice was sickly sweet, bureaucratic. "This is Brenda from billing. We’re calling about your mother’s account."
"I paid the deposit," I said, keeping my voice low.
"Yes, but the insurance claim was denied again. The facility fees for December are past due. We need a payment of four thousand dollars by Friday, or we’ll have to discharge her."
Four thousand dollars.
I closed my eyes. I pictured my bank account. The number was burned into my retinas: $42.18.
"She can't be discharged," I said, my jaw tight. "If she leaves now, she relapses. You know that."
"I’m sorry, Mr. Thorne. We’re not a charity. You have until Friday close of business."
The line went dead.
I stood there, gripping the phone, staring at the concrete floor. The hum of the fluorescent lights sounded like screaming.
Chaos. It was always there, scratching at the door, waiting for me to slip up.
"Atlas?" Jax asked, his voice softer now. "Everything good?"
I shoved the phone into my bag. I shoved the fear down into the dark pit where I kept everything else.
"Fine," I lied. "Let's get on the ice."
The summons came two hours later.
We were doing suicides—skating line to line until our lungs burned and our legs felt like lead. I was leading the pack, pushing the pace, punishing the team because I needed to punish myself.
Coach Miller blew the whistle.
"Thorne! Off the ice!"
I skated over to the bench, my breath pluming in the cold arena air. I flipped my visor up, sweat dripping down my nose.
"Yeah, Coach?"
Miller didn't look at me. He was looking at the clipboard in his hand, chewing aggressively on his gum. He looked nervous. Miller was never nervous.
"Get changed," he said. " administrative building. President’s office."
My blood ran cold.
"Why?"
Miller finally looked up. His eyes were full of pity. "Arthur St. James is here. He wants to see you."
The locker room went silent as I packed my bag. The guys knew. They didn't know the specifics, but they knew the smell of execution. Jax didn't make a joke. He just gave me a nod, a silent soldier’s salute.
The walk across campus was a death march.
Sterling University was beautiful in the winter—a snow-globe world of brick and ivy. But to me, it felt like a prison. Every brick was paid for by men like Arthur St. James. Every scholarship, every jersey, every opportunity I had was granted by their benevolence.
And I had slapped their benevolence on the ass in a parking lot.
I reached the Administration Building. It looked like a courthouse. Marble columns. Mahogany doors. The air inside smelled different than the rest of the world—it smelled like old paper, lemon polish, and silence.
I walked to the reception desk. The secretary didn't ask my name. She just pointed to the double doors at the end of the hall.
I didn't knock. I pushed the doors open and walked in.
The office was massive. A fireplace roared on one wall. The carpet was so thick it swallowed the sound of my boots.
Arthur St. James sat behind a desk that was probably worth more than my mother’s life. He was a silver fox—impeccable suit, cold eyes, a face that gave away nothing.
But he wasn't alone.
Sitting in a leather wingback chair in the corner, looking like a fallen angel who had been dragged through a hedge, was Aurelia.
She was wearing oversized sunglasses, a black hoodie that swallowed her frame, and leggings. She was curled into a ball, clutching a coffee cup like a lifeline. She looked small. Fragile.
When I walked in, she stiffened. She pulled the sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, her blue eyes locking onto mine. They were rimmed with red. She looked hungover, miserable, and terrified.
But the moment she saw me, that spark returned. That defiant, bratty glint that made me want to shake her and protect her at the same time.
"Mr. Thorne," Arthur said. His voice was smooth, like expensive scotch. "Sit."
I didn't sit. I stood in front of the desk, feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind my back. The "Parade Rest" stance. It was how I survived cops, social workers, and coaches.
"I prefer to stand, sir."
Arthur smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Suit yourself. Do you know why you're here?"
"I have a guess," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on a point above his head. I wouldn't look at Aurelia. If I looked at her, I’d lose the little control I had left.
Arthur tapped a tablet on his desk. He spun it around to face me.
It was a video. grainy, dark, shot from a cell phone at a distance.
It showed me carrying Aurelia. It showed the struggle. It showed the spank.
The sound was clear. Thwack.
"Viral," Arthur said softly. "Three million views on TikTok since midnight. The caption is: 'Sentinels Captain Disciplines the Princess.'"
I felt the blood drain from my face. My career was over. The NHL draft was six months away. It was gone.
"I can explain," I started, my voice tight. "She was on a balcony. She was going to fall. I removed her from the situation."