Chapter 8
Aurelia
The Sterling University Arena—"The Fortress"—smelled of three things: Zamboni exhaust, stale popcorn, and testosterone. It was a cocktail that used to make me nauseous. Now, it smelled like him.
I sat in the Owner’s Box, a glass-walled aquarium of luxury suspended above the center ice line. To my left sat the Mayor of Burlingham. To my right sat the Dean of Admissions. And directly behind me, like a vulture perched on a velvet chair, was my father.
Arthur St. James was drinking scotch and discussing defensive line stats with a scout from the New York Rangers. He looked relaxed. He looked like a man who owned everything the light touched.
He had no idea that the man skating circles around the warm-up zone currently owned his daughter’s soul.
I crossed my legs, smoothing the fabric of my cream wool skirt.
I wasn't wearing a jersey. I wasn't allowed to.
St. James women wore neutral colors and polite expressions.
We were ornaments, not fans. But underneath my cashmere sweater, against my skin, I was wearing a silver chain.
And hanging from that chain, tucked between my breasts where no one could see, was a small, battered piece of black hockey tape.
Atlas had given it to me the morning we left the cabin. A piece of the game, he’d said. So you know I’m always playing for you.
I looked down at the ice.
The Sterling Sentinels were a swarm of black and gold. They moved with terrifying speed, the sound of their skates cutting the ice echoing like knives being sharpened.
And there he was. Number 24.
Atlas "The Anvil" Thorne.
He was huge. Even from up here, he looked like a different species than the other players. Broad shoulders, powerful thighs, moving with a predatory grace that made my breath hitch. He wasn't skating; he was prowling.
He took a lap around the perimeter, his stick handling the puck with lazy, arrogant ease. He wasn't wearing his helmet yet. His dark hair was messy, damp with sweat. His face was a mask of stone. The scar through his eyebrow stood out starkly under the harsh arena lights.
He looked violent. He looked beautiful.
My heart did a traitorous double-tap against my ribs. It had been three days since we left the cabin. Three days of sneaking around. Three days of stolen glances in the dining hall and texts sent at 2:00 AM.
I miss you, I thought, projecting the words through the glass. Look at me.
As if he heard me, Atlas stopped at the center circle. He tapped his stick against his pads—once, twice. Then, he tilted his head back.
He didn't search the crowd. He looked straight up at the Owner’s Box.
His eyes were black pits, unreadable from this distance, but I felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. He held it for a second—long enough to stop my heart—and then put his helmet on.
The mask clicked into place. The lover was gone. The Enforcer was here.
"He looks focused tonight," the Rangers scout murmured, leaning forward. "Thorne. Big kid. Plays mean."
"He plays to win," my father corrected smoothly. "He knows what's at stake."
I gripped the stem of my water glass until my knuckles turned white. They talked about him like he was a racehorse. Like he was an investment portfolio with legs.
He’s a person, I wanted to scream. He likes burnt potatoes and reads poetry and held me while I cried about my mother.
But I said nothing. I just took a sip of water and watched the man I loved prepare for war.
The game against the Boston Tech Marauders wasn't a sporting event. It was a riot on ice.
Boston Tech was known for one thing: they were dirty. They were big, slow, and mean. They couldn't out-skate Sterling, so their strategy was to break them.
The first period was a blur of violence.
The sound of bodies colliding with the boards was sickening—a heavy, wet thud that vibrated through the glass and up into the luxury box. The crowd roared with every hit, a bloodthirsty beast demanding sacrifice.
I watched Atlas.
He was everywhere. He was a force of nature. When he hit someone, they didn't just fall; they stopped existing in that space. He leveled a Boston winger in the neutral zone with a shoulder check that sent the guy’s helmet flying.
The crowd erupted. "AN-VIL! AN-VIL!"
I flinched.
"Good hit," my father muttered. "Clean. Hard."
"He's playing angry," I whispered, mostly to myself.
And he was. I could see it in the way he moved. There was a jagged edge to his play tonight. He was faster, harder, more reckless. He was playing like he was trying to outrun something.
Or maybe he was just frustrated. Frustrated that we were back in the cage. Frustrated that he had to look up at a glass box to see me.
In the second period, the Marauders realized they couldn't stop him, so they decided to target him.
It started with small things. A slash to the back of the calves behind the play. A glove to the face during a face-off.
Atlas ignored it. He kept his head down, skating hard, clearing the puck. He was disciplined. He was the Captain.
But I saw the tension in his shoulders. I saw the way his hand flexed on his stick.
"They're head-hunting," I said, my voice tight.
"Part of the game, Aurelia," the Dean said dismissively, munching on a shrimp cocktail. "Thorne can take it."
He shouldn't have to, I thought viciously.
With five minutes left in the second period, it happened.
Atlas had the puck behind his own net. He was looking up ice, setting up a breakout pass. He was exposed.
Two Boston players converged on him. One came from the front. The other came from the blind side.
They didn't play the puck. They played the man.
The blind-side hit caught him high. The shoulder connected with Atlas’s head and neck, driving him violently into the glass. The sound was like a car crash. The glass pane actually shattered, spider-webbing under the force of the impact.
Atlas dropped.
He didn't try to catch himself. He just crumpled to the ice and lay still.
The arena went silent.
Fifty thousand people, and you could hear a pin drop.
I stopped breathing. My world narrowed down to that black jersey lying motionless on the white ice.
Get up. Please, God, get up.
"That's a penalty," the scout noted dryly, scribbling in his notebook. "Charging. Five minutes major."
"Is he moving?" my father asked, leaning forward. Not Is he okay? Just Is the asset damaged?
I stood up. My chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"Aurelia, sit down," my father commanded without looking at me.
"He's not moving," I choked out.
The trainer ran onto the ice. Jax was there, shoving the Boston player, starting a scrum, but I didn't care about the fight. I only cared about Atlas.
After what felt like an eternity—ten seconds? Ten years?—Atlas rolled over.
He pushed himself up to his hands and knees. He shook his head, looking dazed. Then, he stood up.
He swayed.
Jax grabbed his jersey to steady him.
Atlas shoved Jax away. He tapped his helmet. I'm fine.
He skated to the bench under his own power. The crowd cheered, relieved. The gladiator was still alive.
But I saw him flinch when he sat down. I saw him hunch over, clutching his ribs on the side where the boards had hit him. I saw the trainer trying to talk to him, and Atlas shoving him away, barking something aggressive.
He wasn't fine.
" tough kid," the scout nodded. "I like that. Doesn't quit."
I felt sick. I felt a hot, acidic wave of nausea roll through me.
"I need some air," I said abruptly.
"Sit down, Aurelia," my father repeated, his voice sharper. "The period isn't over."
"I said I need air," I snapped.
I turned and walked out of the box before he could stop me. I ignored the shocked look of the Mayor. I ignored my father’s glare.
I walked into the carpeted hallway of the VIP level and started running.
I ran for the elevator. I hit the button for the ground floor.
I had to see him. I didn't care about the rules. I didn't care about the cameras. If he was hurt... if he was broken...
The elevator doors opened. I stepped out into the concrete bowels of the arena. This was the "backstage"—where the Zambonis lived, where the equipment was stored, where the players walked.
It was chaotic. Security guards, press, staff running back and forth.
I ducked behind a stack of crates, pulling the hood of my coat up. I knew the layout. I knew where the locker room tunnel was.
I waited.
The buzzer sounded, ending the second period. The roar of the crowd filtered down through the concrete ceiling.
A minute later, the team came stomping down the rubber-matted hallway. The clack-clack-clack of skates. The smell of sweat and deep heat rub was overwhelming. They were shouting, hyped up on adrenaline and anger.
"Did you see that hit?"
"We're gonna kill them in the third!"
I pressed myself into the shadows. I scanned the faces. Jax. Miller. Peterson.
And then, trailing the pack, walking slower than the rest... Atlas.
He had his helmet off. His hair was plastered to his forehead. There was a cut on his cheek that was bleeding sluggishly. He was holding his left side, his arm pressed tight against his ribs. His face was gray.
He stopped just before the locker room doors, leaning against the concrete wall, closing his eyes. He let out a hiss of pain through his teeth.
"Atlas," I whispered.
His head snapped up. His eyes found me instantly in the shadows.
For a second, he looked confused. Like he thought he was hallucinating from the concussion.
"Aurelia?" he rasped.
I stepped out of the shadows. I didn't care who saw. I crossed the distance between us in three strides.
"You're hurt," I said, my hands hovering over him, terrified to touch him.
He looked around quickly. The hallway was empty; the rest of the team was already inside.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me into a small alcove where the Zamboni spare tires were stored. It was dark, smelling of rubber and ice.
He pressed me against the wall, his body caging mine.
"What are you doing here?" he hissed. "Are you insane? Your father is upstairs."