Chapter 8 #2
"I saw the hit," I said, my voice trembling. I reached up, cupping his jaw. His skin was burning hot, slick with sweat. "Atlas, you're hurt. You need to see the doctor."
"I'm fine," he growled. "Just got the wind knocked out of me."
"Don't lie to me. You're holding your ribs. Is it broken?"
"Bruised. Maybe cracked. Doesn't matter."
"It matters! You can't go back out there!"
"I have to," he said intenseley. "The scout is here. Rangers. If I sit out, I look soft. If I play through it, I look tough."
"You look suicidal!" I cried.
He cut me off by kissing me.
It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was desperate. It tasted of blood and salt and adrenaline. He kissed me like he needed to breathe and I was the only oxygen in the room.
His hands—bulky in his hockey gloves—gripped my waist, pulling me hard against his chest protector. The hard plastic dug into my softness, but I didn't care. I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my hands in his damp hair.
"I needed this," he muttered against my mouth. "I needed to know you were here."
"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm always here."
He pulled back, resting his forehead against mine. He was panting. I could feel his heart hammering against his ribs—a frantic, galloping rhythm.
"You look beautiful," he said, his eyes scanning my face. "Even when you're terrified."
"I hate this," I admitted. "I hate watching you get hurt. I hate that they treat you like meat."
"It's the job, Princess. It's how I get to you."
"Get to me?"
"The NHL," he said. "The contract. The money. If I make it... I'm not the poor kid anymore. I'm not the employee. I'm... acceptable."
My heart broke. "You're already acceptable. You're everything."
He shook his head. "Not to your father."
The locker room door opened down the hall.
"Thorne! Where the hell are you?" Coach Miller’s voice boomed.
Atlas flinched. He pulled away from me, his face twisting in pain as his ribs protested the movement.
"I have to go," he said.
"Atlas, please. Be careful."
He looked at me one last time. The Enforcer mask was slipping back into place, but there was a crack in it now. A crack shaped like me.
"Go back upstairs," he ordered. "Sit in the box. Look pretty. And don't worry about me. I'm unkillable."
He turned and walked back into the light, limping slightly.
I watched him go.
Unkillable.
I shivered. Even unkillable things could break.
The third period was agony.
I sat in the box, sipping tepid water, watching Atlas play through pain that would have hospitalized a normal man.
He was slower. He winced every time he took a stride. But he didn't quit.
In fact, he played better.
He played with a cold, calculated fury. He set up two goals. He cleared the crease with ruthless efficiency.
With one minute left on the clock, Sterling was up 3-2. Boston pulled their goalie for an extra attacker. It was chaos. Bodies flying everywhere.
The puck came loose near the blue line.
Atlas was there.
He dove.
He literally threw his body in front of a slap shot. The puck—a frozen piece of rubber traveling at ninety miles an hour—slammed into his shin guard. He didn't get up. He scrambled to his knees, swatted the puck out of the zone, and killed the clock.
The buzzer sounded.
Sterling won.
The arena exploded. The crowd was chanting his name. "MVP! MVP!"
The Rangers scout stood up, clapping. "That," he said to my father, "is a captain. That kid has heart. We want him."
My father smiled. A smug, proprietary smile. "I told you. He's a good investment."
I looked down at the ice.
The team was celebrating, piling onto the goalie. But Atlas wasn't in the pile.
He was kneeling at center ice, head bowed, leaning heavily on his stick. He looked exhausted. He looked broken.
And then, as the team started to skate off, he looked up.
He found me in the box.
He didn't smile. He just nodded. A barely perceptible dip of his chin.
I did it. For us.
I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I wiped it away before my father could see.
The scout turned to me. "You must be proud of the team, Miss St. James."
I looked at the scout. I looked at my father. I looked at the man bleeding on the ice below.
"Yes," I said, my voice steady and cold as steel. "The team played well."
But inside, I was screaming.
Because I knew what it cost. I knew the price of that victory was the body of the man I loved. And I knew, with a sinking dread, that the bill was coming due.
Atlas
The locker room was a party. Music blasting. Beer flowing (illegally). Guys snapping towels and shouting.
I sat in my stall, staring at the floor.
My ribs were on fire. Every breath was a knife twist. My shin was throbbing where the puck had hit me. My head was swimming.
"Thorne! You animal!" Jax yelled, slapping me on the shoulder (the good one, thankfully). "Did you see the scout? He was drooling!"
"Yeah," I grunted. "Saw him."
I started to peel off my gear. It was a slow, painful process.
I looked at my phone.
One text message.
Aurelia: Meet me. The library. The stacks. Midnight. I don't care about the rules. I need to touch you.
I stared at the screen. The pain in my ribs faded into the background.
I needed her too. I needed her soft hands to erase the violence of the last three hours.
But then, another text came through.
Arthur St. James: My office. Tomorrow morning. 8:00 AM. We need to discuss your future. Bring the contract.
I closed my eyes.
The future.
The NHL. The money. The way out.
It was all right there. I had played the game. I had won.
But as I thought about meeting Aurelia in the dark... as I thought about her smell, her taste, the way she looked at me in the tunnel...
I wondered if I was winning the game, or if I was just setting myself up for a bigger fall.
Because Arthur St. James didn't give gifts. He bought things.
And tomorrow, I had a feeling he was going to remind me exactly who owned me.