Chapter 12
Atlas
The meeting room smelled of lemon polish and threats.
I sat in a chair that was too small for me, my knees bumping against the mahogany edge of Coach Miller’s desk. Across from me sat Miller, looking like he hadn’t slept in a week, and a man I didn't recognize.
The stranger was small, wiry, wearing a suit that cost more than my mother’s house. He had eyes like a shark—flat, black, and dead.
"Atlas," Miller said, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. "This is Mr. Vance. He represents the St. James Trust."
My stomach dropped. It felt like I’d swallowed a puck.
"Mr. Thorne," Vance said. His voice was dry, like paper rustling. He didn't offer his hand. "We've been reviewing the terms of your... arrangement with Mr. St. James regarding his daughter."
"The tutoring," I said quickly. "The security detail."
"Yes," Vance said, opening a folder. He slid a piece of paper across the desk.
"The contract stipulates that upon successful completion of the semester—defined as Aurelia St. James passing all final exams with a B average or higher, and no further public incidents—your debt to the Trust will be forgiven, and the professional contract with the Rangers organization will be executed. "
"I know the terms," I said, gripping the armrests of the chair. My ribs ached, a phantom reminder of the ice.
"Do you?" Vance asked. He pulled another paper from the folder. "Because we have concerns about the 'no public incidents' clause."
He spun the paper around.
It was a printout of a tweet. A photo taken from the stands during the Boston Tech game. It was blurry, zoomed in, but unmistakable.
It was me, in the tunnel, with Aurelia pressed against the wall. We weren't kissing in the photo, but we were close. Too close. My hand was on her waist. Her hand was on my face.
The caption read: The Princess and the Pauper? Looks like the Captain is scoring off the ice too. #SterlingSentinels #Scandal
"This was taken down by the university’s PR team within ten minutes," Vance said. "But three thousand people saw it. Screenshots exist."
I stared at the photo. I remembered that moment. The pain. The fear. The desperate need to touch her.
"She was checking on me," I lied, my voice steady. "I was injured. She was concerned."
"Touching a student is a violation of the conduct code for staff," Vance said. "Technically, as a paid employee of the Trust during that period, you fall under staff guidelines."
"I'm a student," I argued. "I'm the captain."
"You are an investment," Vance corrected coldly. "And investments that carry high risk get liquidated."
Miller spoke up then. "Mr. Vance, Atlas is the best player in the league. The Rangers want him. The fans love him. One blurry photo isn't going to sink the franchise."
"No," Vance agreed. "But Arthur St. James is a man who values discretion above all else. He is... displeased."
Vance leaned forward.
"Consider this a final warning, Mr. Thorne. The Gala is on Saturday. Aurelia will be there. You will be there, representing the team. If there is even a hint of impropriety... if you look at her the wrong way... the deal is off. The debt is reinstated. The contract is shredded."
He closed the folder.
"Focus on your game, son. You're trying to climb a mountain. Don't let a girl be the rock that breaks your rope."
I walked out of the office feeling like I was carrying the weight of the entire arena on my shoulders.
Don't let a girl be the rock that breaks your rope.
The metaphor was clumsy, but the message was clear. Arthur knew. Or he suspected. And he was tightening the leash.
I walked to the locker room. It was empty. Practice wasn't for another hour, but I needed to be alone.
I sat in my stall, staring at my skates.
My phone buzzed.
Aurelia: How did the meeting go? Miller looked scary yesterday.
I stared at her name. A pang of longing hit me so hard it winded me. I wanted to call her. I wanted to go to her apartment, bury my face in her neck, and forget about sharks in suits.
But I couldn't.
If I went to her, I risked everything. My mom’s rehab. My future. Her future.
I typed a reply.
Me: Fine. Just game strategy. Boring.
I deleted it. Too casual.
Me: We need to cool it. Seriously. Until after the Gala.
I deleted that too. Too harsh.
In the end, I didn't send anything. I shoved the phone into my bag and started taping my stick. I wrapped the black tape around the blade, over and over. Round and round.
Control. Discipline. Focus.
That was how I survived the trailer park. That was how I survived my dad leaving. That was how I would survive this.
I just had to turn off the part of me that felt.
Practice was a disaster.
I was skating hard, pushing the pace, trying to outrun the anxiety clawing at my throat. But my head wasn't in the game. I was thinking about Vance. I was thinking about Aurelia’s sad eyes in the tunnel.
"Thorne! Wake up!" Miller shouted from the bench. "You missed a shift! Get your head out of your ass!"
I grimaced, circling back to the blue line.
Jax skated up to me during a drill reset.
"You okay, Cap?" he asked, tapping my shin pads with his stick. "You look like you're trying to murder the puck."
"I'm fine," I snapped. "Just focus on your coverage, Vane. You're leaving the slot open."
"Whoa. Hostile. Just checking in."
"Don't check in. Play hockey."
I shoved past him, skating to the face-off circle.
We ran the power play drill. I was on the point. The puck came back to me. I wound up for a slap shot.
I put everything I had into it. All the rage. All the fear.
My stick snapped.
The carbon fiber exploded in my hands with a loud crack. The blade went flying into the corner. The handle vibrated in my palms, stinging.
I stood there, holding the broken shaft, breathing heavy.
The rink was silent. Everyone was staring at me.
"Thorne," Miller said quietly. "Take five. Go cool off."
I threw the broken stick onto the ice. It clattered loudly, sliding into the boards.
I skated off without a word.
I sat in the equipment room, surrounded by the smell of rubber and ozone. I was sharpening my skates. The sparks flew from the grinding wheel, orange and hot, illuminating the dark room.
Zzzzzzt. Zzzzzzt.
It was hypnotic. It was loud. It drowned out the thoughts.
The door opened.
I didn't look up. "I'm busy, Jax. Go away."
"Not Jax."
The voice was soft. Tentative.
I froze.
Aurelia stood in the doorway. She was wearing a long wool coat and a beanie, clutching a coffee cup. She looked out of place among the drying racks and gear bags. She looked like a splash of color in a black-and-white movie.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, not turning off the machine. "You can't be here. Vance knows. Miller knows."
"I brought you coffee," she said, stepping inside and closing the door. "You didn't answer my text. I got worried."
"I was busy," I said, focusing on the blade against the wheel. Sparks showered my hands, but I didn't flinch.
"You're sharpening your skates. Again. Jax said you broke a stick."
"Equipment failure. It happens."
"Atlas," she said, walking closer. "Look at me."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because if I look at you," I said over the whine of the grinder, "I'm going to do something stupid."
She reached out and flipped the switch on the machine.
The noise died. The wheel spun down into silence.
The sudden quiet was deafening.
"Talk to me," she said.
I finally looked up. She was standing right there, smelling of vanilla and cold air. Her eyes were searching mine, desperate to find the man she had slept with.
But I couldn't be him right now. I had to be the Anvil.
"They have a photo," I said flatly. "Of us in the tunnel. From the game."
Her face paled. "What?"
"It was blurry. They took it down. But Vance... the Trust lawyer... he showed it to me. He said if there's another incident, the deal is off. My debt comes back. The contract goes away."
She put a hand over her mouth. "Oh my god."
"Yeah. Oh my god." I stood up, needing to move, needing to put distance between us. "So you see why you can't be here? You see why we can't... do this?"
"Atlas, we can be careful. We can..."
"There is no careful!" I shouted. The sound echoed off the metal lockers. "There is no hiding from people with that much money! They own the cameras! They own the security! They own me!"
I paced the small room, running a hand through my hair.
"I can't lose this, Aurelia. My mom... if I don't get that signing bonus, she gets kicked out next month. She's finally doing well. She's finally clean. If she leaves, she dies. I know she does."
Aurelia stood frozen. Her eyes filled with tears.
"I'm not asking you to lose it," she whispered. "I'm just asking you not to shut me out. We're a team, remember?"
"We're not a team!" I snapped. "You're the owner's daughter, and I'm the hired help! That's the reality! The rest... the cabin, the apartment... that was a fantasy. A stupid, dangerous fantasy."
The words hung in the air, cruel and sharp.
Aurelia recoiled as if I had slapped her. She took a step back, wrapping her arms around herself.
"You don't mean that," she said, her voice shaking.
"I have to mean it," I said, turning my back on her. "Go. Please. Before someone sees you."
I heard her intake of breath. I heard the scuff of her boots on the concrete.
Then I heard the door open and close.
I was alone.
I slumped against the work table, burying my face in my hands. The silence of the room pressed in on me, suffocating.
I had done it. I had pushed her away. I had protected the future.
So why did it feel like I had just lost the only thing that mattered?
Two days passed in a blur of gray.
I went to class. I went to practice. I ate flavorless chicken and rice. I slept in my dorm room at the Hive, staring at the ceiling, listening to Jax snore.
I didn't text her. She didn't text me.
It was radio silence.
It was exactly what I was supposed to do. It was the disciplined play.
And it was killing me.
Thursday night, I was in the library. Not our secret stack. The main reading room. It was 11:00 PM. I was trying to study for my Macroeconomics final, but the words were swimming on the page.
Supply and Demand. Opportunity Cost.
The opportunity cost of success was Aurelia. That was the equation.
My phone buzzed on the table.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again.
I looked at it.
Sloane: You need to come get her.
I frowned. Sloane never texted me.
Me: What?
Sloane: Aurelia. She's at the studio. She's been there for six hours. She's not answering her phone. The security guard called me saying she's "acting erratic." I'm out of town. You're the only one she listens to.
My heart stopped.
Acting erratic.
Aurelia didn't act erratic. She acted precise. Controlled. Unless...
Unless she was spiraling.
I grabbed my bag. I didn't think about Vance. I didn't think about the contract.
I ran.
The Performing Arts Center was dark, except for a single light in Studio 4.
I burst through the double doors, breathing hard. The hallway smelled of floor wax and old rosin.
I heard the music before I saw her. Tchaikovsky. Swan Lake. But it was loud—distortion loud.
I opened the door to Studio 4.
Aurelia was in the center of the floor.
She was wearing a black leotard and pink tights, her hair loose and wild around her face. She was spinning. Pirouettes. Over and over.
She wasn't spotting. She wasn't controlled. She was spinning with a manic, desperate energy.
"Aurelia!" I yelled over the music.
She didn't hear me. Or she ignored me. She kept spinning, faster and faster, her arms flailing slightly.
I saw her foot slip.
"Aurelia!"
I ran across the floor.
She lost her balance. She pitched forward, crashing hard onto the wooden floor. She didn't get up. She just lay there, a crumpled heap of black and pink.
I slid to my knees beside her. I killed the music on the stereo with a slap of my hand.
"Aurelia?" I grabbed her shoulder, turning her over.
Her face was pale, slick with sweat. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She was gasping for air, dry heaving.
"I can't... I can't get it..." she sobbed, clutching her knee.
"You're hurt?" I asked, panic rising in my throat.
"No... the turn. I can't get the turn. It's not perfect. It has to be perfect."
She tried to push herself up. "I have to do it again."
"No," I said, grabbing her arms, pinning her to the floor gently. "You're done. Look at you. You're exhausted."
"I have to be perfect!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "The Gala! The scouts! My mother! If I'm not perfect, they'll see! They'll see I'm broken!"
She collapsed against my chest, sobbing uncontrollably.
"I'm broken, Atlas. I ruined everything. I ruined us."
My heart shattered into a million pieces.
I pulled her into my lap, rocking her back and forth on the studio floor.
"Shh," I whispered into her hair. "You didn't ruin anything. You're not broken."
"You left me," she cried. "You said we were a fantasy."
"I lied," I admitted, my voice thick with emotion. "I lied, Aurelia. I was scared. I was trying to protect you."
"I don't want protection!" she sobbed. "I want you!"
"You have me," I swore. "You have me right now."
I held her while she cried it out. I stroked her hair. I checked her knee (just a bruise). I wiped the sweat from her forehead with my sleeve.
When the sobs finally subsided to hiccups, she looked up at me. Her mascara was smeared. Her lips were swollen.
"You came," she whispered.
"Sloane texted me."
"You came anyway."
"Yeah. I came anyway."
I looked at her—messy, imperfect, real.
"I can't do the robot thing, Aurelia," I said quietly. "I tried. For two days. I tried to be the Anvil. I tried to focus on the contract. But I can't function without you. You're my anchor."
"You're my fuel," she countered weakly.
"So we're screwed," I said with a sad smile.
"Royally."
She reached up and touched my face. Her hand was trembling.
"Don't leave me again," she whispered. "Even if we have to hide. Even if it's dangerous. Don't leave me alone in the dark."
"I won't," I promised. "I'll stay. We'll figure it out. We'll get through the Gala. We'll get through finals. And then..."
"Then?"
"Then we burn the contract if we have to," I said. And for the first time, I meant it.
I helped her stand up. She leaned on me, heavy and trusting.
"Let's get you home," I said. "You need ice. And potatoes."
She laughed, a weak, watery sound. "I hate potatoes."
"I know. But you love me."
She looked at me, eyes wide. I hadn't meant to say it. It just slipped out.
"Yeah," she whispered. "I really do."
I kissed her forehead.
"Let's go home, Princess."
We walked out of the studio, hand in hand. The pressure was still there. The threats were still real. Vance was still watching.
But as I walked her back to the car, I realized something.
I didn't care if I lost the game. As long as I didn't lose the girl.