Chapter 16
Atlas
I sat on the edge of my bed, still wearing my tuxedo pants and white shirt, though the tie was long gone. My bag was packed.
Not a gym bag. A duffel bag. Containing everything I owned.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Coach Miller: My office. 6:00 AM. Bring your playbook.
I stared at the screen until it went dark.
Bring your playbook.
That was code. It meant: You're cut. Hand in your gear.
I didn't wait until 6:00. I couldn't sit in this room for another three hours, staring at the empty space where Aurelia had lain just two days ago. The ghost of her—the smell of vanilla, the echo of her laugh—was suffocating me.
I grabbed the bag. I grabbed my hockey sticks.
I walked out of the Hive without saying goodbye to Jax. It was better this way. Clean break. No explanations.
The arena was locked, but I had a key. For now.
I walked through the silent tunnels, my footsteps echoing on the concrete. The smell of the ice hit me—that crisp, clean chemical scent that had always meant home. Now, it smelled like a crime scene.
I went to the locker room. I emptied my stall.
Nameplate: THORNE #24.
I pulled it out of the slot. A piece of plastic. That was all it was. Four years of blood, sweat, and broken bones reduced to a piece of plastic.
I put it in my bag.
"Leaving so soon?"
The voice came from the doorway.
I didn't turn around. I kept packing. "It's 4:00 AM, Arthur. Don't you sleep?"
Arthur St. James walked into the locker room. He was wearing a camel-hair coat and a cashmere scarf. He looked rested. He looked like a man who had won.
"I find sleep elusive when my investments are failing," Arthur said, stopping a few feet away. He leaned against a locker, crossing his arms. "Vance tells me you received the email."
"Yeah. I got it."
"And?"
"And what?" I zipped the bag. I slung it over my shoulder. I turned to face him. "You win. The contract is dead. The debt is back. I'm leaving."
"Just like that?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "No fight? No begging? I expected more from the Anvil."
"I'm tired of fighting you, Arthur. You have more money than God, and you play dirty. Topher? Really? That was low."
"Topher is an idiot," Arthur dismissed. "But he was a useful idiot. He provided the evidence I needed to invoke the morality clause."
"There was no immorality," I said through gritted teeth. "I loved her."
Arthur’s face hardened. The polite mask slipped.
"That," he said coldly, "is exactly the problem. You loved her. And love makes people stupid. It makes them reckless. It makes them think they can bridge gaps that are unbridgeable."
He pushed off the locker and walked toward me. He stopped within striking distance. I could smell his cologne—sandalwood and arrogance.
"You think you're the first, Atlas? You think you're the first scholarship boy to think he could climb the ladder by charming the princess?"
"I didn't want your money," I said. "I wanted her."
"It's the same thing," Arthur snapped. "She is the money. She is the legacy. And you... you are a liability. A distraction. A stain."
He reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out an envelope.
"However," Arthur said, his voice smoothing out again. "I am a businessman. And I dislike loose ends."
He held out the envelope.
"What is this?"
"A severance package. Of sorts."
I didn't take it. "I don't want your money."
"It's not for you," Arthur said. "It's for your mother. Sunnyvale Rehab called me. Apparently, they have a waiting list. And if the account isn't current by Monday..."
My blood ran cold. He knew. He had called them. He was holding my mother hostage.
"You son of a bitch."
"Take the envelope, Atlas. Inside is a check. Fifty thousand dollars. It clears the debt. It pays for your mother’s treatment for the next six months."
I stared at the white paper rectangle. It was my mother’s life.
"What's the catch?" I rasped.
"Simple. You leave. Today. You withdraw from the university. You disappear. And..." He paused, his eyes gleaming. "You break her heart."
"What?"
"Aurelia. She’s stubborn. She thinks this is Romeo and Juliet. She thinks she can fix this. She’s already called my office ten times this morning threatening to liquidate her trust fund."
I felt a surge of pride—and terror. She would do it. She would burn it all down.
"If she does that," Arthur continued, "she loses everything. Her inheritance. Her standing. Her future. She becomes... ordinary. Like you."
"Maybe she wants to be ordinary."
"She thinks she does. But she won't survive it. She’s a St. James. She needs the insulation. If you take her away from this life... you will destroy her. Slowly. Resentment will build. The romance will fade. And eventually, she will hate you for taking her from the castle to the trailer park."
His words hit me like a physical blow. Because they echoed my own deepest fear. The fear I had confessed on the mountain.
I can't carry it.
"So," Arthur said softly. "Here is the deal. You take the money. You save your mother. And you tell Aurelia that it was all a lie. You tell her you used her. You tell her you never loved her. You make her hate you."
"Why?" I whispered.
"Because hate is clean," Arthur said. "Hate heals. Love... love festers. If she hates you, she moves on. She marries Topher or someone like him. She has a good life. If she loves you... she spends the rest of her life looking for you."
He held the envelope closer.
"Be the hero, Atlas. Save her by hurting her."
I looked at the envelope. I looked at Arthur’s cold eyes.
I thought about my mom, sitting in a plastic chair in Ohio, shaking.
I thought about Aurelia, sitting in her white apartment, planning a loft in Tribeca.
I realized then that Arthur was right. Not about the money. But about the destruction. If she stayed with me, I would drag her down. I had nothing. No degree. No contract. A mountain of debt.
I would turn her into my mother—worn down, tired, struggling.
I couldn't do that to her.
I reached out. My hand shook.
I took the envelope.
"Good choice," Arthur said. He smiled. "You have one hour to clear out of the Hive. And Atlas?"
I looked up.
"Make it convincing."
I walked to her apartment. It was 5:00 AM. The snow was falling heavily now, erasing my footprints as soon as I made them.
I didn't use the key. I knocked.
It took a minute. Then, I heard the lock turn.
The door opened.
Aurelia stood there. She was wearing my hoodie—the one I had left. Her eyes were red and puffy. She looked like she hadn't slept in a week.
When she saw me, her face crumpled with relief.
"Atlas!"
She threw herself at me.
I didn't catch her.
I stepped back. Her arms flailed, hitting empty air. She stumbled, catching herself on the doorframe.
She looked up at me, confused. Hurt.
"Atlas?"
"We need to talk," I said. My voice was dead. Flat. I had rehearsed it for the last twenty minutes walking over here. Don't feel. Don't look at her eyes. Just say the lines.
" talk?" She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself. "Okay. Come in. Did you talk to my dad? Did you fix it?"
"I talked to him," I said. "And yeah. I fixed it."
"Oh thank god." She let out a sob of relief. "I was so scared. I thought... I thought he was going to ruin you."
"He offered me a deal," I said.
"A deal? The contract? Is it back on?"
"No. Not the contract. A buyout."
I reached into my pocket. I pulled out the check. I held it up.
"Fifty thousand dollars," I said. "To walk away."
She stared at the check. Then she looked at my face. She laughed nervously.
"That's... that's funny, Atlas. But seriously. What's the plan? Tribeca? We can still go. I called the realtor..."
"There is no Tribeca, Aurelia," I said loudly. "There is no plan."
"What are you saying?"
"I took the money."
The silence that followed was louder than the screaming in my head.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
"You... you took the money?"
"Yeah. It clears my debt. It gets my mom set up. It’s a clean slate."
"But... what about us?"
I looked at her. I forced my face into a sneer. I channeled every ounce of rage and bitterness I had ever felt toward my father, toward the world, and I directed it at her.
"Us?" I laughed. It was a cruel sound. "Princess, there never was an 'us'. It was a job. Remember? I was the employee. You were the assignment."
"Stop it," she whispered. She shook her head. "Stop lying. Last night... you said you loved me. You said I was your home."
"I said what I had to say to keep you happy," I lied. The words tasted like bile. "I needed to keep you on the hook until the contract was signed. When Vance killed the contract... well, I had to cut my losses. Fifty grand is a nice consolation prize."
She looked at me like I had stabbed her. Her face went gray. She swayed on her feet.
"You don't mean that," she said. Her voice was barely audible. "You told me about your mom. You told me about your dad. On the mountain. That wasn't a lie. I felt it."
"It's called a sob story, Aurelia. It works on girls like you. Girls who want to save someone. It makes you feel important. Useful."
"I am important to you!" she screamed. "I know I am! I felt your heart beating! You can't fake that!"
"I'm an athlete," I said cold-heartedly. "I know how to control my heart rate. I know how to perform."
I took a step closer to her. I needed to finish this. I needed to break her so completely that she would never look back.
"You were fun," I said, looking her up and down with detached appraisal.
"Great in bed. A little needy, but... worth the effort.
But let's be real. You're a St. James. I'm a Thorne.
Did you really think I wanted to play house with you forever?
I wanted the NHL. I wanted the money. You were just the ticket. "
She slapped me.
It was hard. Harder than the first time in the parking lot. Her ring cut my cheek.
I didn't flinch. I turned my face back to her.
"Done?" I asked.
Tears were streaming down her face now. She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
"Get out," she whispered.
"Gladly."
I turned to leave.
"Wait."
She reached into the pocket of the hoodie—my hoodie. She pulled out the key. The silver key to her apartment.
She threw it at me. It hit my chest and clattered to the floor.
Then she grabbed the chain around her neck. The one with the hockey tape.
She ripped it off. The clasp snapped.
She threw that too.
"Take your trash," she spat.
I looked at the tape on the floor. Always playing for you.
I wanted to fall to my knees. I wanted to beg her forgiveness. I wanted to tell her that I was doing this to save her.
But I didn't.
I bent down. I picked up the key. I picked up the tape.
I put them in my pocket.
"Goodbye, Aurelia," I said.
"I hate you," she sobbed. "I hate you more than anything in the world."
"Good," I said softly. "Keep hating me. It helps."
I walked away.
I walked down the hall. I heard her door slam. I heard the lock turn.
Then, I heard a scream. A muffled, agonizing scream of pure heartbreak.
It echoed through the building. It echoed through my soul.
I kept walking.
I walked out of the building. I walked to my truck. I threw my bag in the back.
I got in. I started the engine.
I drove.
I didn't look in the rearview mirror.
I drove out of Burlingham. I drove toward the highway.
I had fifty thousand dollars in my pocket. My mother was safe. Aurelia was safe.
And I was dead.
I was a walking corpse driving a Ford F-150.
I didn't cry. I didn't scream.
I just turned up the radio to drown out the sound of my own heart breaking into dust.