Chapter 20
Atlas
Grayce announces our arrival with a shriek that ricochets off the glass storefront door like a puck clanging off the top crossbar of the net.
Heads turn and a bell chimes overhead, delicate and pretty, and it feels like we’ve skated into a different rink, one where everything is soft, small and costs triple what you think.
The boutique smells like cotton candy. A chalkboard sign by the door reads Welcome, Tiny Humans in looping script.
Racks bloom in every direction—petal-pink dresses like cupcakes, tiny denim jackets with sherpa collars, a wall of miniature shoes that look like someone shrunk down grown-up styles with a ray gun.
There’s even a display of absurdly small hockey jerseys emblazoned with Titans’ logos, but Grayce already has three of them.
Maddie leans over the stroller to tug Grayce’s floppy bow straight, murmuring, “Too much?” and then answering herself, “Nah. Own it,” before she catches me grinning. “What?” she asks.
“Nothing.” I steer the stroller around a table stacked with knit blankets that probably come with a mortgage. “Just enjoying how seriously you consult the headband.”
She snorts but her cheeks go pink. “The headband has opinions.”
“Clearly, but so do I.” I lower my voice and tip my head toward Grayce. “Tell your mother we want the dinosaur pajamas, not the florals.”
Maddie shoots me a look, but I see it—she wants to smile. She pretends to examine a rack of footie sleepers. “You’re both outvoted. We’re here for basics.”
“Basics,” I echo, eyeing a tiny leather bomber jacket on a mannequin no taller than my thigh. “Right.”
She takes the stroller from me toward a section labeled Everyday Essentials. The metal hangers make a light clink as she thumbs through them, stopping to pinch fabric between her fingers. Practical, and I love that side of her.
When she finds something she likes, she holds it up to Grayce’s chest and tips her head to the side to picture it on her.
I stand and watch the way she moves. There’s nothing performative about it. Just the patient attention of someone who has decided, over and over, that this tiny person matters most in the room.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up.
“Observing.” I pick a pack of onesies with little moons and stars. “These feel like a trap. I buy six and she fits in them for six days.”
“That’s because she’s a weed.” Maddie’s mouth curves. “A delicious, adorable weed. Thank God you make millions.” She reaches to take the pack from me, our fingers brush, and her blush deepens as fast as she jerks her hand back.
I grin, because I’m an idiot who enjoys poke-the-bear, and I lean toward her just enough to murmur, “You blush so easily when I touch you.”
“Atlas.” A warning, but so breathless I can’t take it seriously.
“What?” I hold out my arms innocently. “Just cataloging data. You know, for science.”
She tries so hard not to smile, she looks pained. “Science is canceled.”
“Tragic.” I pick up an absurdly tiny beanie with bear ears. “What about this?”
“We’re not doing animal ears,” she says automatically, then softens when Grayce squeals and kicks. “Okay. Maybe one animal ear item. But not if it’s scratchy.”
I rub the beanie against my jaw, theatrically evaluating. “Soft. Also, this would look killer with her new sneakers.”
“We didn’t buy sneakers yet.” But she’s already steering toward the wall of baby shoes like her feet had the thought before her brain did.
The shoes are absolutely ridiculous—little high-tops with Velcro lightning bolts, tiny slip-on canvas pairs patterned with whales, and miniature penny loafers that make me wheeze-laugh.
Maddie crouches, scanning, one hand braced on the stroller handle, and Grayce leans forward like she’s helping shop.
I squat beside them and point at a pair of baby-size high-tops in white with a thin gold stripe.
“We need those. She’ll be running faster than any other kid.”
“You are not turning our child into a walking endorsement,” she says, then blinks like she didn’t mean to say our out loud. She ducks her head deeper into the shoes. “What about these?” She lifts a pair of soft-soled sneakers with colorful confetti speckles.
“They look like parade shoes.”
“That’s a compliment.”
“Every day with you is a parade,” I say lightly, because if I say it with too much weight it’ll scare her, and I’m a man who has learned the hard way to keep his weight balanced. “Try them,” I say to Grayce, who obliges by grabbing one and attempting to eat it.
Maddie laughs under her breath, the sound low and warm, and I file it, because I’m greedy about every version of her I get to keep.
We gather a stack—socks, onesies, leggings that will be too small by Tuesday, a denim jacket so cute it should be illegal—and drift toward the fitting bench where a small mirror hangs at toddler height.
Maddie sits and lifts Grayce out, her hands sure and gentle, the muscle memory of a hundred changes and buckles in the way her fingers move.
She slides a little cardigan onto Grayce’s arms, then holds her up to the mirror and gasps. “Who is she? An heiress? A CEO?”
“Captain,” I say without thinking.
Maddie bites her lip, and the reflection catches the moment her eyes go shiny before she blinks it away. She clears her throat. “Well, Captain, what do you think?” She bounces Grayce, who watches her own reflection like a celebrity and blows spit bubbles with enthusiasm.
I lean against the side of the bench, close enough to smell Maddie’s shampoo, a scent that is clean and a little citrusy, and close enough that if I turned my head, I could kiss the spot where her neck meets her shoulder.
She feels it. I know she does, because her breath hitches and she angles away by an inch.
“Don’t,” she murmurs.
“Didn’t do anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Thought about it.” I keep my voice easy. Teasing, not pushing. The agreement was hers, the lines drawn by her hand, but it doesn’t mean I’m not going to nudge them every chance I can get.
What I wouldn’t give to reach out and brush my lips against hers, just to see the blush on her cheeks and heat in her eyes that I know she can’t deny, but then I hear it—my name in an awed whisper.
“Atlas Karolak?” a voice asks, tentative.
I turn to find a dad in a Penguins sweatshirt with a small boy holding his hand, both hovering at the end of the display like they’re trying not to spook a deer. The kid’s eyes are huge, and his dad’s phone is already in hand.
“Hey,” I say, easy. “How’s it going?”
The wave of recognition happens quickly once you open the gate. A couple pushing a stroller hang back to listen. Two women by the sock display angle for a better view. The saleswoman lights up like the moon.
“What’s up, buddy?” I ask the little boy who looks like he’s about to have a fit standing before me.
His dad gives him a gentle push my way.
“Um, um… I’ve got your jersey,” he finally stammers.
“Oh yeah? Too bad you don’t have it with you, or I could sign it. You been watching the playoffs?”
His smile lights up and he nods. “You smoked the Eagles last round.”
“Do you play?”
“Left wing, just like you. You’re my favorite player.”
We chat about how he’s taping his stick and whether he’s shooting from the heel or the toe, and I demonstrate both for him.
“Mind if we get a picture?” the dad asks, an echo of three thousand other dads at three thousand other surprise moments I’ve lived through.
The answer is always yes.
“Of course.” I crouch, pull the kid in shoulder to shoulder, and we smile as his father takes a few photos.
“You’re going to watch the second round, right?” I ask as I straighten.
The kid nods so hard his hair flops. “My dad and I are going to game two. We got nosebleeds.”
“Best view in the house,” I say and mean it, because getting to go with your dad is a thing I know some boys don’t experience. “We’ll try to make it worth the climb.”
We trade good-lucks and fist bumps. A few more shoppers, now feeling like they have permission to approach, ask for photos and I gladly oblige.
When I turn back, Maddie’s face is composed but a little pale. She’d been watching the entire exchange with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. She’s angled her body like a human shield between herself and Grayce in the stroller.
“Hey,” I say, low. “You okay?”
She exhales. “I forget you’re famous.”
“Not so famous,” I assure her. “If I were walking down a street in Los Angeles, no one would know who I was.”
Maddie gives a nervous laugh and nods. “Caught me off guard.”
“Sorry,” I say, even though it’s nothing to apologize for. “I can duck it faster if you want. Say no more.”
“You don’t have to avoid interacting with fans just because I’m not used to it.” She keeps her voice even, but her hand is white knuckled on the stroller handle. “It’s just… a lot, but I know I’ll get used to it.”
“But you don’t have to be a part of it,” I assure her, sliding in closer until my shoulder grazes hers.
I position my body without making a thing of it, between her and the wider store, blocking the casual glance.
The move is automatic on the ice—take the angle, protect the lane.
“I also want to make sure we protect Grayce.”
“Agreed.” She swallows and nods, the set of her jaw loosening a notch. “Thanks.” Her eyes flick up to mine and away. “You know I’m not mad.”
“Didn’t think you were.” I tip my head toward Grayce, who is laser-focused on the corner of the sales counter like it insulted her. “She’s planning to fight the register.”
“That register had it coming.” Maddie breathes out a tiny laugh, and color creeps back into her face. “Okay. We’ve got the basics. Socks. Onesies. Next up, a beanie with maybe—maybe—bear ears.”
“We’re making concessions.” I give a mock sigh. “I’ll tell the dinosaur pajamas we’ve got a chance.”
Maddie snorts and rolls the stroller toward the sock wall, and I follow like a good dad and shopping partner.
We build a small mountain of clothing. Socks with little grippers shaped like stars, soft leggings in charcoal, rose, and a yellow Maddie calls mustard that she swears will be “adorable with the right top.” And of course, those confetti sneakers we both keep pretending we’re not already in love with.
At the counter, the saleswoman scans our items, periodically leaning over the counter to make silly faces at Grayce, who stares back at her with suspicion.
As we’re walking to the car, Maddie says, “Don’t forget the social worker visit Thursday afternoon.”
“How could I forget?” I say, noting only to myself that this is as big an event as the playoffs.
It’s the day Maddie and I will be evaluated for our fitness to be Grayce’s adoptive parents.
“They’ll ask the usual. Safety measures. Daily routine. How we split care. Things like that.”
“Do we need to prep anything specific?”
“Most of it is already in the file—guardianship order, Gray’s consent to adoption. The visit is more observation than interrogation.”
I smile down at her. “We’ll nail it.”
“Of course we will,” she says, and we bump our fists together.
When we reach the car, Maddie lifts Grayce out of the stroller and I fold it up. “Oh, one other thing.” Her gaze catches mine. “Before finalization, the court will ask what we want to do about her last name.”
“Right.” I knew it was coming, and I’d been wondering how it would feel to talk about it. It feels easier than I expected. “What do you think?”
Maddie’s fingers find Grayce’s knee and give it a gentle squeeze. She doesn’t look at me when she says, “I think Grayce should keep Donovan.”
Relief swells within. “I absolutely agree.”
Surprise, then relief breaks over her face like a shift in light, culminating in a sunrise of a smile. “You do?”
“Thought about Kowpolopowski for like, half a second.” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “But it didn’t sit right.” Maddie laughs and I grin back at her. “She’s Gray’s daughter. She’s a Donovan.”
Maddie’s eyes go bright and wet and then steady. She nods. “Yes. And we don’t need her name to match ours to know she’s ours.”
“Preach it, sister.”
I move to put the stroller in the trunk, but the look on Maddie’s face causes me to pause. Gone is the lighthearted vibe and her gaze is somber.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
Maddie swallows. Shakes her head. “Nothing’s wrong but, thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not making it a thing.” She lifts one shoulder. “For not trying to erase him.”
“I’d never do that,” I say, and I mean it so much I hear the edge in my own voice.
“He gave me her.” I look down at Grayce, who’s staring across the parking lot at a little girl carrying a balloon.
“He gave us her.” I clear my throat and lighten it.
“Also, Donovan looks sick on the back of a toddler jersey.”
Maddie’s laugh cracks the tension cleanly. “Practical and sentimental. Who knew?”
“Tell no one,” I deadpan. “It’ll ruin my brand.”
“What is your brand?” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. We’re back in teasing mode. “Brooding winger with a heart of gold?”
“Painfully handsome, devastatingly humble.”
She tilts her head, considering. “Nah.”
“Beast in the sack?” I suggest.
The blush returns like it’s on a string. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“Persistent,” I correct, which earns me an eye roll I catalog as another small win.