Chapter 22
Atlas
I relish the cold bite against my cheeks as I coast around the ice, my skate blades carving into the glass-slick surface. My muscles are warm, shoulders loose, focus keen. Everything else drops away.
Coach West blows the whistle. “Warm-up flow—go!”
The entire team moves with determination. Edgework at the blue line, tight turns, heel-to-toe pivots. The puck pops off my tape with a satisfying thwap.
We pour everything we have into practice because this is the playoffs and losing isn’t an option. Coach West bellows feedback and direction with precise efficiency.
“Good.”
“Again.”
“Faster hands.”
“That’s how you beat it.”
“Perfect footwork on the hinge. Again.”
“Keep your shoulders square.”
My lungs work overtime and it’s the burn that says the engine’s tuned and ready.
We practice our penalty kill, which is all about patience with teeth. It’s block and clear, lanes and sticks, reading hands.
“Atlas, watch your gap on entries,” West calls as we reset a drill. “You’re clean in the zone, but sometimes you’re backing in too early at the line. Trust your feet.”
“Yeah, Coach,” I say, the words a puff of white.
After drills, we scrimmage—twenty minutes of hard play designed to mimic the Detroit Cardinals’ style, who is our opponent in round two.
Halfway through, West stops everything with a whistle that could slice down to the bone.
We huddle at the bench where he has a large whiteboard.
The marker squeaks as he roughs out the play.
“They love the high tip. Don’t let them inside you.
And if you get pulled wide, communicate.
I need you three talking.” He stabs the board. “You have to trust each other.”
We run it again.
And again.
And again.
I feed North a clean pass that he buries in the back of the net and Coach’s voice bends around us. “There we go.”
He doesn’t hand out praise like candy. That “There we go” is a steak dinner.
Just when I don’t think I can go anymore, West calls for us to bag-skate for the last five minutes. I fucking hate ’em but there’s no better way to condition your lungs for the marathon of playoff hockey.
Down and back. Down and back. The accumulation is the point, not the single rep. My legs feel like concrete blocks by the end, my lungs like I swallowed razors.
Final whistle. “Cool down and stretch. Film review in twenty.”
As I glide to the bench, I pull off my helmet and run my fingers through my soaked hair. The sting of cold air is like needles on my scalp, but it feels good.
For ninety minutes, I didn’t think about anything except hockey. I didn’t think of Grayce’s laugh or the taste of Maddie on my tongue last night. Certainly not the space she left in my bed when she slipped out.
Ran away, really.
Now those things leak in, forcing me to shut the valve as far as it’ll go. I’ve got other things to focus on right now.
The entire team is efficient as we use the short break to stretch as Coach suggested, changing into sweats and T-shirts. I’m on my second large bottle of water by the time I hit the team meeting room where our video coaches have multiple clips of the Detroit Cardinals that we’re going to study.
Coach West manages the playback, stopping when necessary to provide color commentary. “Watch Kreshnov right here—he lives off pulling the weak-side D into puck-watching. Don’t be that guy. Scan, shoulder check, communicate. If you lose him for a second, he’ll burn you.”
It’s a lot and we all jot on our notepads and when our brains are near bursting, we’re released. Memories of last night with Maddie threaten to creep in, but I banish them once again.
I’m still in work mode and the last thing on my agenda is to get my hip worked on, the lingering effects of an old injury. I don’t bother with the hot tub but head straight to the training room, which smells like antiseptic and the underlying funk of guys who basically sweat for a living.
I lie on my side while Stoltz, our head trainer, sets sticky stim pads along the outside of my hip and flips the unit on. The muscles twitch under the current, a controlled, crawling thrum. He digs his elbow into a knot and I grunt.
“Breathe, big man,” he says without sympathy.
“Was breathing,” I lie.
On the next table, Lucky sprawls on his back, one arm flopped off the side, a trainer scraping along his shoulder with a steel tool that makes a zipper noise against skin. His head rolls on the table and he grins. “Don’t you just love spa day?”
“Your spa sounds like a war crime,” I say. “You crying or sweating?”
“Both. It’s playoff chic.” He winces as the tool hits a spot and then wags his brows. “You looked mean out there.”
“Back at you.”
Stoltz taps my arm. “We’ll let this run for fifteen minutes. I’ll be back then, so just relax.”
“Got it,” I reply and stare at the ceiling.
Squares. Vents. The little water stain shaped like Pennsylvania. Somewhere, a dryer thunks—the equipment room turning today’s sweat into tomorrow’s clean clothes.
Lucky cranes his head toward me. “So. You going to tell me why you glowered at your phone for five minutes before practice, or am I going to have to hack your cloud?”
I glance over at him, note that he’s alone and now has a bag of ice on his shoulder. He’s sitting on the edge of his table, holding the ice in place. “You can barely download an app without texting the group for help. Which is ironic, seeing as how you live on TikTok. But no way you’re hacking me.”
“Facts,” he admits cheerfully. “But don’t dodge. What’s going on?”
I hadn’t realized I was putting off any particular vibes. In fact, I’d been patting myself on the back all day for concentrating solely on hockey.
But no sense in denying it. I’m not ashamed my head’s a bit fucked up and Lucky’s my closest mate. He’s the man who talked me through the biggest decision of my life with Grayce.
So, I give him the one word that I know will explain it all. “Maddie.”
Lucky’s eyebrows go up. “She okay?”
“She’s… good.” The word lands wrong because it’s both true and not enough. “We—” I scrub a hand over my face. I’m not coy by nature, but I glance around and see we’re pretty much alone right now. My eyes land on him without a flinch. “We’re sleeping together.”
Lucky’s eyes almost pop out of his head. “Wow.”
“Yeah, wow,” I mutter.
“How was—”
“Stop,” I cut in, half laughing despite myself. “I’m not giving you a scouting report.”
“You’re no fun. But congrats, man. I’m not surprised, given that you’re practically a ready-made family now.”
“It’s a little less relationship and a little more hookup,” I say.
Lucky goes still. “Her rules or yours?”
“Hers.” I find a cracked tile on the wall and count the fractures like hash marks. “She was clear. No relationship, no promises, no… staying.” The last word tastes stupid.
It’s stupid how much it matters.
“Oof.” Lucky’s humor thins into sympathy. “And you agreed?”
“I agreed because I wanted something.” I don’t try to hide it. “Because if I push for more, she’ll bolt. And because I thought I could handle it. Be patient and let it be what it is.”
“And now?”
“And now I’m furious at how much more I want.” The admission is both relief and humiliation. “Not just because of Grayce. That’s part of it, yeah. But even if there weren’t any diapers, any appointments, any guardianship folders… I’d still want Maddie.”
Lucky studies me. “Spell it out. Tell me why.”
“She’s steady,” I say, the very first thing that comes to mind when I think of her.
“When Grayce is screeching and the house is a disaster, she radiates this calm that makes me feel better. She’s funny without trying.
She has this dry little aside that always lands two seconds after you think the conversation is over and then you’re snort-laughing.
Our banter is off the hook. She blushes when I push—pissed and pink at the same time—and I live for it. ”
Lucky is a captive listener, so I keep going because there’s so much more.
“She’s relentless with forms and calls and those little middle-of-the-day fires that keep a life from going sideways.
She alphabetized the spice drawer by regional influence for no reason but also because she knew at some point, I’d be making soup at midnight and I’d need chili powder fast.” My mouth twitches.
“She sings like an angel but gets embarrassed if I overhear her. She keeps lists of everything and makes tiny check marks in the margins when she finishes a task. She said it makes her feel accomplished. Tucks Grayce’s socks into pairs like she’s tidying a small army.
And when she blushes, I love teasing her about it because she blushes more.
And when… she’s with me?” The air shivers in my lungs. “I can’t see anything else.”
Lucky doesn’t speak for a second. “You sound like you wrote that with a pen you keep in your chest.”
“Maybe I did,” I say.
“Okay. Here’s the problem. You want the whole meal and she’s offering appetizers.”
“You’re a fucking poet.” My laugh is a short exhale. “And I’m starving.”
“Exactly.” He turns his head my way. “So you got two choices. Either pretend you’re not hungry and end up resenting her or tell her you’re hungry and risk her bolting. You can’t hover between, because that middle ground? It’s where knees and hearts go to die.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Me either,” he says with a grin. “But I stand by the precept you can’t hover in the middle forever. You will get resentful.”
“I can’t push right now,” I say. It’s automatic and true. “If I push, she’ll read it as pressure. As manipulation.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “She needed rules to feel safe enough to say yes at all and I respect that.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, man.”
I stare at the fluorescent light above us until it fuzzes out of focus. “And if she says she can never do more?”
Lucky’s answer is gentler than I expect. “Then you decide if you can keep doing this without breaking yourself.”
I sigh in frustration. “She’s the most complicated person I know.”
He sobers. “Listen. You know your position better than anybody. Defense doesn’t mean standing still. It means active patience.”
We’re going with the hockey analogy, I see. “Don’t chase a hit in the neutral zone and take yourself out of the play.”
“Stay above the puck. Make the high-percentage read.”
I laugh because that doesn’t apply at all. “Hold the middle,” I say, translating it back into real-life scenarios. “Keep the inside position. Stick in the lane.”
“And talk,” he adds, stepping away from the sport we both love beyond measure. “Always talk. Don’t make her guess because trust me, fear fills silence with the worst-case scenario.”
I nod, slow. The plan feels like a system, not a wish. Systems win.
Stoltz reappears and removes the stim pads. I wait as he rubs a wintergreen salve into my hip. “You’re good,” he says, satisfied. “Go stretch. And drink water.” He jerks his chin at Lucky. “You—ice ten more and leave it on, or I’ll staple it.”
“Violence,” Lucky says, delighted.
I slide off the table and feel the joint move smooth and loose. I grab a band and step into a groin stretch, the angle precise. Lucky lobs a half-empty water bottle at my chest without looking. I catch it and drink.
“One last piece of advice?” he offers.
“Yeah?”
He grins, bright and wicked. “Maybe stop telling her she’s blushing every time she blushes.”
I stare at him. “That’s half my fun.”
“Find new fun,” he replies, then breaks into a laugh when I flip him off.
We leave the room together twenty minutes later, taped and iced. Staff roll hampers of practice jerseys toward the equipment room.
My phone buzzes and I don’t mean to check it, but my hand acts before my brain does.
A text from Maddie. The nugget stacked blocks by herself for a minute, then tried to eat one. She is, as you say, an incredible athlete. Nap starting.
A stupid smile climbs my face. I clamp it down and type back. Elite core strength. Tell Captain Cutie I’ll expect a repeat performance when I get home.
The response is quick: She says bring snacks or don’t come back. A second bubble. Kidding. (Not kidding.)
I put the phone in my pocket before I can type anything that will offend Maddie’s boundaries. Lucky watches me with that knowing smirk and wisely says nothing. We peel off—him to the cold tub, me to the showers.
Hot water hammers my shoulders, steam erasing the last grit of the rink. I brace a hand against the tile and let the spray beat the thoughts into line.
I want Maddie. Not just in my bed, not just on an agreed-upon schedule that keeps her heart from feeling too exposed. But I know I can’t bulldoze her walls.
On the other hand, I don’t have to pretend they’re my walls too.
Hold the middle. Communicate. Patience with teeth.
I’ll give her time. But I won’t keep lying to myself that I can sleep in a bed she leaves every night and call that acceptable forever.