Chapter 22 Atlas
Practice feels off the second I skate onto the ice.
Not because the drills are different.
Not because Coach is in a worse mood than usual.
Not because the rookies keep tripping over their own feet.
Because of her.
Wren.
She’s standing near the boards, clipboard in hand, hair pulled back in a messy knot that’s already falling out. She didn’t even bother with makeup today — not that she needs it, but she usually does something. Mascara. A touch of color. Something that says she gave a shit about being here.
This morning, she looks like she survived the night instead of sleeping through it.
And I can tell the second her eyes meet mine that something is wrong.
Really wrong.
She snaps her gaze away too fast, tucking her chin to her chest like she’s trying to hide behind the clipboard. Finn skates by with a chirpy comment about “fresh ice” and “getting loose,” but even he glances at her like he’s worried.
Kael sees it too — of course, he does — but he pretends to be watching the rookies. He’s a mirror that never shows what he’s actually looking at.
I’m not pretending.
I’m just staring.
I circle by the bench, pretending to stretch my legs. What I’m really doing is watching the lines of her body — the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers clutch the clipboard too tightly, the slight tremor when she adjusts the tape rolls.
She’s not okay.
And she doesn’t want anyone to notice.
Too bad.
I watch everything.
“Atlas!” Coach barks. “Eyes up, not on your damn trainer.”
I tear my eyes away with effort. The rookies snicker. Finn sends me a look that says Be cool.
I’m not cool.
I’m never cool.
We start warm-up drills. My skates cut through the ice in long, powerful strokes I don’t feel. My breath plumes out in clouds that don’t slow my heartbeat. Every time I hit the turn on the far end, I look back at the boards.
Wren’s there.
Watching.
But not watching, really.
She’s somewhere else entirely.
Halfway through drills, she checks her phone.
And freezes.
Like she’s been punched in the ribs.
My gut goes tight. I nearly trip over my own skates — something I never do — but recover before anyone notices. Mostly.
Finn notices.
He looks between me and her with this soft, sympathetic expression that makes me want to break something. I don’t need his sympathy. I need the truth.
What the hell happened to her?
We rotate into contact drills — body checks, corner battles, all the shit Coach loves. I slam the biggest rookie into the boards and he rebounds like rubber, groaning as he skates away.
Usually that clears my head.
But not today.
Every time I hit someone, all I can think about is the way Wren flinched earlier. The way she kept swallowing like she was fighting tears. The way she nearly dropped her phone when she saw whatever message she got.
Message.
Someone’s texting her.
Who?
Kael glances at her too often, sure, but he’d never text something that makes her look like that. Finn’s too soft. The rookies? No. None of them have the guts.
So who—
I slam into a second player, harder than necessary. He bounces off me with a grunt.
“Jesus, Ward,” he mutters. “You trying to break someone today?”
Maybe.
Coach blows his whistle, annoyed. “Atlas! Get your head in it!”
My head is in it.
Just not in hockey.
When the whistle blows for a break, I skate straight to the bench. Wren senses me coming before I get there. Something in the way her back straightens, in the way her shoulders pinch tight, tells me she’s bracing.
Not for pain.
For me.
That fucks me up more than any hit I’ve ever taken.
She doesn’t look up as I stop beside her.
“You okay?” I ask. My voice is rough — always rough — but today it sounds sharper.
She nods without meeting my eyes. “Fine.”
That word again.
Her favorite lie.
“I didn’t ask if you were fine,” I say quietly. “I asked if you were okay.”
She doesn’t answer.
Instead, her phone buzzes in her hand.
Her fingers jerk.
She fumbles it — actually fumbles it — and catches it at the last second. Her face drains of color. Not the pale of a trainer seeing blood or injury. This is something else.
This is fear.
Real fear.
Her hands tremble.
She tries to swipe the message open, but her finger misses. She tries again. Misses again.
I swear I can hear her heartbeat from where I’m standing.
This isn’t normal. This isn’t just stress. This is someone tearing her apart from the inside.
“Who’s texting you?” I ask.
She stiffens like I slapped her.
“It’s nothing,” she says too fast. “Just... personal stuff.”
Personal.
From the way she’s reacting, it feels like someone got personal with her throughout last night, too.
“Show me,” I say, surprising myself.
I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know what I expected. But I know I need to see it. I know the look on her face. I’ve seen it before — on people cornered by someone they can’t fight.
Her eyes snap up to mine, wide, wounded, begging me not to press.
“Atlas—no.”
Her voice. That small. That thin.
It hits something in me I don’t like acknowledging.
I reach forward instinctively, hand brushing her elbow.
She flinches so hard she nearly drops the phone again.
Fuck.
My chest goes cold.
Because she’s not just scared of the phone.
She’s scared of being touched.
By me.
By anyone.
What the hell is happening to her?
I pull my hand back immediately, fingers curling into a fist so tight my knuckles creak.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Okay. I won’t touch you.”
The words feel foreign in my mouth — gentleness isn’t a language I speak fluently — but I force them out.
She swallows. Nods.
“It’s fine,” she says. “Really.”
Bullshit.
I push back onto the ice before I do something stupid, like grab her phone and break it or pull her into me and demand answers.
I skate hard.
Fast.
Reckless.
Coach yells. I don’t hear him.
My lungs burn but not enough. My legs ache but not enough. My anger spikes but doesn’t crest.
I need out.
I need distance.
I need—
A crash pulls my attention sharply.
Kael and a rookie collide at the blue line. Not a hard hit. An ordinary mistake. But Kael loses it — not visibly, not loudly, but I can see the edge in his eyes even from across the rink.
We’re all off.
When practice ends, I don’t shower. I don’t tape my sticks. I don’t do anything I usually do.
I watch her.
From the shadows of the hallway.
She’s in the med room again, head bent over her phone. Shoulders trembling. She’s not crying, but she’s close.
Finn stops by the door and hesitates. He’s gentle with her in ways that make sense — he stands close but not too close, offers help without pushing. But even gentle isn’t enough today.
She waves him off.
He gives her space, brows furrowed in worry.
Kael walks by next — controlled, careful, keeping a distance that looks like it hurts him. He doesn’t say anything. He just lies with his eyes when she tells him she’s fine.
I stay hidden.
Because if I walk in there right now, I’ll do the opposite of gentle.
I’ll demand answers.
I’ll demand names.
I’ll demand the phone.
She won’t give them.
And I’ll scare her more.
The second she leaves the med room, I follow at a distance. Not enough for her to notice. Enough for me to track her.
She walks too fast.
She doesn’t look around.
She’s in her head and not in her body.
She could be hit by anything—
a puck, a player, a stranger—
and she wouldn’t see it coming.
I clench my jaw, following her all the way to the staff exit. She steps outside, hoodie pulled tight, hands shoved deep in her pockets.
Cold wind lifts her hair.
She shivers.
And then she pulls out her phone again.
The way her face changes — open dread, fear so sharp it cuts — tells me everything.
Someone is hurting her.
Someone is doing it on purpose.
Someone is watching her.
The urge to go to her pulses through every vein in my body. But I hold myself back by inches, by breath, by force of will.
Not yet.
Not until she’s ready to tell us.
Not until she’s ready to tell me.
She disappears around the corner and I stay rooted in place, chest heaving like I ran a marathon.
My hands shake.
Not fear.
Rage.
Someone is in her life.
Someone is messing with her head.
Someone is making her flinch at shadows.
And if I find out who—
I will end him.
I don’t care how.
I don’t care where.
I don’t care what it costs.
Nobody breaks her like that.
Not again.
Not while I’m here.
Not ever.