Chapter 25 Atlas
I’m not proud of how early I woke up.
Or how long I sat in my truck staring at the roster spreadsheet on my phone.
Or how many times I checked the building number against Google Maps before driving across town.
I told myself it was harmless — bringing Wren coffee.
A “sorry I scared you yesterday” gesture.
A “thanks for not yelling at me for being an idiot on the ice” gesture.
A “please don’t look at me like you’re afraid of me again” gesture.
Bullshit.
I wanted to see her.
Make sure she was okay.
Make sure she woke up.
Make sure she breathed through whatever the hell last night was.
I didn’t know what I expected to find when I turned onto her street.
But I sure as hell didn’t expect that.
Finn.
Stepping out of her building.
At six in the morning.
With his hoodie half-on, hair shoved back like he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times, and that soft, stupid, guilty expression on his face — the one he gets when he knows he’s done something he shouldn’t be apologizing for, but is anyway.
My foot slammed the brake so hard the coffee jerked sideways in the cup holder.
Finn froze when he saw my truck.
For one second.
One heartbeat.
The exact amount of time it takes for jealousy to turn into something sharper.
He didn’t wave.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t explain.
He just looked... wrecked.
Then he jogged down the steps and past my truck, eyes fixed on the sidewalk like he couldn’t bear to look at me again.
I didn’t follow.
I didn’t shout after him.
I didn’t ask, “Were you with her?”
Or worse — “Did she need you instead of me?”
I sat there gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles went white.
By the time I reached the arena, I’d shoved the coffee into the trash.
Because the idea of showing up with it now made bile rise in my throat.
And then I walked into the building and saw her — pale, sleepless, flinching at shadows — and saw Finn looking at her with that soft concern...
And I knew I’d been right.
Something happened last night.
Something that made Finn show up.
Something that made her let him in.
Something that put fear into the air around her like smoke.
I keep replaying it as I sit in the players’ hallway after morning skate, elbows on my knees, sweat cooling on my back.
Coach is yelling at players a few doors down. Someone’s messing with the vending machine. Finn is in the locker room pretending he isn’t looking at the hallway every ten seconds to see if Wren passes by.
My head is buzzing so loud I almost don’t hear Kael walking up beside me.
He stops, leans a shoulder against the wall, crosses his arms.
“You look like you’re one bad thought away from putting someone through a wall,” he says quietly.
He’s not wrong.
I drag a hand down my face. “I’m fine.”
He snorts. “Lie again, I dare you.”
I glare at him.
He holds my stare.
Kael’s the only one on this team who doesn’t flinch when I’m pissed.
He doesn’t challenge me, but he doesn’t back down either.
It makes me want to break things.
And also... not.
Finally, I say, “I saw Finn. This morning.”
Kael’s jaw flexes. He already knows. He always knows.
But he plays it careful. “Yeah?”
“At Wren’s building.”
His eyes sharpen. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m fucking sure.”
The words echo too loudly in the narrow hallway. A rookie pokes his head around the corner and immediately ducks back into the locker room.
Kael lowers his voice. “Did he see you?”
“He looked right at me.”
Kael absorbs that. Doesn’t react. Just... thinks.
I hate it.
I want him to give me something — an order, a direction, a reason not to feel like I’m losing my mind.
Instead, he says, “Did you talk to him yet?”
“No.”
“Are you going to?”
I grind my teeth. “If I do, I’ll break his face.”
Kael doesn’t tell me not to.
Doesn’t pretend it’s unreasonable.
He just stares at the far wall, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“He didn’t do anything wrong,” he says finally.
I bark out a laugh. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes,” Kael says evenly. “I do.”
For some reason that pisses me off more than anything else this morning.
“So that’s it?” I snap. “We just let him parade out of her building? We just—just act like he’s not—”
I stop.
Because I don’t know the end of that sentence.
Kael turns to me fully. “Atlas.”
“Don’t say it,” I mutter.
“I’m going to say it anyway.” His voice is low, firm. “She trusts him.”
Those words hit me like a shot to the ribs.
Trust.
The one thing Wren doesn’t give out. The one thing she withdraws at the slightest threat. The one thing I haven’t earned because she thinks I’m—
Dangerous.
Too big.
Too loud.
Too much.
I look away.
Kael softens, barely. “She was scared last night.”
My head snaps back toward him. “You know that?”
“I saw enough.” His eyes meet mine. “Finn told me the rest.”
Ice floods my bloodstream.
“He told you?” My voice is flat. Dead.
“He didn’t tell me everything,” Kael says. “But he told me enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Enough to know she didn’t want to be alone.”
That word again.
Alone.
My chest twists so hard I almost hunch over.
Because I get it.
I get why she chose Finn.
He’s soft.
He’s safe.
He’s quiet.
He wouldn’t push her.
He wouldn’t grab her.
He wouldn’t scare her by accident.
I exhale slowly, forcing oxygen past the sharp ache in my lungs.
“She should’ve called one of us,” I say.
“She didn’t want us to see her like that.”
“No.” My voice cracks like ice. “She didn’t want to see me.”
Kael doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
I stand abruptly, needing to move. Needing to break something. Needing—
I don’t know.
I stalk down the hallway, fists clenching and unclenching. Kael follows at a distance but doesn’t speak again.
My boots thud across the tile as I reach the locker room doors — and stop dead.
Wren is there.
Standing in the doorway.
Talking quietly with a rookie about tape sizes.
Her voice is soft.
Her hair pulled into a loose braid.
Her eyes shadowed from lack of sleep.
And Finn is five feet away, watching her out of the corner of his eye like he’s ready to catch her if she slips.
Something inside me uncoils.
Slow.
Dark.
Mean.
I walk toward her.
Kael mutters something under his breath — warning or plea, I can’t tell — but I ignore him.
Wren turns as I approach.
And she smiles.
Small.
Tired.
Real.
Like nothing happened last night.
Like she didn’t break.
Like she didn’t need Finn more than she needed me.
“Atlas,” she says softly. “Hi.”
It guts me.
Because she says my name like she trusts me.
Even if she doesn’t.
“Morning,” I manage.
“You okay?” she asks.
The question is a knife.
I open my mouth.
But Finn steps in subtly — a slight shift, putting himself between us like he’s shielding her from something he thinks I might do.
It’s small.
Almost imperceptible.
Almost.
I see red.
Not anger at her.
Not jealousy.
Instinct.
Predator recognizing another predator between him and his mate.
I take one step closer.
Finn straightens.
Wren senses it instantly — she looks between us with a nervous flicker of her gaze.
“Guys?” she whispers. “What’s—”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Nothing,” Finn echoes.
Liars.
Both of us.
I force myself back a step. Not for Finn. Not for the team.
For her.
I clear my throat. “I, uh—” The words choke. I swallow. “I... was going to bring you coffee.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “You were?”
I nod.
She smiles again. “That’s... sweet.”
Sweet.
Nobody uses that word about me.
Ever.
My throat tightens. “Didn’t make it there in time.”
Finn’s jaw flexes.
He knows exactly what I mean.
Wren doesn’t.
She just looks confused. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
I take a breath.
“But I wanted to.”
Her cheeks flush.
Just a little.
Just enough to undo me.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
I nod again.
Then I do the hardest thing I’ve done in years:
I walk away.
Because if I stay — if I stand there watching her talk to Finn, watching her laugh weakly at the rookie’s joke, watching Finn hover like a shield she trusts—
I’ll explode.
And I can’t do that to her.
Not when she’s already drowning.
Not when she chose someone else to save her last night.
Not when I’m too much of a storm for her to stand close to.