Chapter 2
Atlas
Idon’t think I’ve ever seen Damien Harrow say yes to anything.
He’s not the kind of person who says yes without a fight, without that tight jaw and clipped tone that says he’s already halfway out the door.
Even on the ice, he plays like everything’s a battle—every pass, every check, every shift like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
So when he says yes?
Just like that?
Yeah. I’m taking fucking notice.
I lean back in Coach’s office chair, contract in my hands, and stare at the blank line where my name is supposed to go.
Joanna stands across from us, composed as ever, one hand resting lightly on the edge of Coach’s desk like she’s presenting a normal business pitch instead of…whatever the hell this is.
“You’ll have time to review everything,” she says smoothly. “Have a lawyer look it over if you’d like. Think about it tonight and make sure you can commit to this.” Her eyes flick between us. “Let me know your final decision tomorrow.”
I nod automatically. “Yeah, okay.”
Damien doesn’t say anything. He grabs the contract without even really looking at it, folds it once, and turns toward the door like the conversation’s over. Like he’s already decided.
Which…he has.
I watch him go for half a second too long. Then I push up out of the chair and follow.
“Hey…” I start.
He doesn’t slow down.
We step out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind us, cutting off Joanna’s presence like it never existed. The arena’s quieter now—practice done, most of the team scattered or heading out.
Damien walks like he’s got somewhere to be.
Like if he stops moving, something might catch up to him.
I jog a few steps to match his pace. “You’re not even gonna read it?”
“I’ll read it later.”
“You’re actually doing this?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.”
Just like that. No second thought. No joking. No shrugging it off.
Yeah.
I blink. “Seriously?”
He stops walking.
Abruptly enough that I run into him.
Damien turns, looking down at me with that same expression he always wears—flat, unreadable, like he’s already decided how much of me he’s willing to tolerate, and I’m pushing it.
“I said yes in there, didn’t I? So yeah, I’m serious. And if you’re not, tell them.”
“That could’ve been…” I wave a hand. “…a negotiation tactic. Or, like, you buying time.”
“It wasn’t.”
I study him.
He’s tall, but still shorter than me by a few inches, with broad shoulders, a hoodie pulled halfway over his damp black hair, and eyes sharp even though he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He always looks like that, though. Like sleep doesn’t come easy.
Like nothing does.
I’ve tried connecting with him before.
Not like this—not with contracts and fake dating and whatever the hell we’re about to sign up for—but in small ways. Locker room conversations. Team dinners. The occasional joke tossed his way just to see if I could get something other than a glare.
Sometimes it works. Most of the time, it doesn’t.
He doesn’t let people in. And now we’re supposed to fake something that requires…closeness.
Touch. Connection.
I let out a quiet breath. “You’re not even a little weirded out by this?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
“That’s concerning.”
“If you’re homophobic, just say that.” He shrugs one shoulder. I notice the way it’s tighter than the other.
“No! No, that’s not what I meant.”
“Okay, then,” he says.
“Why’d you say yes?”
His eyes flick to mine, just for a second. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It kind of does.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re apparently about to fake date each other for three months,” I deadpan. “Feels like something we should talk about.”
“We don’t need to talk about it.”
“That’s not how…” I stop, pressing my lips together for a second. “That’s not how people usually handle…this.”
“We’re not people,” he says flatly. “We’re doing a job.”
I tilt my head. “Right. A job where we pretend to be into each other.”
His expression doesn’t change. “It’s not complicated.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“So I’ve been told.”
We stand there for a second, the space between us stretched tight.
Then he turns and keeps walking. Jesus, he’s annoying.
I follow him again, because apparently I never learn.
We push out through the side doors into the parking lot, where the late afternoon air is cooler than it was earlier. The sky’s starting to dim, soft gray light settling over everything.
Damien heads straight for his car, but I cut him off before he can open the door.
“Okay, hold on,” I say, holding up a hand. “We’re not done.”
He looks at me like I’ve personally offended him. “Yes, we are.”
“No, we’re not.”
His grip tightens slightly around the keys in his hand. “Connors.” His tone is low and warning.
I should probably back off, but I don’t.
“Are you actually going to do this?” I ask again, more seriously this time.
He holds my gaze. “Yes! What else do you want me to fucking say?”
Something in my chest shifts. It feels like he means it. He’s not joking. Not bluffing. Not waiting for a better option. He’s in…which means I am, too.
I swallow.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Then we need to, like…figure some stuff out.”
“There’s a contract.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He exhales, sharp and impatient. “What do you mean?”
I hesitate for half a second. “I mean,” I start, rubbing the back of my neck, “if we’re doing this, we should probably know where the lines are.”
He frowns slightly. “The contract outlines that.”
“Yeah, but…” I gesture between us. “There’s still stuff we should talk about. Like, I don’t know…what we’re comfortable with.”
His eyes narrow just a fraction. “I told you,” he says. “I don’t care. Whatever you want to do, I’m fine with.”
I snort. “I feel like that’s a lie.”
“What do you mean?” Damien leans against his car, the sun reflecting in his green eyes.
I huff out a breath. “Dude, you can barely handle it when I put my arm around your shoulders. How are you gonna handle me acting like your boyfriend?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, but it’s not just about you,” I snap.
That gets his attention.
His gaze sharpens, something colder sliding into his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” I say, holding his stare, “if we’re both in this, we both get a say.”
He considers that. I can see it happening—the slight shift in his posture, the way his shoulders settle like he’s recalibrating.
“Fine,” he says finally. “Say what you need to say.”
I nod once. “Okay. Great. Good.” I immediately forget how I was going to phrase it. Awesome. I drag a hand through my hair, trying to keep this casual. “So…uh,” I start, then stop. “This is stupid.”
Damien rolls his eyes. “Then don’t say it.”
“No, I’m saying it.”
He raises a brow.
“If we’re doing public appearances and stuff,” I continue, “there’s gonna be, like…expectations.”
“Obviously.”
“Right. So…” I gesture vaguely. “Physical stuff.”
He doesn’t react at all.
Cool.
Great.
Love that.
“Like…hand holding,” I add quickly. “Or, you know…whatever.”
“Whatever?” he repeats.
“Yeah. Whatever makes us look like a convincing couple.”
His expression stays blank, which somehow makes this worse.
I clear my throat. “And, uh…kissing.”
He just looks at me. “Why would I care about that?”
My face gets hot before I can stop it. I look away, suddenly very interested in the crack in the pavement near my shoe.
“Right,” I mutter. “Yeah. Sure. Of course you wouldn’t. I’m just trying to be respectful, okay?” I scrub a hand over the back of my neck, trying to recover. “I just meant, like…consent and stuff. Making sure we’re on the same page.”
“We are,” he says.
“You didn’t even hesitate.”
“There’s nothing to hesitate about. I need the cash.”
I risk a glance back at him. He’s already unlocking his car.
Conversation over.
“Okay,” I say, softer this time.
He opens the door. “Tomorrow,” he adds like an afterthought. “We’ll tell her yes.”
Then he gets in.
The door shuts.
The engine starts.
And he’s gone before I can say anything else.
I stand there in the parking lot, hands shoved into my pockets, watching the space where his car used to be.
My heart’s beating a little too fast.
Which is stupid.
It’s just a contract.
Just three months.
Just…
“Why would I care about that?” I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half something else. “Right,” I mutter to myself. “Why would you.”
I glance down at the folded contract in my hand.
My name’s not on it yet.
Neither is his.
But it feels like we’re already in this.
I head for my own car, my mind racing in a dozen different directions.
I don’t turn the music on, and I don’t call anyone. I just drive, hands tight on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road, as if I concentrate hard enough, my brain might finally shut up.
It doesn’t.
The contract sits on the passenger seat, glaring at me like a sour ex. I let out a slow breath at a red light, dragging a hand down my face.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Okay. This is fine.”
The light turns green and I go, the city blurring past in familiar lines—same streets, same turns, same buildings I’ve driven by a hundred times. But everything feels slightly off now, like something shifted when we left Coach’s office. Like I stepped into something I don’t fully understand yet.
I don’t really care about my image, as long as I’m true to myself. My sexuality is really no one’s business but mine. It’s just the thought of being so intimate with Damien that’s freaking me out.
I cringe immediately and drop my forehead briefly against the steering wheel at the next stop sign, letting out a quiet laugh. “Get it together.”
I stare out through the windshield, exhaling slowly. The truth is, I’ve noticed men before. It’s not new, and I’m not blind. I’ve looked at a guy and thought, yeah, I get it; I see the appeal. Locker rooms make that unavoidable.
But it’s always been just that—a passing thought, something that doesn’t linger. I shrug it off and move on because I’ve always liked women. It’s simpler to focus on that.