Chapter 4
Atlas
Iwasn’t paying attention before. That’s the lie I tell myself, at least. Because there’s no way I just…start noticing things about him out of nowhere.
My eyes can’t stop gravitating to fucking Damien Harrow, like I’m an asteroid caught in his orbit.
Seven days of practice, locker rooms, passing each other in hallways, and sitting across from each other during meetings like nothing changed.
Like we didn’t sign a contract that rewrote the way we’re supposed to exist around each other.
Like I didn’t let him kiss me.
Like he didn’t take control of it so easily it still makes my stomach flip if I think about it too long.
I try not to think about it, but his fucking mouth is consuming my every waking thought. I’ve kissed lots of people, mostly women and once a drag performer at brunch. But Damien…
I’m at the rink twenty minutes early today, which is unusual for me since I’m normally pulling on my jersey on the ice at least two minutes late.
But I’m not here for me. I’m here because?—
The door opens.
Right on time.
Damien walks in exactly twenty minutes before practice, like he does every day.
Same stride. Same expression. Same quiet, controlled presence, like the world bends around him instead of the other way around.
I notice it now. I didn’t before—or maybe I did and just didn’t care. But now I care.
I lean back against the wall, arms crossed, pretending like I’m just stretching, just killing time, not waiting for him. He doesn’t look at me, even though my presence is practically begging him to.
He moves through the space like it’s empty, like no one’s worth the effort of acknowledgment unless they force it out of him. I used to force it—jokes, comments, whatever I could throw his way to get something back.
Now I hesitate, which is new.
And really annoying.
He drops his bag at his stall and starts pulling off his hoodie without a word.
I watch the way his shoulders roll slightly when he moves.
His jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly across the room.
I even see the small, barely noticeable twitch under his eye that tells me he’s uncomfortable or irritated.
I’ve been seeing it all week every time the room gets too loud. Too crowded. Too much.
I don’t know why I notice it.
“Connors,” he says, not looking up.
I blink. “Yeah?” I push off the wall, trying to sound normal.
He glances at me sharply, looking me up and down like he’s assessing something.
My cheeks heat.
“You’re here early,” he drawls.
“So are you,” I counter.
“I’m always here early. You’re the one still putting on his skates when practice starts.” He smirks.
I grin slightly. “Maybe I’m here to see you."
His expression flickers, just a fraction, like he didn’t expect that answer.
Hell, I didn’t expect it, either. But everyone has to believe that we’re into each other, even our teammates. So a little flirting in the locker room can’t hurt…can it?
“You suck at flirting.” Damien pulls his shirt off by the neck.
My eyes dip down to his muscular body. A full sleeve of tattoos decorates his right arm.
I must have seen it a thousand times before, but now I’m really looking.
It’s a ship in a storm being dragged down by a giant squid.
Ink peeps out from behind his briefs, but it’s so low that I can’t make it out.
I shrug. “I’m amazing at flirting.”
He gives me a dry look before latching on his padding, covering my front row seat to the gun show.
My gaze drops again, this time to his mouth—Cupid’s bow, pouty pink lips. My mind drifts to the image of kissing him against the lockers. I wonder what kind of sounds he would make.
I look away immediately. Jesus. What’s wrong with me?
It’s been a week, and somehow that one kiss has rewired something in my brain I can’t seem to shut off.
Because now every time he talks, every time his lips move, I remember exactly how they felt.
Soft.
Warm.
I drag a hand down my face.
“You okay?” Damien’s eyebrows are knitted together with—is that concern?
Get it together.
“Practice in five,” Coach calls from across the room.
Thank God.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m good.”
Practice should fix this. It usually burns out the horniness if I skate until my lungs feel like they’re collapsing and my legs don’t have the energy to think about doing anything else.
Except it’s not fucking working today.
“Connors, you good?” Carter calls when I miss a pass.
“I’m great,” I shoot back, forcing a grin. “Just keeping things interesting.”
“You’re keeping things terrible.”
“Same difference.”
Carter’s right. I’m off.
Every movement’s just a half-second behind where it should be. Every joke feels forced.
And I know exactly why.
Because every time Damien gets close, I’m hyperaware of him.
Of where he is.
How close he is.
What he’s doing.
It’s distracting.
It’s stupid.
It’s—
“Atlas!”
I snap back just in time to catch the puck before it slams into my chest.
“Focus,” Damien mutters as he skates past me.
“I am,” I call after him.
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Maybe you’re just distracting,” I shoot back.
That gets a reaction. The corner of his mouth lifts.
Not a smile, but close enough that it hits me harder than it should. My stomach flips.
He’s only acting the part he’s been contracted to play.
“Doubt it,” he says.
I huff out a breath, pushing off harder than necessary.
I nearly miss another pass.
“Connors, what the hell?” Coach snaps.
“I got it,” I say quickly, recovering.
Practice drags—or maybe it flies. I don’t know. Time feels weird when your brain won’t shut up about kissing your teammate.
By the time we finally get a break, I’m more exhausted from thinking than anything else.
I coast to a stop near the boards, dragging in a breath.
Damien skates up beside me. “What’s up with you today?” he asks.
I glance at him. “Nothing.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re off.”
I shrug. “Rough night.”
That’s not even a lie. I was up with Grace until three a.m. while she vomited her guts out.
He studies me for a moment, like he’s trying to figure something out.
I wonder if he sees it.
If he notices the way I’m suddenly struggling around him.
God, I hope not.
“Big night tonight,” I add quickly, changing the subject. “You ready for your big debut, boyfriend?”
He huffs out a quiet breath. “Don’t call me that.”
I grin. “What? It’s accurate.”
He shakes his head slightly, like I’m exhausting. “Just don’t make it weird,” he says.
I gasp with mock surprise. “Damien, I’m hurt.”
“I just said don’t make it weird.”
I roll my eyes.
“Why are you so tense?” he asks.
“I’m not tense,” I say immediately.
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Okay, maybe a little,” I admit, holding up a hand. “But it’s not?—”
He cuts me off. “Why?”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
Because I don’t have an answer I’m willing to say out loud.
Because I don’t know how to explain that he’s the reason.
That being around him feels different now. I don’t know what to do with that.
So instead, I shrug. “First time dating a teammate. And a man,” I say. “Feels like something worth being a little tense about.”
He blinks. “Relax. It’ll be fine.”
“I’m working on it.”
He smirks. “What,” he adds, his voice just a little lower, “you need a kiss to calm down?”
He’s joking. He has to be.
But Damien Harrow doesn’t joke.
“Shut up,” I say, heat rushing up my neck.
He huffs out a quiet laugh.
And something in my chest flips at that little smile on his face.
That’s new. That’s not the guy who barely tolerates me. I feel stupidly, irrationally…happy.
I push off the boards before I can spiral further. “Come on,” I mutter. “Let’s just get through practice before I embarrass myself any more than I already have.”
“Too late,” he says.
I glance back.
He’s still watching me, that same almost-smile lingering on his mouth.
“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re hilarious.”
“I know.”
The car is already waiting when I get downstairs.
Black. Sleek. Tinted windows so dark you can’t see inside. The kind of car that doesn’t belong in a normal parking lot unless someone important is stepping out of it.
I stop a few feet away, letting out a quiet breath.
“Alright,” I mutter. “Here we go.”
The driver steps out and opens the back door without a word.
I slide in, and then I forget how to act like a normal person.
Damien’s already inside, sitting back against the leather seat like he’s carved out of marble.
Dark suit, perfectly fitted. Collar open just enough to look effortless, even though I know someone probably spent way too long making it look that way.
His hair’s styled, but not overdone. He still looks like himself, just…sharper.
More polished.
“Damn,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes flick to mine. “What?”
“You clean up really well.”
His expression doesn’t change much, but there’s a shift there. Small. Almost amused. “You’ve said that already.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug, settling into the seat across from him. “It’s still true.”
He looks me over then.
Slow.
Deliberate.
My skin heats up under his gaze.
“You look good, too,” he says.
“Thanks,” I mutter, adjusting the sleeve of my jacket like I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands.
“Did Joanna send a stylist to you too,” he asks dryly, “or am I just the worst dresser ever?”
I blink in surprise at the question, then laugh. “That’s your second joke today,” I say, pointing at him. “I’m keeping track now.”
“Don’t.”
“Too late.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, and something in my chest does that stupid flip again.
The car starts moving, smooth and quiet, the privacy screen sliding up between the driver and us with a soft hum.