Chapter 9
Damien
The routine feels comfortable. So comfortable that a small part of me begins to wonder how I’ll react when Atlas is no longer warming my bed.
We’ve been “dating” for a month and a half now, and it’s starting to get difficult imagining my life before Atlas rewrote it all.
It’s early one morning, and we’re in Atlas’s car since we decided to start riding to practice together most days to keep up appearances. Also, because we rarely spend nights alone now.
Atlas stops for coffee on the way to practice, pulling into the same place he always does when he stays over. I barely glance up from my phone while he orders because I’m still half asleep.
Then he hands me a drink. I blink.
Sugar-free vanilla, half-caf almond milk latte. Exactly the way I order it.
I look over at him slowly. “How’d you…?”
Atlas shrugs casually as he pulls back onto the road. “You order the same thing every time.”
I stare down at the cup for a second longer than necessary. Nobody remembers details like that unless they need something from me.
But Atlas does.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s terrifying.”
I take a sip of the coffee, mostly so I stop looking at him.
Unfortunately, that also means I start thinking again. Last night’s sex keeps replaying in my mind, whether I want it to or not—the way Atlas touched me, the way he looked at me afterward, the pet names he whispered in my ear while I fell apart in his hands.
I glance over at him before I can stop myself.
“What?”
I hesitate for exactly one second. “How does sex with me hold up against women?”
Atlas almost chokes on his coffee.
He coughs once, staring at me like I just asked him if he had three dicks. “Is this really what we’re talking about at seven in the morning?”
“I’m curious.”
Atlas shakes his head slowly, still looking amused. “I can’t believe this is happening before ’I’ve finished my coffee.”
I lean back slightly in my seat. “You don’t have to answer.”
He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “That sounds like a trap.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You’re fishing for compliments.”
I snort. “I’m gathering data.”
Then Atlas sighs dramatically, like I’m exhausting him. “Fine,” he says. “I like sex with women.”
“Interesting start.”
“I’m answering the question.” His hand finds my thigh and squeezes it slightly. “I’ve always liked women,” he continues. “That part was never confusing.”
“But?”
He glances at me briefly before looking back at the road. “But I’ve kind of always had a feeling there was maybe…more there.”
I stay quiet.
Atlas drums his fingers lightly against the steering wheel while he thinks. “I never really did anything about it,” he admits. “I guess I just never met a guy who made me curious enough to care.”
Something warm and dangerous twists deep in my chest. “And then there was me?”
Atlas points at me without taking his eyes off the road. “I’m not answering that.”
I smile despite myself. “That’s not a no.”
“That’s me telling you to stop talking before we don’t make it to practice.”
The image that flashes through my head is enough to make me look out the window so he doesn’t see my expression change.
“Oh my God,” he says, laughing softly. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m literally not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He squeezes my thigh again and leaves his hand there for the rest of the ride.
The second we walk into the locker room, Patrick notices the hickey on my neck.
“Jesus Christ,” he says loudly enough for half the room to hear. “Atlas, what the hell were you doing to him?”
I keep walking toward my stall without reacting. Normally, I would throw something back at him—a dry comment, a threat, anything to keep the attention from lingering on us too long.
Today I don’t have the energy.
Unfortunately, Patrick mistakes my silence for encouragement.
“Oh my God,” he says, following me. “You’re embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed. I’m deciding whether killing you before practice is worth the paperwork.”
Patrick grins like that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever said.
Across the room, Atlas is pulling gear out of his bag while very obviously listening.
Patrick keeps going anyway.
“Seriously, though,” he says. “That thing is brutal. Atlas, did you attack him, or?—”
“Leave it.”
The room goes quiet for half a second. Atlas doesn’t raise his voice when he says it, which somehow makes it land harder. His tone is calm, flat, and unmistakably serious in a way that immediately cuts through the joking atmosphere.
Patrick blinks.
The rest of the guys react instantly.
“Oooooh,” Carter says under his breath, like we’re in middle school again.
Alex points between us dramatically. “Protective boyfriend alert.”
A few other guys laugh quietly, but Patrick and I both notice the same thing immediately.
Atlas isn’t kidding. There’s no grin on his face. No teasing edge to his voice.
He means it.
Patrick lifts both hands in surrender. “Alright,” he says quickly. “Sorry, sorry.”
Then, surprisingly, he actually backs off.
I glance toward Atlas without thinking. He doesn’t look at me right away, focused on taping his stick as if nothing just happened.
Then he looks up briefly.
Just long enough for our eyes to meet.
Neither of us says anything about it.
But we don’t need to.
My chest tightens anyway.
I hope practice kills me. I can’t handle the stares today.
Atlas’s earlier comment has the whole team riled up for no reason, and now I feel like I’m in the hot seat.
But other than that, I guess everything is going smoothly.
The team is riding the momentum from the last game, everyone moving faster, sharper, more confidently than usual.
Coach is in a decent mood for once, which probably should have tipped me off that the universe is planning to balance itself out somehow.
Atlas and I fall into rhythm immediately. That part has become automatic.
We move around each other on the ice like we already know what the other person is about to do, and the longer it continues, the more obvious it becomes to everyone around us.
“Jesus,” Carter mutters at one point during drills. “You two are getting creepy with this mind-reading shit.”
Atlas laughs.
We finish one scrimmage, then another. Sweat drips down the back of my neck while Coach shouts instructions from the sidelines, and for a while everything feels normal again.
Then Jordan opens his mouth. Jordan has always been…well, Jordan. He’s not particularly open-minded, if you understand my meaning. But that’s never bothered me before. We’ve always been polite to each other. We’re coworkers, after all.
Jordan must be having an off day, because Coach is riding him more than normal.
“You see how Atlas skates? You’ve got to get more momentum behind you, Meretti!”
Most of us are near the bench grabbing water and catching our breath, resetting before the next round. Jordan has been in a bad mood all morning after Coach chewed him out earlier, and apparently he decides we’re the easiest target.
He looks directly at me, glaring at the hickey that’s only partially covered by my practice jersey. “You done being Atlas’s little whore yet? I don’t think I can stand this ‘perfect princes’ bit for much longer.”
The atmosphere changes instantly.
Someone mutters, “Dude.”
Jordan shrugs like he didn’t just say something wildly out of line. “What? I’m just asking.”
I barely have time to process it before Atlas moves.
One second he’s in front of me, and the next, his gloves hit the ice.
Then he’s on Jordan before anybody can stop him.
Everything erupts at once—players shouting, Coach yelling, bodies slamming into the boards.
Atlas grabs Jordan by the front of his jersey and drives him backward with enough force that the glass rattles.
Jordan swings first, but Atlas swings harder.
“Atlas Connors!” Coach roars.
It doesn’t matter.
Atlas lands another hit clean across Jordan’s jaw before two of our teammates finally manage to drag him backward. Jordan stumbles trying to regain his footing, blood dripping from his split lip.
Atlas looks genuinely furious. And for the first time since I met him, I realize how dangerous he looks when he stops smiling.
“Say it again,” Atlas snaps.
“Atlas, enough!” Coach shouts.
Jordan spits blood onto the ice and laughs bitterly. “What, you gonna cry about your whore?”
Atlas lunges again. This time, four people have to hold him back, including me.
Coach finally blows the whistle hard enough to cut through the chaos completely.
“That’s enough!” he yells. “Both of you, off the ice. Now!”
The rink goes dead silent.
Atlas jerks out of the grip of the guys holding him back and skates toward the bench without another word. Jordan follows after a second, still muttering under his breath.
Coach tells both of them they’ll be benched for the next game.
Nobody argues, not even Atlas.
The locker room after practice feels tense in a way I haven’t experienced all season. Most of the team avoids talking about what happened directly, their conversations quieter than usual while everyone changes out of their gear.
Atlas sits at his stall in silence, jaw tight while he untapes his stick with sharp, controlled movements.
I stare at him for a minute before finally jerking my head toward the hallway. “Come here.”
He looks up immediately and follows without question.
The second the locker room door shuts behind us, I turn toward him. “What the hell was that?”
Atlas leans back against the wall, arms crossed. “He crossed a line.”
“He’s an idiot,” I say. “You know that.”
“And?”
“And now you’re benched because you decided to beat the shit out of him.”
Atlas’s expression doesn’t change. “He deserved it.”
I stare at him. “You’re playing the boyfriend role a little too well right now.”
The words come out sharper than I intended, and something shifts in Atlas’s face.
“I wasn’t playing boyfriend.”
The hallway suddenly feels too small.