Chapter 17 #2
He answered Coach’s questions during drills yesterday. Discussed plays. Talked to the media.
But never once spoke to me. The silence hurts more than yelling would have. The worst part is that I deserve it.
I can feel Atlas looking at me occasionally while we get dressed, but neither of us says anything. The tension between us is thick enough to choke on.
Patrick looks between us while taping his stick. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Dad and Dad really are fighting.”
A few guys snort quietly.
Normally Atlas would laugh, but today he looks up sharply. “Shut the fuck up.”
The entire locker room goes silent. Patrick blinks. Atlas rarely snaps at teammates, especially not like that.
“I was joking, man. Sorry,” Patrick says carefully.
“I don’t care.” The anger in Atlas’s voice makes my chest ache, because underneath it, I hear the hurt.
Patrick lifts both hands in surrender and backs off. Nobody says another word after that.
I keep my eyes down while tying my skates tighter than necessary. Atlas still won’t look directly at me.
Good.
That makes this easier.
Coach starts his pregame speech a few minutes later, but I barely hear any of it. All I can think about is Grace—pale hospital blankets, her laugh, the way she shoved her sketchbook at me and asked for help with shading.
The leukemia finally got to her.
My stomach twists violently. I would rather die than let him touch her.
So I know what I have to do. Even if Atlas hates me for it afterward.
The stadium is deafening tonight. Fans scream as we skate onto the ice, lights flashing across packed stands while music pounds through the arena hard enough to vibrate in my chest.
Normally, this feeling centers me, but tonight I feel detached from my own body, like I’m watching someone else in my jersey.
Atlas skates beside me during warmups. We still move around each other instinctively, even now. No matter how badly things are falling apart between us off the ice, our bodies still understand each other perfectly out here.
Atlas passes me the puck during drills without even looking. I catch it automatically.
Shoot.
Score.
The crowd erupts.
Atlas glances toward me for half a second.
And for one terrible moment, I almost tell him everything.
The urge hits so hard it physically hurts.
I could do it.
I could skate over right now and say:
Sebastian threatened Grace.
I’m trying to protect you.
Please don’t hate me.
I love you.
Then I imagine Sebastian finding out.
And Grace dying because I needed comfort more than I needed control.
The thought makes me sick enough to swallow the words immediately.
The game starts. Atlas and I fall into rhythm immediately. Passes land perfectly and we move around defenders like we share one brain.
Atlas glances toward me after I score.
And despite everything, despite the hurt between us, he still smiles automatically.
Small.
Proud.
Warm enough to crack something open painfully inside my chest.
I almost ruin everything right there.
Then reality crashes back in.
I have to do this.
I have to.
Second period starts, and I begin destroying everything. The first mistake is subtle.
A lazy pass.
Coach yells immediately. “Harrow!”
I raise a hand like it was accidental.
Atlas looks confused, then concerned. I avoid his eyes.
A few minutes later, I miss another pass entirely.
Then I hesitate on defense long enough for the other team to break through our line.
They score. The crowd groans.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Jordan snaps, skating past me.
I mutter something about losing an edge.
Atlas skates over during the next stoppage. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s bullshit.”
I shrug him off before he can look too closely at me, but Atlas knows me too well now. He can tell immediately that something’s wrong, but I know he thinks the problem is us.
By the third period, the game fully falls apart. I miss shots I would normally make blindfolded. I fumble clean passes. I deliberately hesitate long enough to create turnovers. Every mistake feels like carving pieces out of myself. The crowd starts booing.
Atlas finally grabs my arm hard near the bench during a line change. “What the fuck is happening?”
The anger in his voice isn’t cruel. It’s scared, because this isn’t me.
I pull my arm free. “Drop it.”
“No.” His eyes search mine frantically. “You’re playing like you’re trying to lose.”
I look away. “I’m just off tonight.”
“That’s not what this is.”
I can’t answer him, because if I look at Atlas too long right now, I’m going to break apart on the ice in front of thousands of people. The final buzzer sounds with us down by three.
A humiliating loss.
And it’s entirely my fault.
The arena feels strangely quiet afterward, despite the noise of the crowd, like everyone’s confused.
Atlas stares at me from across the ice while players start filing toward the locker rooms.
Hurt.
Confused.
Suspicious.
And worst of all…
Still worried about me.
I skate away before he can stop me. Because if Atlas asks me one more question tonight, I might finally tell him the truth.