Chapter 19
Damien
Ibreak down the second Atlas leaves. The supply closet door barely clicks shut before my knees give out. I sit on the dirty floor between shelves of hockey tape and cleaning supplies, trying not to make noise while my entire chest caves in.
I didn’t want to say those things to him. I don’t want to hurt him, but he can’t know about what’s going on. I need to protect him from it all, and I knew he would never leave me unless I lashed out.
But damn it, the pain on his face keeps replaying in my head.
You loving me is embarrassing.
Jesus.
I bury my face in my hands and force myself not to run after him. Every instinct screams at me to find him. Tell him everything about Sebastian. Tell him I threw the game because I would rather ruin my own career than let Sebastian touch Atlas’s family. Tell him I don’t want anyone else but him.
But then I picture Sebastian smiling in that strip club.
The leukemia finally got to her.
My stomach twists violently.
No.
I can’t risk it.
I can survive Atlas hating me.
I can’t survive Grace getting hurt because I was selfish enough to need him.
So I stay where I am. Alone. Crying quietly on the floor of a supply closet after the man I love walked away from me because he believes I chose someone else over him. The irony almost makes me laugh.
Eventually the arena grows quiet around me.
Players leave.
Staff leave.
The hallway outside stops echoing with voices.
I sit there until my face feels raw and my breathing finally steadies enough for me to move again.
Then I pull myself together the best I can.
I wash my face in the locker room bathroom.
Avoid mirrors. Avoid my phone. Avoid thinking about Atlas probably going home devastated right now.
By the time I finally leave the arena, it’s almost midnight.
The drive home feels unreal. My hands grip the steering wheel mechanically while the city lights blur past the windows. I keep remembering Atlas’s face in the closet.
When I step into my apartment, I’m so distracted I almost don’t notice the three men waiting for me. The television is on, sports highlights flashing across the screen. My game-winning mistakes replay over and over beneath ESPN commentary dissecting how badly I played tonight.
Sebastian sits on my couch like he owns the place. My father, Henry, sits beside him. His face is swollen purple along one side, one eye half closed from bruising. A thick white bandage wraps around his left hand where his ring finger used to be.
The sight makes something cold settle in my stomach.
In the kitchen, one of Sebastian’s bodyguards rummages through my refrigerator like this is a fucking house party. Nobody should be here. None of these people should know where I live. But Sebastian always finds a way inside eventually.
Sebastian glances over at me and smiles. “Welcome home, sweetness.”
The nickname makes my skin crawl.
“You played great tonight.”
I drop my bag beside the door. “How many games?”
Sebastian arches an eyebrow.
“How many games do I have to throw until you leave me alone?”
Shame flashes briefly across my father’s battered face before disappearing again. He still won’t meet my eyes.
Sebastian leans back comfortably against the couch cushions. “Well,” he says casually, “Henry here owes me quite a bit of money.”
My jaw tightens.
“And you,” Sebastian continues slowly, “owe me a lot of apologies.”
Rage burns hot in my chest. “I already paid his debt once.”
“Yes.” Sebastian smiles faintly. “And look how well that turned out.”
I want to hit him.
I want to kill him.
Instead, I stand perfectly still, because Sebastian always liked getting emotional reactions out of me.
“You said a few games,” I say tightly.
Sebastian’s smile widens. “I changed my mind.”
The words hit like a punch.
Again.
Always.
Every promise Sebastian makes eventually turns into chains around my throat.
“How long?” I ask quietly.
Sebastian studies me, then shrugs lazily. “Let’s see how long we can milk this before the league drops you entirely.”
My chest hollows out.
The NHL is my entire life.
It’s not just hockey.
It’s freedom.
It’s the proof that I escaped him.
And Sebastian wants to strip that away, too.
“Fuck you,” I whisper.
Sebastian actually laughs. “There’s the attitude I missed.”
I stare at my father. Henry looks small. Older. Terrified. And despite everything he’s done to me, guilt still twists through my stomach at the sight of him. I hate that about myself.
“You did this again,” I say quietly.
Henry swallows hard. “I didn’t think?—”
“No,” I cut him off sharply. “You never do.”
Silence settles heavily across the room. Sebastian finally stands, and the bodyguard immediately appears from the kitchen.
“Take Henry to the car,” Sebastian says.
Henry rises slowly from the couch without arguing. Whipped. Weak. The bodyguard grips his shoulder firmly and steers him toward the door.
My father pauses once beside me. “I’m sorry, kid.”
The words mean nothing anymore.
I don’t answer.
The apartment door shuts, and it’s just me and Sebastian again.
Every muscle in my body tightens as Sebastian studies me quietly for a moment.
Then he walks closer to me. “You’ve grown up.”
I stare at him coldly. “Get out.”
Sebastian ignores that completely.
“You know,” he murmurs, “watching you on television has been fascinating.”
I don’t move.
“You look happier with him.”
My chest tightens. “Don’t talk about Atlas.”
Sebastian smiles faintly. “You never looked at me like that.”
“You don’t deserve to be looked at like that.”
Something dark flickers across Sebastian’s expression. He steps even closer.
My pulse spikes.
“You’re still beautiful when you’re angry,” he murmurs.
Then he grabs my jaw and kisses me. The revulsion is immediate. Violent. I shove his chest hard enough to make us both stumble, but Sebastian grips me tighter and forces the kiss deeper for one horrible second before my instincts finally take over.
I bite him.
Sebastian jerks back with a curse while I shove him violently into the wall. The picture frames rattle from the impact.
For one sharp, breathless second, we just stare at each other. Sebastian looks shocked.
Not angry. Almost impressed. Blood smears across his lower lip where I bit through skin.
Sebastian slowly wipes the blood from his mouth with his thumb and smiles. The expression makes my stomach turn.
I’m breathing hard, fists clenched so tightly my hands ache. “Get the fuck out of my apartment.”
Sebastian pushes himself slowly off the wall. “You know,” he says conversationally, “I used to be able to throw you around like nothing.”
I don’t respond.
His eyes drag slowly over me, dissecting me like he’s imagining me under him again. “Now look at you.”
There’s something almost affectionate in his voice, which makes it even worse.
Sebastian steps toward the door, but pauses beside me. “I’ll have you again soon.”
Ice slides down my spine. He leaves before I can answer, and the apartment door shuts behind him softly.
I stand in the middle of my apartment, shaking so hard I can barely breathe.
Sebastian is back.
Atlas is gone.
And my entire life is starting to collapse all over again.
The media turns on me almost immediately.
It starts with sports analysts replaying clips from the game over and over again on television—missed passes, hesitation on defense, open shots I should have made easily.
“Something seems off with Harrow lately.”
“He looked distracted.”
“Maybe the fame is getting to him.”
“Maybe the relationship drama with Connors is bleeding onto the ice.”
That last one becomes everybody’s favorite theory.
The internet starts dissecting every interaction Atlas and I have during games. My feed is filled with screenshots, body language analysis, slow-motion videos of us avoiding eye contact on the bench.
People notice everything. Especially when they think they know the story.
I stop opening social media the third day after the game because the comments make me physically sick. Not because they hate me…but because they’re accidentally right. Something is very wrong with me.
Joanna calls me two days after the game.
I answer immediately, because ignoring Joanna is basically impossible.
“Tell me you’re not having a mental breakdown,” she says without preamble.
I sit at my kitchen counter, staring blankly at a protein shake I haven’t touched yet. “Would you believe me if I said no?”
“No.” The silence stretches for a few seconds before Joanna sighs. “What’s happening with you and Atlas?”
I rub a hand over my face. “I just needed my life back.”
The words sound hollow, even to me. Joanna goes quiet.
Then she carefully asks, “Are you really ending the contract early?”
“Yes.”
More silence. I know Joanna well enough now to hear the concern underneath it.
“Okay,” she says finally. “I’ll draw up the paperwork.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. Hearing it out loud makes this feel real in a way it didn’t before. Atlas is really gone. No more waking up tangled in his sheets. No more coffee runs before practice. No more warm hands sliding into mine when the crowd gets overwhelming.
The grief sits so heavily in my chest that I genuinely feel nauseous, which is unfortunate because I’m already nauseous all the time now. Stress destroys my appetite first, and then thinking about Sebastian finishes the job.
Every time I try to eat solid food, my stomach revolts almost immediately, so eventually I stop trying. Protein shakes are easier. Liquids stay down longer. Barely.
The weight starts falling off me fast.
At first nobody says anything, but then Carter corners me after practice one afternoon while everyone changes out of their gear.
“Dude,” he says carefully, “have you lost weight?”
Every head in the locker room subtly turns toward us.
I keep my eyes on my locker. “I’m fine.”
Nobody believes me when I say that. I can feel Atlas looking at me from across the room, and the attention burns.
I glance up instinctively.
Big mistake.
Atlas looks wrecked. The concern in his face hits me so hard I almost crack open right there in the locker room. He looks away first.
My chest aches. Nobody says anything after that. The team knows something happened between us; they just don’t know what. Carter watches both Atlas and me constantly, like he’s waiting for one of us to finally explain what the hell happened.
We never do.
And underneath all of it—underneath hockey and media scrutiny and heartbreak—Sebastian sits in the center of my life like a loaded gun.
The burner phone controls everything now.
Every vibration makes my stomach drop. Every unfamiliar car outside my apartment makes adrenaline spike through my body.
Every crowded hallway feels dangerous. I start scanning rooms obsessively.
Checking exits. Watching strangers too long.
At games, I find myself searching the audience automatically, terrified I’ll spot Sebastian smiling at me from the stands.
Sleep becomes almost impossible. When I do sleep, I dream about him.
About hotel rooms. About men with rough hands. About Atlas finding out everything and looking disgusted afterward. That last one hurts the worst. Because even now, some pathetic part of me still wants Atlas. Still wants to crawl into his arms and tell him how scared I am.
But I can’t.
I won’t risk Grace’s life.
So instead, I let everyone believe I’m falling apart because of the breakup. That explanation is cleaner. Less dangerous. Even if it’s slowly killing me.
Practice is miserable. Atlas and I still play together perfectly on instinct alone, which honestly makes everything worse. Our bodies still understand each other, even when we barely speak.
Atlas passes to me without looking. I know where he is on the ice before I even lift my head. Sometimes our gloves brush during drills and both of us freeze for half a second, like we touched a live wire. Then we immediately pull apart again.
It’s torture.
Atlas looks at me less now. That’s the hardest part. Because when we were together, Atlas looked at me constantly—warmly, openly, like I was something precious. Now when he catches himself staring, he always forces himself to stop.
I deserve it.
Coach pulls me aside after practice one evening. “You sick?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Coach studies me carefully. “You’re skating slower.”
I stay quiet.
“You need help, Harrow?”
The kindness almost undoes me.
I shake my head. “No, Coach.”
He clearly doesn’t believe me.
Nobody does anymore.
Dark circles. Visible weight loss. Constant tension sitting beneath my skin.
I catch teammates watching me sometimes when they think I won’t notice.
Atlas watches me from the corner of his eye like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that keeps changing shape in front of him.
And every day I become more terrified that Sebastian is eventually going to demand more than hockey games.
I know him. I know how this goes. Control is never enough for Sebastian. Eventually he’ll want ownership. My stomach twists violently every time I think about it.
And the horrifying part is that I’ve already decided I’ll let him. If it keeps Grace safe, if it keeps Atlas safe, I’ll survive it. I survived it before.
The thought should horrify me more than it does. Instead, it just makes me feel tired. So unbelievably tired.