Chapter 23 #2
Not fear.
Not panic.
Rage.
Pure fucking rage.
Because Atlas told me this morning that I deserve to be loved for who I am.
Because Grace is sitting in a hospital bed while this monster threatens her life.
Because I am so unbelievably tired of being afraid.
Sebastian tilts his head slightly. “Well?”
I move before he expects it. I knock the gun sideways just as Sebastian pulls the trigger. The explosion deafens the room.
The bullet slams into the ceiling somewhere above my head while Sebastian and I crash sideways into the couch together. Adrenaline wipes out every coherent thought. I just react.
Sebastian snarls something vicious as we fight for control of the gun, both of us slipping against leather cushions while something falls off the table behind us.
The weapon jerks wildly between our hands.
I slam my elbow into Sebastian’s jaw hard enough to make his head snap sideways.
Years of hockey training finally become useful for something other than sports.
Sebastian recovers fast, though. He drives his shoulder into my stomach, knocking me backward over the arm of the couch and onto the floor. Pain erupts along my spine. Then Sebastian is on top of me again.
For one horrible second, I’m seventeen.
Hotel room.
Pinned down.
No way out.
Panic flashes hot through my bloodstream.
And then Atlas’s voice cuts through my head like a lifeline.
You survived.
Rage explodes through me, and I slam my forehead into Sebastian’s face. Crunch.
Sebastian curses violently as blood pours from his nose. “Fucking bitch!”
I knee him hard in the ribs. He grunts and nearly drops the gun. I grab for it, and we both hit the floor. The gun skids across the carpet between us before Sebastian tackles me around the waist hard enough to send us crashing into the coffee table.
Wood splinters.
Glass shatters.
Somewhere outside the room, people are screaming.
The club music abruptly cuts off.
Then, faintly, I hear shouting.
Federal agents.
Sebastian hears it, too.
His expression changes to fury.
“You’re fucking wired.”
I’m breathing too hard to answer, but Sebastian grabs me by the throat anyway.
“You stupid fucking boy,” he snarls.
I drive my fist into his face again. This time something cracks. Sebastian loses his grip long enough for me to shove him backward. We scramble across broken glass and overturned furniture like animals fighting over a scrap of meat.
The gun sits three feet away. We both lunge for it simultaneously.
Sebastian catches my ankle and yanks hard enough that I slam face-first into the floor.
Pain bursts across my cheekbone. Suddenly he’s on top of me again, with the gun trapped between us.
The barrel jerks wildly while we wrestle for control.
Sebastian’s face is bloodied now.
Mine probably is, too.
He looks furious.
Unhinged.
“You always were my favorite,” he spits.
I nearly laugh again.
Sebastian tries to pin my wrists the way he used to years ago—and fails. Shock flashes across his face for one split second. That’s all I need. I twist violently sideways and slam him into the floor hard enough to rattle the room.
The gun goes off again.
The sound deafens me.
There’s pain everywhere.
Blood everywhere.
Then the doors explode inward.
“FBI!”
Chaos erupts instantly. Agents flood the room, screaming commands while bright tactical lights cut through the darkness.
Sebastian jerks violently against me. Blood spreads rapidly across his shirt. My head goes strangely quiet.
I stare down at Sebastian.
He’s blinking oddly.
Confused.
His mouth opens slightly, like he wants to say something.
But nothing comes out except blood.
Oh.
Oh my God.
The gun.
The second shot.
We fired it between us.
And now…
“Gun!” someone yells.
Hands grab me immediately, dragging me backward across shattered glass while agents swarm Sebastian’s body.
I barely react.
I can’t.
I just stare.
Because Sebastian Monroe—the man who ruined my life—is bleeding out across a strip club floor.
One of the agents checks for a pulse.
Then he looks up sharply. “Suspect down.”
The words echo strangely in my head.
Suspect down.
Not Sebastian.
Not the monster from my nightmares.
Just a suspect.
Agents pull me fully upright while another team clears the rest of the club. My ears ring violently. Someone asks if I’m injured. I don’t answer. I think I’m in shock. Blood coats my hands. Sebastian’s blood. The realization makes me dizzy.
An agent guides me carefully through the club while flashing lights explode outside the building.
Everything feels blurry now.
Voices.
Sirens.
People shouting.
Camera flashes somewhere farther down the street.
“Damien!”
Atlas.
My head jerks up. Atlas is being physically restrained by two federal agents near the vehicles outside. He looks completely feral.
The second he sees me, his entire face falls apart.
Probably because I’m covered in blood. My shirt hangs open where Sebastian ripped it apart earlier. Blood streaks across my chest, hands, jaw.
Atlas nearly breaks free from the agents trying to hold him back. “Damien!”
“I’m okay!” My voice cracks badly. “Atlas, I’m okay.”
Agent Anthony appears beside me. “He’s clear,” he tells the others sharply.
The agents release Atlas. He pushes their hands off of him and tears toward me. He reaches me in seconds and grabs my face so hard it almost hurts.
His eyes search me frantically. “Are you hurt? Jesus fucking Christ, whose blood is this?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’ve been hurt worse on the ice.”
Atlas looks like he might throw up from relief.
I grip his wrists tightly. “Sebastian’s dead.”
The words come out numb. Atlas freezes. The entire world seems to stop around us for one horrible second. Then Atlas pulls me against him so hard my feet almost leave the ground.
I break instantly.
I don’t cry.
I don’t panic.
I just collapse, my body going limp.
Because it’s over.
It’s actually over.
Atlas cradles the back of my head while I shake against him, flashing police lights and screaming sirens all around us.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers roughly into my hair.
My hands clutch his jacket desperately.
“I’ve got you.”
And for the first time since I was seventeen years old, I finally believe nobody is coming to drag me into hell again.
The story explodes nationally within twenty-four hours. The headlines are chaotic.
NHL STAR LINKED TO FEDERAL SPORTS BETTING INVESTIGATION
MARKET CITY TIGERS PLAYER COERCED INTO THROWING GAMES
ORGANIZED CRIME, SPORTS GAMBLING, AND TRAFFICKING CASE ROCKS LEAGUE
SEBASTIAN MONROE DEAD AFTER FBI RAID
My face ends up everywhere.
Sports channels.
News broadcasts.
Twitter threads.
People dissect every second of my season like they’re trying to solve a murder mystery. In a way, I guess they are. The league benches me almost immediately while the investigation unfolds.
Officially, it’s temporary administrative leave pending review.
Unofficially, nobody knows how the hell to handle something like this.
A federal sports coercion case involving organized crime isn’t exactly in the NHL handbook.
I expect the benching to destroy me emotionally. Instead, I mostly feel tired. Relieved, even.
Because for the first time in weeks, I’m not pretending anymore.
I’m not checking crowds constantly.
I’m not waiting for my burner phone to vibrate.
I’m not wondering who Sebastian might threaten next.
He’s gone.
Actually gone.
That truth still feels unreal most of the time.
The investigation itself takes weeks.
Long interviews, statements, federal agents, lawyers. The league is reviewing betting records and game footage. Eventually, the truth becomes unavoidable. I was coerced with threats of violence, and the public opinion shift afterward is honestly dizzying.
The same sports analysts who called me selfish three weeks ago now look devastated discussing what happened.
One former player nearly cries during an interview talking about how isolated professional athletes can become under abuse and coercion.
People start apologizing online. Fans flood social media with support.
Then the Tigers do something that nearly breaks me emotionally.
Before their final game of the season, every single player walks onto the ice wearing my number.
Ninety-one.
The entire team.
Even Coach.
I almost cry watching from the private suite that Joanna shoved me into so the media couldn’t swarm me before the game started. Atlas skates out last. And Christ, he looks beautiful.
The arena erupts when he appears. The crowd chants my name. Then Atlas lifts one hand toward the suite where I’m standing, like he can sense exactly where I am.
My chest aches so hard it almost feels unbearable.
Beside me, Joanna hands me tissues without saying a word.
“I hate you,” I mutter thickly.
“You’re welcome.”
The game is brutal. The Raiders are fighting for playoff positioning, and the Tigers are playing like they have something personal to prove tonight.
Patrick gets into a fight before the first period even fully settles.
Carter scores off a brutal rebound in the second.
Atlas destroys someone against the boards hard enough that the crowd loses its mind.
I can barely focus on the hockey, though. I can’t stop watching Atlas. Everything he does feels magnetic to me now—the way he skates, the way he adjusts his gloves between plays, the way he throws his head back laughing when Carter chirps something at him on the bench.
I love him so much it almost scares me.
And for once, I don’t feel ashamed of it.
That realization hits quietly during the third period, while Atlas skates beneath bright arena lights wearing my number across his shoulders. I spent so many years just surviving that I never realized how much energy shame consumes. But now? Now I look at Atlas and feel something simpler.
Hope.
The Tigers ultimately lose in overtime. Nobody cares. The crowd gives them a standing ovation anyway. Players linger on the ice afterward waving at fans while cameras flash across the arena.
Atlas looks up toward my suite again, then points directly at me through the glass. The crowd absolutely loses their minds.
I laugh despite myself.
Joanna groans beside me. “You two are cute.”
“And it was all your doing.”
The second I step out of the suite, the media descend like sharks smelling blood.
“Damien!”
“How are you feeling tonight?”
“What’s next for your career?”
“Have you spoken to league officials?”
“Can you comment on?—”
I freeze for half a second.
Too many people. Too loud. Then Atlas appears beside me like a human shield.
“There he is,” Patrick calls loudly behind him. “The boyfriend.”
Atlas leans down to my ear. “You okay?”
I nod. But before Atlas can fully steer me away, a sports reporter catches my attention.
“Damien,” she asks. “How are you feeling after living through something so horrific?”
The entire hallway quiets slightly.
Atlas immediately moves closer to me, like he’s ready to cut the interview short if I panic.
Instead, I breathe deeply and realize I’m okay.
Not perfect.
Not healed.
But okay enough to stand here.
Okay enough to answer honestly.
“I think,” I say slowly, “I deserved to survive it.”
The reporter blinks, then smiles softly. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I think so, too.”
One of the sports anchors nearby laughs gently. “Fair answer.”
Atlas stares at me like I just hung the moon.
The reporter asks another question. “How are you feeling about next season?”
That one makes me grin unexpectedly. “Depends.”
“On?”
“If the Tigers stop embarrassing me publicly.”
Patrick immediately shouts from farther down the hallway, “NEVER!”
Everyone bursts out laughing.
Even me.
I’m actually laughing.
Not forcing it.
Not pretending.
Real laughter.
The reporter smiles wider. “And how is your relationship with Atlas Connors?”
Atlas looks nervous, like he’s waiting to see how public I want to be now that none of this is fake anymore. The sight of him fills me with so much affection I feel dizzy.
So instead of overthinking it, I tell the truth.
“We’re disgustingly in love.”
The hallway erupts instantly.
Patrick screams.
Carter shouts something obscene.
Even the reporter laughs.
And Atlas…
God.
Atlas looks absolutely wrecked.
His entire face softens into an expression so open and happy that my chest aches.
I continue before I can chicken out. “And I plan on keeping him.”
Atlas finally laughs then, the sound bright and warm and mine.
He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me against his side while cameras flash wildly around us.
But for once, I don’t feel trapped by the attention.
I don’t feel hunted.
I don’t feel dirty.
I just feel loved.
By Atlas.
By this team.
By people who finally know the truth about me and stayed anyway.
And standing beneath arena lights, with Atlas holding me close and my teammates yelling like idiots nearby, I think about what’s next for the first time in years.
Not fear.
Not survival.
Not shame.
A future.