Chapter 11 #2
He’d press his body against my back, caging me against the metal shelves. His hands would slide under my sweater, finding the bare skin of my waist. He’d kiss the sensitive spot just below my ear, nipping at the skin, making me gasp.
"I missed you," he'd groan. "It's been four hours."
"You saw me at lunch."
"I saw you sitting with Topher. I wanted to punch him."
"He was asking for notes."
"He was looking at your chest. Next time, wear a turtleneck."
"Jealousy is ugly, Atlas."
"I'm not jealous. I'm territorial."
He’d spin me around then, his mouth crushing mine. We’d kiss frantically, hands roaming, desperate for friction. He’d lift me up, pressing me against the books, his thigh between my legs, grinding upward until I was seeing stars.
Then, we’d hear footsteps. Or a cough.
We’d break apart, panting, smoothing our clothes.
"Tonight?" he'd ask, his eyes dark with unspent need.
"My place. 11."
"Leave the window unlocked."
"You have a key, idiot."
"Window's more fun."
Then he’d be gone, disappearing into the stacks, leaving me flushed and trembling next to the Encyclopedia Britannica.
It wasn't just the sex. It was the intimacy of the secret.
We texted constantly.
Atlas (10:02 AM): Your dad offered the contract. Three years. Two-way deal with the Rangers. Good money.
Me (10:03 AM): Atlas! That’s amazing! Did you sign?
Atlas (10:05 AM): Not yet. Lawyer is looking at it. But Arthur... he watched me while I read it. Like he was waiting for me to bow.
Me (10:06 AM): Don't bow. Just nod. It's different.
Atlas (10:07 AM): I'm only doing this so I can buy you better wine.
Me (10:08 AM): I like the wine. But I like the mechanic better.
We had inside jokes now. We had a language.
When we were in the same room—at a team dinner or a campus event—we ignored each other so aggressively it was almost suspicious.
But underneath the table, his foot would hook around my ankle.
Or I’d catch his eye across the room and raise a brow, and he’d touch his tie, a signal we had established meant I'm thinking about you naked.
It was perfect.
Until it wasn't.
It was Thursday night. The week before the Christmas Gala.
I was at the rink. Not for a game, but for "gym time."
Atlas had convinced me that skating was good cross-training for my pirouettes.
He had cleared it with the facility manager for us to have the ice after hours, claiming he was helping me with "balance recovery" post-injury.
It was a flimsy lie, but since my dad owned the building, no one questioned it.
The arena was empty. Just the hum of the cooling units and the scratch of our skates.
We were playing tag again.
I was faster now. I had learned his patterns. I cut hard to the left, spraying ice, dodging his reach.
"Too slow, old man!" I laughed, skating backward.
"Old man?" Atlas growled playfully. "I'm twenty-two. Come here and I'll show you who has stamina."
He surged forward. He caught me at the blue line, wrapping his arms around my waist and spinning me around. I shrieked, laughing, as the world blurred into a kaleidoscope of empty seats and banners.
He stopped the spin but didn't let go. He held me close, our breaths mingling in white clouds.
"Got you," he whispered.
"You cheated. You have longer legs."
"I use my advantages."
He leaned down to kiss me. I melted into him, my hands sliding up his chest, gripping the lapels of his coat. It was a deep, languid kiss—the kind that led to other things.
We forgot where we were. We forgot the cameras (turned off, supposedly). We forgot the world.
"Ahem."
The sound was sharp. A throat clearing. Echoing in the cavernous arena.
We sprang apart like magnets with reversed polarity. I nearly fell; Atlas steadied me with a hand on my elbow before snatching it back.
We turned toward the bench.
Standing there, arms crossed, wearing a heavy wool coat and a scowl that could curdle milk, was Coach Miller.
My stomach dropped through the ice.
"Coach," Atlas said. His voice was steady, but I saw his Adam's apple bob. "We were just... training."
Miller didn't move. He stared at us. He stared at the distance between us—which was still too close. He stared at my flushed face. He stared at Atlas’s guilty stance.
Miller walked down to the glass.
"Training," Miller repeated. "Is that what they call it now? Tonsil hockey?"
"It's not what it looks like," I started, stepping forward. "I asked him to help me with my skating. For ballet. It's... kinesiology."
Miller looked at me. "Miss St. James. With all due respect, I've been coaching college kids for thirty years. I know what 'training' looks like. And I know what 'sleeping together' looks like."
Silence.
Atlas stepped in front of me. The protective instinct.
"It's on me, Coach," Atlas said quietly. "Don't put this on her."
Miller sighed. He rubbed his face with a gloved hand. He looked tired.
"Thorne. Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're taking a stick of dynamite to your entire career."
Miller pointed up at the Owner's Box—dark now, but looming over us like the Eye of Sauron.
"That man," Miller said, gesturing to my father's seat, "handed you a golden ticket this week. A contract. A signing bonus. A life. And you think the smart play is to fool around with his daughter in his building?"
"It's not fooling around," Atlas said. His voice was hard. "I care about her."
"That makes it worse," Miller snapped. "If it was just sex, I could tell you to zip it up and be smart. But feelings? Feelings make you sloppy. Feelings make you distracted."
He walked to the gate and opened it, stepping onto the ice. He walked up to Atlas, getting in his face.
"Listen to me, son. You are the best captain I've had in a decade. You have a shot at the big show. Don't throw it away for a college romance. Arthur St. James will crush you. He won't just pull the contract; he'll blackball you. You'll be playing beer league in Ohio for the rest of your life."
Atlas didn't flinch. "I can handle Arthur."
"You can't," Miller said. "You're thinking with your heart. He thinks with his wallet. He sees you as an employee. You touch the merchandise, you get fired."
I winced at the word. Merchandise.
Miller turned to me. His expression softened slightly, but it was still stern.
"Aurelia. You know how your father is. If you care about this boy... if you actually care about his future... you need to think about what you're doing to him."
The words hit me like a slap shot to the chest.
Think about what you're doing to him.
Miller turned back to Atlas. "Get off the ice. Get home. And for God's sake, keep it in your pants until you graduate. I'm going to pretend I didn't see this. But if I see it again... I won't be able to protect you."
Miller walked away, his footsteps echoing up the tunnel.
We stood alone on the ice. The silence was heavy now. Suffocating.
Atlas turned to me. He reached for my hand.
"He's wrong," Atlas said fiercely. "We're careful."
I pulled my hand away.
"He's right," I whispered. "Atlas... he's right."
"No. We stick to the plan. Secret agent shit. Remember?"
"It's not a game, Atlas! You heard him. You could lose everything."
"I don't care about the contract if I can't have you."
"You should!" I cried. "You have to! Your mom. The debt. Your life. You can't throw it away for me."
"I'm not throwing it away. I'm choosing."
"You shouldn't have to choose."
My phone buzzed. It was a jarring sound in the quiet arena.
I looked at it.
Mother: Reminder: Final dress fitting tomorrow at 9 AM. The Gala is Saturday. Your father expects you to be perfect. Don't embarrass us.
I stared at the screen. The reality of my life—the cold, hard expectations—came crashing back down.
I looked at Atlas. He looked defiant. Hopeful.
But I looked at him and I saw the bruise on his ribs. I saw the scar on his brow. I saw the boy who had fought his way up from nothing.
Coach Miller’s words echoed in my head. If you actually care about his future...
I did care. I loved him.
And because I loved him, I realized with a sick, sinking feeling... I might have to be the one to break his heart to save his life.
"I have to go," I said, backing away.
"Aurelia, wait. Let's talk about this."
"There's nothing to talk about. Miller saw us. It's too dangerous."
"We can fix it."
"No," I said, turning my skates toward the gate. Tears were stinging my eyes, hot and fast. "Some things you can't fix, Atlas. You just have to survive them."
I skated off the ice, leaving him standing alone in the center circle.
I didn't look back. If I looked back, I wouldn't be able to leave. And I had to leave. Before I became the reason he lost everything.