Chapter 13
Atlas
We were sitting on the hood of my truck, parked at the very edge of the world.
Well, technically it was the edge of Lover’s Lookout—a cliché spot overlooking the valley, usually populated by freshmen fumbling with bra straps. But tonight, it was deserted. The wind was whipping off the mountains, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and coming snow.
Aurelia was wrapped in a blanket I kept in the backseat for emergencies. She looked small against the vast black sky, her breath puffing out in white clouds that were immediately snatched away by the breeze.
We were sharing a thermos of hot chocolate (spiked with peppermint schnapps, courtesy of Jax).
"It's quiet," she whispered, staring out at the distant lights of Burlingham. "I forgot what quiet sounded like."
"Quiet is underrated," I murmured. I was sitting next to her, one leg drawn up, my arm draped protectively around her shoulders. My ribs still ached—a dull throb that flared when I twisted—but the painkillers and Aurelia’s presence made it background noise.
"Do you miss it?" she asked suddenly.
"Miss what?"
"Ohio. The noise. The trailer park."
I stiffened. I hadn't talked about home in detail. Not really. I gave her the headlines—poor, single mom, bad dad—but I never gave her the copy.
"No," I said, too quickly. "I don't miss it. Who would?"
She turned to look at me. Her eyes were dark pools in the moonlight, reflecting the stars. "You check your phone every hour. You have an area code saved as 'Mom' that you stare at but never call. You miss something."
She was too observant. It was annoying. It was beautiful.
I took a swig of the hot chocolate, letting the peppermint burn my throat.
"I miss... the simplicity," I admitted slowly. "When you have nothing, your choices are simple. Eat or don't. Pay rent or don't. Fight or run. Here... everything is a chess game. Everything is politics."
"Tell me about her," Aurelia said softly. "Your mom."
I looked down at my boots. The leather was scuffed, stained with salt.
"Her name is Sarah," I said. The name felt heavy on my tongue. "She was beautiful once. Like you. Blonde. Blue eyes. She wanted to be a singer. Used to sing Patsy Cline in the kitchen while she made grilled cheese."
Aurelia smiled. "She sounds nice."
"She was. Is. But... my dad broke her."
"How?"
I took a deep breath. The cold air filled my lungs, sharp and grounding.
"He wasn't just a drunk, Aurelia. He was a gambler. A bad one. He bet on everything—horses, cards, fights. He lost everything we had. Twice. And when he lost... he drank. And when he drank... he got mean."
I felt Aurelia’s hand find mine under the blanket. Her fingers were cold, but her grip was strong.
"One night," I continued, staring at the lights below, forcing myself to relive it. "I was twelve. He came home. He’d lost the rent money. Again. Mom started crying. Just... quiet crying. Like she was tired."
I swallowed hard.
"He hit her. With a bottle. Split her head open."
Aurelia gasped softly. Her hand tightened on mine.
"I tried to stop him," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. "I was a scrawny kid. I jumped on his back. I bit him. I scratched him. I fought like a feral cat. But he just... threw me off. Like I was nothing. I hit the wall. Broke my arm."
I rubbed my left forearm subconsciously. The bone had healed, but the memory hadn't.
"He left," I said. "Took the truck. Took the last fifty bucks from the jar. Never came back."
"Atlas..."
"That was the night she started using," I said flatly. "Pain pills for the head injury. Then stronger stuff. She said it made the noise stop. She said it made the fear go away."
I finally looked at Aurelia. Her face was streaked with tears. She wasn't looking at me with pity. She was looking at me with rage. Rage on my behalf.
"That's why I need the money," I said. "That's why I need the NHL. Because I promised her. I promised twelve-year-old me that I would fix it. I would buy her a house where no one could hurt her. I would pay for the best doctors. I would make sure she never had to be afraid again."
"You carry all of that," she whispered. "Alone."
"It's my weight," I shrugged. "I can carry it."
"No," she said fiercely. She moved, climbing onto my lap, wrapping the blanket around both of us. She straddled my hips, cupping my face in her hands. "You don't have to carry it alone. Not anymore."
"Aurelia..."
"Listen to me. You are not that twelve-year-old boy anymore. You are the strongest man I know. But even Atlas needs to put the sky down sometimes."
I closed my eyes, leaning into her touch. Her hands were warm now. Her thumbs stroked my cheeks, wiping away moisture I hadn't realized was there.
"I'm scared," I admitted. The words tasted like ash. "I'm scared that if I put it down... I won't be able to pick it back up."
"Then I'll help you," she promised. "I'll spot you. Isn't that what you say in the gym? I'll spot you."
I let out a shaky laugh. "Yeah. That's what we say."
I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her close. I buried my face in her neck, inhaling the scent of vanilla and cold air. It was the scent of safety.
"Thank you," I muffled against her skin.
"For what?"
"For listening. For not running away."
"I'm not running anywhere," she vowed. "I'm right here."
We sat like that for a long time. The wind howled around us, but inside the blanket, in the circle of our arms, it was warm. It was quiet.
"Your turn," I said eventually, pulling back slightly so I could see her face.
"My turn?"
"Fair trade. I showed you my scars. Show me yours."
She looked away, biting her lip. She traced the zipper of my jacket.
"My scars aren't physical," she said quietly. "They're... expectations."
"Tell me."
She sighed, resting her forehead against my chest.
"My mother... she wasn't a singer. She was a St. James. Do you know what that means?"
"Money?"
"Legacy," she corrected. "It means you are born with a job description. You are to be beautiful. You are to be accomplished. You are to marry well. You are to be... decorative."
She looked up at me. Her eyes were dry now, but hard. Like diamonds.
"When I was six, I wanted to play soccer. I loved running. I loved the mud. My mother saw me with dirt on my knees once. She burned my cleats."
"She burned them?"
"In the fireplace. She said, 'St. James women do not sweat. We glide.' The next day, she enrolled me in ballet."
"Do you hate it?" I asked gently. "Ballet?"
"I used to," she admitted. "I hated the discipline. I hated the blisters. I hated standing at the barre for hours, staring at myself in the mirror, looking for flaws because she told me to find them before anyone else did."
She paused, playing with the toggle of my jacket.
"But then... I realized something. On stage, when the lights are blinding and the music starts... she can't touch me. No one can. I'm in control. My body does exactly what I tell it to. It's the only time I feel powerful."
"That's why you work so hard," I realized. "Not for her. For the control."
"Exactly. But the pressure... Atlas, it's crushing.
Every gala, every recital, every dinner party...
I'm performing. I'm playing the role of Aurelia St. James, the perfect daughter.
And I'm terrified that one day, I'm going to forget my lines.
And they'll see that underneath the silk and the smile... I'm just empty."
"You're not empty," I said fiercely. "You're full of fire.
You're full of snark and brilliance and fight.
I've seen you. I've seen you climb a balcony railing just to feel something.
I've seen you eat burnt potatoes and laugh about it.
I've seen you care for a guy who has nothing to offer you but trouble. "
She smiled, a sad, sweet thing. "You offer me more than trouble, Atlas. You offer me reality."
"I want to offer you more," I said. The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "Someday. When I make it. When the contract is real."
"Yeah?" she asked softly. "What does that look like? Your future?"
I leaned my head back against the windshield, looking up at the stars. I let myself dream. Just for a second.
"A house," I said. "Not a mansion. Just... a house with a porch. Somewhere quiet. Maybe near a lake. No neighbors for a mile."
"Sounds lonely," she teased.
"Not if you're there," I said, looking at her.
Her breath hitched.
"And a dog," I added quickly, lightening the mood. "A big one. Golden Retriever. Something dumb and happy."
"I want a cat," she countered. "Something elegant and judgmental."
"Fine. A dog and a cat. A turf war in the living room."
"And a kitchen," she added. "A big one. Where you can cook steaks and I can burn vegetables."
"Deal."
"And... maybe a studio," she whispered. "With a barre. Just for me. Not for performances. Just for moving."
"Done," I promised. "I'll build it myself. I'm handy, remember?"
She laughed, snuggling closer. "You are."
We sat there, painting a picture of a life that felt impossible. A life where I wasn't the hired help and she wasn't the princess. A life where we were just Atlas and Aurelia, fighting over pets and cooking dinner.
It was a beautiful lie.
But tonight, on top of the mountain, under the freezing stars, it felt like the only truth that mattered.
"Atlas?"
"Hmm?"
"Kiss me."
It wasn't a demand. It was a plea.
I kissed her.
It wasn't hungry. It wasn't frantic. It was slow. Deep. Reassuring.
I kissed her like I was trying to breathe my soul into her body. I kissed her like I was trying to tell her I love you without saying the words that would ruin everything.
She tasted of peppermint and tears. She tasted like home.
When we broke apart, she rested her forehead against mine.
"I don't want to go back," she whispered. "I don't want to go to the Gala. I don't want to be Aurelia St. James."
"You have to," I said gently. "One last performance. We get through Saturday. We get through finals. Then... we figure out the rest."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I wrapped the blanket tighter around us.
"Let's stay here a little longer," I said. "Just until the thermos is empty."
"Okay."
We watched the moon rise over the valley. We didn't talk anymore. We didn't need to.
We just held on. Two broken pieces that had somehow found a way to fit together.
And for the first time in my life, the noise in my head was gone.
There was only her heartbeat, steady and strong against my chest.
We drove back to campus in silence. But it wasn't the heavy silence of the hardware store trip. It was a comfortable silence. A companionable silence.
I dropped her off a block away from her apartment, just to be safe.
"Text me when you're inside," I said, leaning across the console to kiss her cheek.
"I will." She lingered, her hand on the door handle. "Atlas?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. for showing me the view."
"Anytime, Princess."
She slipped out into the night. I watched her walk away until she disappeared into her building.
I drove back to the Hive feeling invincible.
I had told her everything. The ugly, bloody truth of my past. And she hadn't run. She hadn't looked at me with disgust. She had climbed into my lap and held me.
I parked the truck and walked into the house.
Jax was in the living room, playing FIFA on the Xbox.
"Where you been, Cap?" he asked without looking up. "You missed a team meeting. Miller was pissed."
"Driving," I said. "Thinking."
"Thinking about the contract?"
"Yeah. The contract."
I walked to my room. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
The contract.
Three years. Two-way deal. $925,000 a year if I stayed in the NHL. $70,000 if I was in the AHL. Plus a $90,000 signing bonus.
It was life-changing money. It was 'save my mom' money.
But as I closed my eyes, I didn't see the numbers. I didn't see the Rangers jersey.
I saw a house with a porch. I saw a Golden Retriever chasing a judgmental cat. I saw Aurelia dancing in a studio I built with my own hands.
And I realized, with a jolt of terrifying clarity, that the money meant nothing if I couldn't have that picture.
I was going to sign the contract. I had to.
But I was going to find a way to keep the girl too. Even if I had to fight Arthur St. James, the Rangers front office, and the entire world to do it.
Because she wasn't just my girlfriend anymore.
She was my home.
And I defended my home.
Saturday Morning - The Day of the Gala
I woke up with a knot in my stomach the size of a fist.
Today was the day. The Winter White Gala. The press. The donors. The "Final Exam" of our arrangement.
I put on my suit. It was a cheap one I’d bought at Men’s Wearhouse freshman year, but I’d had it tailored, so it fit decent. I tied my tie three times before I got the knot right.
I looked in the mirror.
The bruise on my ribs was yellowing. The cut on my brow was healing. I looked... presentable. I looked like a Captain.
My phone buzzed.
Aurelia: Game face, Anvil. I'll see you on the battlefield.
Me: I'll be the one in the cheap suit trying not to spill red wine on your dad.
Aurelia: Don't worry. I'll spill it for you.
I smiled.
I grabbed my keys.
I walked out the door.
I was ready. Or so I thought.
But as I walked across the snowy campus toward the Event Center, I had a feeling. A bad feeling.
The kind of feeling you get right before a blind-side hit.
The kind of feeling that says the game is rigged, and you're about to lose.