Chapter 19
Aurelia
There is a specific kind of silence that follows a hurricane. It’s not empty; it’s clean. The air feels scrubbed raw, sharp and new.
We were sitting in a booth at The Grind—the campus coffee shop we used to avoid because it was "too public." Now, we were sitting on the same side of the booth, thigh to thigh, drinking lattes that tasted like victory.
It was Monday morning. The fallout from the "Boardroom Raid" (as Jax had christened it on Twitter) was still settling like radioactive dust over Sterling University.
My phone was vibrating on the table. It had been vibrating for twelve hours. My mother. My father’s assistant. The Dean of Arts. Topher (blocked).
"Your phone is going to vibrate itself off the table," Atlas noted, taking a bite of a blueberry muffin. He looked tired—the bruise on his nose was a vibrant purple, and he hadn't shaved in two days—but his eyes were clear. The haunted, hollow look was gone.
"Let it," I said, leaning my head on his shoulder. "I like the sound of them panicking. It's soothing."
"sadist."
"You love it."
"I do." He kissed the top of my head. "Ready for round two?"
"Round two?"
"We have to go pack your stuff. Before your dad changes the locks on your apartment."
"He can't change the locks. My name is on the lease."
"He's Arthur St. James. He can change the gravitational pull of the earth if he pays enough."
"True." I sighed, tracing the veins on his hand. "Where are we going to put everything? Your truck is big, but it won't fit a white leather sofa."
"We're selling the sofa," he said firmly. "I told you. It's terrible for napping."
"Fine. But the art stays."
"The art stays. Unless it's that creepy statue of the faceless woman. That thing gives me nightmares."
"It's abstract expressionism, Atlas."
"It's a demon."
I laughed. A real, full-chested laugh. It felt good.
"Atlas?"
"Yeah?"
"Are we really doing this? New York? The Rangers?"
"Grier emailed the contract this morning," he said. "Digital signature. I signed it while you were in the shower."
My breath hitched. "You signed it?"
"Done deal. I'm officially a New York Ranger. Or... I will be, once I report to camp in July. Until then, I'm just a guy with a signing bonus and a very expensive girlfriend."
"Ex-expensive," I corrected. "I'm a minimalist now. I live in a truck."
"We'll find a place in the city. Temporary. Until the Tribeca loft is ready."
"You're amazing."
"I know." He smirked. "Come on. Let's go rescue your shoe collection."
We walked to my apartment building. Hand in hand.
Students stared. People whispered. I saw a few phones come out to take pictures.
Let them look, I thought. Take a picture. It lasts longer.
We reached my building. The doorman, Henry, looked at us nervously.
"Miss St. James... your father called. He said..."
"Henry," I interrupted, smiling sweetly. "Did he say I was evicted?"
"Well, no. But he said no unauthorized guests."
"Atlas isn't a guest," I said, squeezing Atlas’s hand. "He's the movers. Very specialized labor."
Henry looked at Atlas’s size. He looked at the broken nose. He looked at the look in Atlas’s eyes that said try me.
"Right," Henry said, opening the door. "Good luck with the move."
We went up to the apartment.
It was exactly as I had left it. The shattered vase was still on the floor. The candles had burned down to wax puddles.
It looked like the scene of a crime. A crime of passion.
"I'll get the boxes," Atlas said. "You get the clothes."
We worked in silence for an hour. It was efficient. We were a team.
Then, the door opened.
We both froze.
My mother stood in the doorway.
She was wearing a fur coat and sunglasses, though it was gloomy outside. She looked immaculate. And furious.
"Aurelia," she said. Her voice was ice.
"Mother," I replied, not looking up from the suitcase I was packing.
"What do you think you are doing?"
"Packing. I'm moving to New York."
"With him?" She gestured to Atlas, who was taping a box in the living room. She looked at him like he was a stain on the carpet.
"Yes. With him."
"You are throwing your life away," she snapped, walking into the room. "Paris. The conservatory. Your father had to pull so many strings to get you back in after your little 'sabbatical'."
"I didn't ask him to."
"We did it for you! For your future!"
"No," I said, standing up. "You did it for your image. You wanted a ballerina daughter to show off at parties. You didn't care if I was happy. You just cared if I was thin and polite."
"Happiness is a luxury for people who can't afford greatness," she sniffed.
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard," I said quietly.
Atlas walked into the bedroom. He stood behind me. He didn't touch me, but his presence was a wall of heat at my back. Support.
My mother looked at him. She looked at his bruised face. She looked at his flannel shirt.
"He will bore you," she said to me, ignoring him. "Give it six months. The novelty of the 'bad boy' will wear off. You'll miss the opera. You'll miss the society."
"He reads poetry, Mother," I said. "And he knows more about loyalty than anyone in 'society'."
"He has no pedigree."
"I don't care about pedigree," I said. "I care about character."
I zipped the suitcase.
"I'm done, Mother. The apartment is yours. You can keep the furniture. I don't want anything that came from him."
"If you leave with him," she warned, her voice trembling slightly, "do not expect us to catch you when you fall."
"I won't fall," I said, looking at Atlas.
He smiled. "I'll catch her."
My mother stared at us for a long moment. I saw something flicker in her eyes. Regret? Envy? It was gone too fast to tell.
"Fine," she said. "Go. Make your mistakes."
She turned and walked out. She didn't look back.
I let out a breath I had been holding since I was six years old.
"You okay?" Atlas asked, his hand finding my shoulder.
"Yeah," I whispered. "I think I finally am."
We loaded the truck. It was packed to the brim. My life, condensed into cardboard.
"One last stop," Atlas said as he started the engine.
"Where?"
"The arena. I need my gear."
We drove to the rink.
This time, we didn't have to break in. It was open for afternoon practice.
We walked in. The team was on the ice. Coach Miller was blowing his whistle.
When they saw us, the practice stopped.
Miller skated over to the bench. He looked at Atlas. He looked at the contract in Atlas’s hand (a printout he had grabbed from the printer at the Hive).
"You're back," Miller said.
"Just passing through, Coach," Atlas said. "Came to say goodbye."
"And to grab his gear," I added.
Miller looked at me. He looked at our joined hands. He sighed, shaking his head. But there was a small smile on his face.
"You crazy kids," he muttered. "You actually beat him."
"We did," Atlas said.
"I heard about the Rangers deal," Miller said. "Grier called me. Asked for a reference."
Atlas stiffened. "What did you say?"
Miller grinned. "I told him you were a pain in my ass. Stubborn. reckless. And the best damn captain I've ever seen."
Atlas let out a laugh, relieved. "Thanks, Coach."
"Get out of here, Thorne. Before I make you do suicides for old times' sake."
Jax skated over then, slamming into the glass.
"New York!" he yelled. "Party at the loft! I'm invited, right?"
"Only if you bring the good tequila," Atlas called back.
"Done! I'll sleep on the couch!"
"We sold the couch!" I yelled.
"I'll sleep on the floor! I don't care!"
We waved. We walked to the locker room. Atlas grabbed his bag.
As we walked out of the tunnel, Atlas stopped. He looked back at the ice.
"Gonna miss it?" I asked.
"The ice? Yeah. Always."
"You'll have new ice. Madison Square Garden ice."
"It won't be the same. This is where I met you."
He looked at the spot where he had first carried me. Where he had pinned me against the wall.
"Technically," I said, "you met me at a frat party. While I was drunk on a balcony."
"True. But this is where I fell for you."
"Gross," I teased, poking his ribs. "Sentimental."
"You love it."
He kissed me. Right there in the tunnel. It was a goodbye kiss to Sterling University. A goodbye to the fear.
Atlas
We checked into a hotel in the city that night. Not a fancy one. A Holiday Inn near the highway, halfway to New York.
We were exhausted. Moving is hard work. Revolution is harder.
We ordered pizza. We ate it in bed, watching bad cable TV.
"I can't believe we did it," Aurelia said, wiping tomato sauce from her lip. "We're actually free."
"Free agents," I said, stretching out. "Unrestricted."
She crawled over me, straddling my hips. She was wearing one of my t-shirts. It looked better on her than it ever did on me.
"So," she said, tracing the line of my jaw. "Now that we don't have to sneak around... now that there's no contract to break..."
"Yeah?"
"I was thinking..."
"Thinking is dangerous for you."
"Shut up. I was thinking... we never really finished what we started."
"Which time?"
"Any time. We always had to rush. Or hide. Or worry about Jax walking in."
"True."
"So," she whispered, leaning down to nip at my neck. "What happens when we have all night? And no one is watching?"
I groaned, my hands sliding under the shirt to grip her waist. Her skin was warm, soft, alive.
"We find out," I growled.
I flipped her over.
She shrieked, laughing, as I pinned her to the mattress.
"Atlas!"
"You wanted to know," I murmured, kissing her throat. "I'm going to show you."
I slowed down.
That was the difference. Before, everything was frantic. Stolen. Desperate.
Now, I had time. I had a lifetime.
I kissed her slowly. Deliberately. I mapped her body with my hands, rediscovering curves I already knew by heart but wanted to memorize again.
I took off the shirt. I looked at her.
"Beautiful," I whispered.
"You're biased."
"I'm accurate."
I kissed her breasts. Her stomach. Her hips.
I made love to her with a focus that I usually reserved for the playoffs. I wanted to erase every bad memory. Every harsh word I had said in that hallway. Every moment she had felt alone.
"I love you," I whispered against her skin. "I love you, Aurelia."
"I love you, Atlas," she gasped, arching into me.
When we finally joined, it wasn't just friction. It was a homecoming.
We moved together in the dim light of the hotel room. No candles. No silk sheets. Just cheap cotton and pure, unfiltered connection.
She wrapped her legs around me, pulling me deeper. She looked me in the eye.
"Mine," she whispered.
"Yours," I vowed.
We came together, a slow, rolling wave that left us both breathless and clinging to each other.
Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets. The pizza box was on the floor. The TV was still playing an infomercial.
It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't the St. James life.
It was better.
"Atlas?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you think your mom will like me?"
I chuckled, pulling her closer. "My mom already loves you. She thinks you're a badass for standing up to your dad."
"I am a badass."
"You are."
"Do you think the dog will like me?"
"The dog we don't have yet?"
"Yes. That one."
"He'll worship you. Like I do."
She smiled, snuggling into my chest.
"Good. Because I have demands."
"Oh god. What demands?"
"The dog has to be named Spud."
"Spud?"
"Because you like potatoes."
I laughed. I laughed until my ribs ached.
"Spud," I agreed. "Fine. But the cat is named Puck."
"Deal."
She closed her eyes. Her breathing evened out.
I watched her sleep.
I thought about the future. New York. The Rangers. The noise. The pressure.
It would be hard. I knew that. The NHL was a grind. Her career would be a grind. We would fight. We would struggle.
But looking at her, safe in my arms... I wasn't scared.
I had the girl. I had the contract. I had the dog name.
I was the richest man in the world.
The next morning, we packed the truck.
The sun was shining. The snow was melting into slush.
We got in. I started the engine.
Aurelia put her feet on the dashboard.
"Ready?" I asked.
She looked at me. She smiled. A dazzling, unburdened smile.
"Drive, Anvil."
I put the truck in gear.
We merged onto the highway, heading south. Toward the city. Toward the noise. Toward the rest of our lives.
And as the skyline of Burlingham faded in the rearview mirror, I didn't look back.
Not once.
Because everything I needed was sitting in the passenger seat, arguing with the GPS about the fastest route to Tribeca.