Chapter 20
Atlas
Six months.
That’s how long it had been since we drove out of Burlingham in a snowstorm. Six months of chaos, boxes, contracts, physicals, and learning that "Tribeca loft" meant "fourth-floor walk-up with questionable plumbing but great light."
But tonight, we were back.
The Sterling Arena smelled exactly the same. Zamboni exhaust. Popcorn. Sweat. It was a sensory time machine that yanked me right back to freshman year, when I was a scared kid from Ohio with a chip on my shoulder the size of a puck.
I stood in the locker room, adjusting my tie. Not a rented tuxedo this time. A custom suit. Charcoal gray. Tailored to fit my shoulders without straining the seams. Aurelia had picked it out. She said I looked like "money and danger." I told her I looked like a guy who was uncomfortable in wool.
"You gonna stare in the mirror all night, or are we gonna do this?"
Jax Vane slapped me on the back, nearly making me choke. He was wearing a suit that was... loud. Blue plaid. Only Jax could pull it off.
"Easy, Vane," I said, straightening my collar. "This isn't a game. It's a ceremony. There's no hitting."
"Boring," Jax groaned. "But at least there's free champagne."
Tonight was the Senior Awards Banquet. The final send-off before graduation tomorrow. Technically, I had already left the team. I was property of the New York Rangers now. But Coach Miller had insisted I come back. You're still the Captain, he’d said. You started the season. You finish it.
I walked out of the locker room and into the tunnel.
It felt strange to be here in a suit instead of gear. My feet felt light without skates.
I looked at the concrete walls. I remembered leaning against them, ribs broken, heart pounding, while Aurelia kissed me in the shadows. I remembered the fear. The absolute, crushing terror that I would lose everything if anyone saw us.
Now?
I checked my watch. Aurelia was meeting me in the VIP lounge.
I didn't feel fear. I felt... complete.
The kid who stood here six months ago was desperate. He was fighting for survival. He was fighting to be "enough."
The man standing here now knew better. I didn't need the contract to be enough. I didn't need Arthur St. James's approval. I just needed the girl who burned her life down to be with me.
And I had her.
The VIP lounge was buzzing. Boosters, alumni, parents.
I scanned the room. I saw familiar faces. Teammates. Professors.
And then I saw her.
Aurelia was standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ice. She was wearing black tonight. A sleek, backless dress that made her look like a dangerous weapon. Her hair was down, loose waves cascading over her shoulders. She was laughing at something Coach Miller was saying.
My chest tightened. It always did. Even after living with her for six months—after seeing her in sweatpants with zit cream on her face, after fighting over whose turn it was to walk the dog (yes, we got the dog)—she still took my breath away.
I walked over.
She sensed me before I arrived. She turned, her eyes lighting up.
"There he is," Miller boomed, clapping me on the shoulder. "The prodigal son."
"Coach," I nodded. "You look good. Tie is straight."
"Don't get cheeky, Thorne. Just because you're big league now doesn't mean I can't make you run stairs."
"I'd like to see you try," Aurelia teased, slipping her arm through mine. She leaned into me, her warmth seeping through my suit jacket.
"You look decent," she whispered, her lips brushing my ear.
"Decent?"
"Okay. You look edible. Happy?"
"Very."
"Mr. Thorne."
The room seemed to drop a few degrees.
I turned.
Arthur St. James stood there.
He looked older. The last six months hadn't been kind to him. The scandal of his daughter publicly defecting, coupled with the Board's questioning of his leadership after the "Hush Money Incident," had taken a toll. He looked... diminished.
Aurelia stiffened beside me. I felt her hand tighten on my arm.
I covered her hand with mine. I've got you.
"Arthur," I said calmly. Not Mr. St. James. Arthur.
"Atlas," he nodded. He looked at Aurelia. "Aurelia."
"Dad," she said. Her voice was steady. No fear. No anger. Just indifference.
"I hear the Rangers are... utilizing you well," Arthur said to me. It was a stiff, awkward attempt at conversation.
"Training camp starts in three weeks," I said. "I'm ready."
"And you?" He looked at Aurelia. "How is... the city?"
"Loud," she said. "Dirty. Expensive. I love it."
Arthur flinched slightly. "And your... dancing?"
"I'm teaching," she said. "At a studio in Brooklyn. And I'm choreographing. My own work."
"Teaching," Arthur repeated, the word tasting sour in his mouth. "A St. James teaching in Brooklyn."
"A Thorne-St. James," I corrected, though we weren't married yet. But I liked the way his eye twitched when I said it.
Arthur looked at us. Really looked at us.
He saw the way we stood together—a united front. He saw the ring on her right hand (not an engagement ring, just a gift, but it looked possessive enough). He saw the peace in her eyes that had never been there when she was his perfect doll.
He sighed. It was a heavy, defeated sound.
"Well," he said. "Enjoy the evening."
He turned and walked away.
It wasn't a reconciliation. It wasn't a hug. But it was a surrender.
Aurelia let out a breath.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said, watching his retreating back. "He looks small, doesn't he?"
"He is small," I said. "He always was. We just didn't see it because we were on our knees."
She looked up at me and smiled. "We're standing now."
"Yeah. We are."
The banquet was long. Speeches. Highlight reels. Bad chicken.
But it was good.
I sat at a table with Jax, Miller, and the rest of the seniors. We laughed about the season. We laughed about the time Jax got stuck in the elevator. We laughed about the time I broke three sticks in one period out of pure rage.
"That was the 'Sexual Frustration Phase'," Jax announced loudly to the table. "Before he finally locked it down with the Princess."
Aurelia, sitting next to me, kicked Jax under the table. "Shut up, Vane."
"Ow! See? Violence. It runs in the family."
Then, it was time for the awards.
Coach Miller took the podium.
"Every year," he started, his voice gravelly over the speakers, "we give out the MVP award. Usually, it goes to the guy with the most goals. Or the best save percentage."
He paused, looking down at our table.
"But this year... this year was different.
This year, we had a leader who didn't just play the game.
He lived it. He took hits—on and off the ice—that would have broken anyone else.
He sacrificed his own future to protect his team.
And then, when it mattered most, he showed us all what it means to have integrity. "
The room went quiet.
"The MVP award goes to our Captain. The Anvil. Atlas Thorne."
The room erupted.
My teammates stood up. They were cheering, whistling, pounding the table.
I stood up. My throat was tight.
I walked to the stage. I shook Miller’s hand. He pulled me into a hug.
"Proud of you, son," he whispered. "Go be great."
I took the trophy. It was heavy. Solid.
I looked out at the crowd.
I saw the boosters. I saw the Dean. I saw Arthur in the back, watching.
But then my eyes found the table in the front.
Aurelia was standing. She was clapping. Her eyes were shining with tears. She looked so proud it hurt to look at her.
And next to her...
My heart stopped.
My mom.
Sarah Thorne was standing next to Aurelia. She looked healthy. She was wearing a nice dress—blue, her favorite color. Her hair was done. She looked ten years younger than the last time I saw her in the trailer.
Aurelia had flown her in. She must have. It was a surprise.
My mom waved at me, wiping her eyes.
I choked up. I couldn't speak. I just held up the trophy.
It wasn't about the hockey. It was never about the hockey.
It was about the people who stood up when you walked into the room.
Later, after the speeches, after the photos, after the hugs.
We escaped.
Aurelia and I slipped out of the banquet hall. We walked down to the ice level one last time.
The rink was dark, save for the emergency lights. The ice had been melted down for the summer, leaving just the concrete floor.
It looked different. Empty.
We walked to center ice. Or where center ice used to be.
"So," Aurelia said, her voice echoing. "MVP. Big shot."
"It's a doorstop," I joked, loosening my tie. "But a nice one."
"Your mom looked happy," she said softly.
"You did that," I said, turning to her. "You flew her in."
"She deserved to see it. She deserved to see her son win."
"Thank you," I whispered. "For everything."
"Don't get mushy on me, Anvil. It ruins the street cred."
I laughed, pulling her into me. "My street cred is ruined anyway. I live in a loft with a girl who owns fifteen types of herbal tea."
"It's a very masculine loft. Exposed brick."
"True."
I looked around the empty arena.
"This is it," I said. "Last time."
"Are you sad?"
"A little. But mostly... I'm ready."
"Ready for what?"
"For the next chapter. The one where we don't have to hide."
She smiled. She reached up and wrapped her arms around my neck.
"I have a surprise for you," she said.
"Another one? My heart can't take it."
"This one is smaller."
She reached into her clutch. She pulled out a roll of tape.
Black hockey tape.
"I kept it," she said. "From that night. When I threw it at you."
"I picked it up," I said. "I still have it."
"I know. But I bought new tape."
She handed it to me.
"What's this for?"
"For the stick," she said. "The new stick. The Rangers stick."
I looked at the tape. Then I looked at her.
"You're weird," I said affectionately.
"I'm symbolic."
"Okay. Symbolic."
I put the tape in my pocket.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Anything."
"Do you regret it? The ballet? Paris? The money?"
She looked at me. Her expression was serious. She reached up and touched the scar on my brow.
"Atlas," she said softly. "I spent twenty years trying to be perfect. I tried to be the swan. I tried to be the statue. And I was miserable. I was cold."
She leaned in closer.
"With you... I'm messy. I'm broke. I'm living in a walk-up. And I have never, ever been warmer."
She kissed me.
It was a slow, sweet kiss. A kiss of closure. A kiss of beginning.
"No regrets," she whispered against my lips.
"No regrets," I echoed.
We walked out of the arena.
The night air was warm. Spring had finally come to Vermont. The snow was gone. The trees were budding.
We walked to my truck—still the old Ford, though I could afford a new one now. I liked the history.
We got in.
"Where to?" I asked.
"Home," she said. "New York."
"It's a four-hour drive."
"I have a playlist. And snacks."
"Of course you do."
I started the engine. The rumble was familiar. Comforting.
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I looked in the rearview mirror one last time. I saw the Sterling Arena fading into the distance.
I remembered the boy who arrived here four years ago. Angry. Alone.
And I looked at the woman sitting next to me. Feet on the dash. Singing along to Taylor Swift. Wearing my suit jacket because she was cold.
I smiled.
I reached over and took her hand.
"Ready, Spud?" I asked.
She laughed. "Ready, Puck."
We drove onto the highway.
The road ahead was dark, but the headlights cut a clear path.
We were going to be fine.
We were going to be more than fine.
We were going to be legendary.