Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“The obituary?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah, it’s this written remembrance…”
“I know what it is,” he snaps, cutting off my snark.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, Gray’s words rattling in my head to be nice, I take a long breath. Opening my eyes, I look at Atlas with as much polite control as I can muster. “I would appreciate your help. You know things about his early years that I don’t.”
Fuck, it pains me to admit that I need anything from him. That I don’t know everything about Gray the way he did about me.
“Okay,” he says gently, perhaps sensing how brittle I’m feeling. “I’m happy to help.”
I log onto Gray’s computer and Atlas moves behind me, close enough I can smell his body wash. My fingers hover over the keyboard.
“So, what do we say?” I ask.
Atlas leans in a little, arms crossed. “Start with the basics. Gray Donovan, twenty-seven years old, beloved father…”
My throat tightens, but I type the opening lines before adding, “Survived by his daughter, Grayce…”
“And his closest friends,” Atlas adds. “He’d want that in there. We were his family.”
I nod, typing in both our names, giving Atlas top billing. “Worked as a CPA. Loved hockey, fishing—”
“Video games,” Atlas cuts in with a faint smile.
I turn, brows raised. “Seriously?”
He shrugs. “We’d stay up half the night on Call of Duty. He was a beast.”
That surprises a laugh out of me, quiet but real. “I had no idea. I always thought he was reading or watching ESPN when he had free time.”
“He did that too,” Atlas says, then his eyes soften again as he looks at Gray’s daughter. “But he also spent hours talking about her. Texting me at least twenty photos a day. Bragging about how smart she is.”
I look back at the screen, blinking hard. “He told me once his proudest moment was when she finally slept through the night. Said it was better than winning the lottery.”
We fall silent for a beat, just the tap of keys filling the room.
Finally, Atlas says, “Guess we both had different pieces of him.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “We did.”
He shifts behind me, voice lower now. “Tell me something you know about him that I don’t.”
I glance up at him, caught off guard. “Like what?”
“Anything,” he says with a shrug. “Something I wouldn’t know. Something he never told me.”
My hands drop to my lap. “He used to sing to Grayce every night before bed. Off-key, horribly. Half the time he’d make up the words because he didn’t know the real ones. She didn’t care and it always worked. She’d fall right to sleep.”
Atlas huffs a laugh. “He never told me that, but he always swore he had a decent voice.”
“He lied,” I say, and a smile tugs at my mouth before fading. “But it was sweet.”
Atlas leans closer, his presence warm at my back. “Thanks for sharing.”
I swallow hard, blinking at the screen. “Your turn.”
CHAPTER 5
Atlas
By the time the car pulls up in front of the Titans’ hotel in DC, I’m already second-guessing why I came. I should be in Chicago, figuring shit out with Maddie, not running like a lost kid. But the truth is, I am very, very lost and I need help.
Lucky’s waiting in the lobby, baseball cap pulled low, hands shoved in his pockets. He spots me and his grin is small but warm. “Hey, man.”
We clasp hands and he pulls me into a quick hug. Solid. No questions asked, just presence. I didn’t realize how much I needed that until right now.
“How are you doing?” he asks as we step back. The whole team knows of my situation and why I left for Chicago. I know it’s a shock to him that I’m back so soon and even more so when I said it would be a brief visit just to talk.
The question slices. “Not good. I really appreciate you meeting up with me. I know there’s a lot going on with the playoffs.”
“Please,” Lucky drawls, waving me off. “Always time for a friend.” He nods toward the door. “There’s a steakhouse a few blocks down that’s supposed to have an incredible rib eye. Sound good?”
I haven’t felt like eating much the last few days, but all of a sudden, I’m famished. “Yeah. Throw in a stiff drink and I’m in heaven.”
We head out into the chilly spring night, walking through the evening crowd until we reach the restaurant tucked into the corner of the building. The kind of place with dark wood and leather booths that makes you want to order bourbon, neat. We slide into a booth, making small talk until we have drinks in front of us.
Lucky doesn’t waste time. “Lay it on me, brother. Must be big to have you jetting in and back out again.”
I lower my gaze, staring down at my glass. Christ, how do I even start? My throat feels clogged, like the words don’t want to come. But if I don’t say them now, I might never get them out.