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)
Every time Atlas comes onto the ice, I lean forward to get a better look. The camera zooms in on him, and his jaw seems permanently clenched, eyes sharp with focus. At once, I feel a flicker of interest warmer than curiosity.
I shove it down. I have no right to be feeling any kind of warm feelings for that man. It’s all about mutual respect and nothing else.
Still, my mind drifts to this morning and the awkward run-in we had. I’d grabbed a quick shower while Grayce was still sleeping. I had no clue if Atlas was awake or still asleep and hell, he could have been out of the house for all I knew. It was quiet downstairs, but I didn’t read anything into it.
Steam still clung to the bathroom mirror when I heard Grayce start to fuss through the monitor. I wrapped myself in a towel and made my way to the nursery, hair dripping down my spine. When I opened the nursery door, I was shocked to find Atlas was already there, leaning over the crib with his hoodie strings dangling into her reach.
He looked up, and for a heartbeat his eyes dragged over me—wet hair, bare shoulders, towel knotted just above my breasts. Heat flared in his hazel eyes, sharp and unmistakable. Then, as quickly as it came, he straightened, cleared his throat, and said something mundane about the baby.
Not sure I really heard it because I was mortified to be standing there half-naked in front of a man so gorgeous, he could be gracing a Times Square editorial campaign.
And all day today, I kept replaying that look. It did things to me I don’t want to give credence to. Atlas is the type of man who makes a woman do stupid stuff. He’s effortlessly masculine, the kind of man who could scratch an itch, if circumstances were different. But they’re not. He’s my co-parent. My roommate. I can’t let myself think of him that way.
The buzzer on the screen pulls me back. Titans win, 4–2. The guys swarm the ice, Atlas disappearing in a huddle of massive hockey players. Against my will, I feel a rush of pride. He’s good at what he does. Damn good, and admittedly, I’d like to know more about the sport now.
I push that aside though and turn off the TV. I’ve got to clean the kitchen and I’d like to be in bed before Atlas gets home.
I’m just finishing the last pan, drying it with a soaked towel, when my phone buzzes on the granite countertop. I lean over and see it’s a text from Atlas. Leaving soon. Need me to pick up anything?
My fingers hover. I should say no because I don’t like asking for favors. But I’m starting to realize that might not be an option and I need to open myself up a bit, especially since Atlas seems so committed to this co-parenting thing.
I let my thumbs fly, texting out a response. Can you stop and pick up some apple juice?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then, Absolutely. Anything else?
My belly flutters slightly at the kindness of the gesture, but it’s my complete acceptance of it that has me questioning myself. Nothing else. Thank you, I text back.
I really didn’t need the apple juice. I just wanted to make myself take him up on an offer of help so I could see how bitter it tasted.
I’m finding… it was kind of palatable.
CHAPTER 13
Atlas
I smooth the lapels of my suit jacket, the dark wool sharp against my white dress shirt, and glance at the neatly packed garment bag lying open on the bed. Just a few changes of clothes and toiletries inside—nothing more needed for a two-game road trip. I zip up the bag, the rasp cutting through the silence of the hotel room.
The equipment managers handle our gear, so all I’ve got to worry about is looking the part when I step onto the bus on the way to the enemy arena. Still, I pace the length of the hotel room like I’m forgetting something, that game-day itch prickling under my skin.
Or maybe it’s something else.
I check the clock on the nightstand—ten minutes before we’re supposed to load onto the bus. Enough time for one more call.
The last four days have blurred together, a weird blend of home and away routines. Back in Pittsburgh, Maddie and I have stumbled our way into a rhythm—me taking Grayce so Maddie can shower, Maddie prepping bottles at night for me to use if Grayce wakes up. I’ve taken on grocery shopping and general errands, but on game day, Maddie insists on doing that as I have to focus. She still refuses to fully let go of many things, but I can see she’s making an effort to let me help when and where I can.