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)
“That was…,” I start, but my voice is wrecked.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “That was.”
I should get up. I should run back to my room, remind myself of rules and lines and why I can’t want this. But for one dangerous minute, I let myself stay, curled against the man I swore I wouldn’t fall for.
Atlas’s arm is heavy over my waist, pinning me in the kind of hold I could get used to. His chest rises and falls steadily and for one reckless second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to always fall asleep like this.
But that’s the problem. Sleep. Staying. It’s not “just sex” if you blur the edges.
I ease my hand under his arm, sliding out from beneath the weight. The sheets whisper against my skin as I sit up and reach for my clothes.
“Mads?” His voice is thick with exhaustion, low and rumbling, and somehow still manages to make me shiver.
“I’m going back to my room.” I find my tank top, tug it over my head, and force my tone light.
“Why?” he asks, and I look back to find his head turned, resting on the pillow, eyes pinned on me.
“Because we said sex only, so this is the part where I go back to my room.”
His hand lands on my hip, warm, anchoring me before I can stand. “Or the part where you stay.”
I freeze, pulse kicking. “Atlas…”
“I’m not saying move in,” he says quickly, almost smiling, but there’s a gravity in his voice. “Just stay. One night. No rules, no labels. Just… stay.”
I turn to look at him. His hair is a mess from my fingers, his eyes dark and earnest. The picture is almost enough to break me.
Almost.
“I can’t.” My voice is firmer now, the steel I’ve practiced for years sliding into place.
“You really think lying next to me changes everything?”
“Yes,” I whisper, because I know it does. For me. For the walls I’ve built.
I pry his hand off my hip and set it gently on the mattress, not letting myself linger. “Good night, Atlas.”
He doesn’t argue again, just watches me gather my shorts and slip out the door and into the hallway, which immediately feels safer.
I walk quickly up the stairs to my room, heart pounding like I’ve sprinted a mile. The second the door shuts, I press my back against it and exhale.
My body is sated, my skin still humming, but inside? I’m raw.
Restless and still wanting.
I’ll always still be wanting with him.
CHAPTER 22
Atlas
I relish the cold bite against my cheeks as I coast around the ice, my skate blades carving into the glass-slick surface. My muscles are warm, shoulders loose, focus keen. Everything else drops away.
Coach West blows the whistle. “Warm-up flow—go!”
The entire team moves with determination. Edgework at the blue line, tight turns, heel-to-toe pivots. The puck pops off my tape with a satisfying thwap.
We pour everything we have into practice because this is the playoffs and losing isn’t an option. Coach West bellows feedback and direction with precise efficiency.
“Good.”
“Again.”
“Faster hands.”
“That’s how you beat it.”
“Perfect footwork on the hinge. Again.”
“Keep your shoulders square.”
My lungs work overtime and it’s the burn that says the engine’s tuned and ready.
We practice our penalty kill, which is all about patience with teeth. It’s block and clear, lanes and sticks, reading hands.
“Atlas, watch your gap on entries,” West calls as we reset a drill. “You’re clean in the zone, but sometimes you’re backing in too early at the line. Trust your feet.”
“Yeah, Coach,” I say, the words a puff of white.
After drills, we scrimmage—twenty minutes of hard play designed to mimic the Detroit Cardinals’ style, who is our opponent in round two. Halfway through, West stops everything with a whistle that could slice down to the bone. We huddle at the bench where he has a large whiteboard. The marker squeaks as he roughs out the play. “They love the high tip. Don’t let them inside you. And if you get pulled wide, communicate. I need you three talking.” He stabs the board. “You have to trust each other.”
We run it again.
And again.
And again.
I feed North a clean pass that he buries in the back of the net and Coach’s voice bends around us. “There we go.”
He doesn’t hand out praise like candy. That “There we go” is a steak dinner.
Just when I don’t think I can go anymore, West calls for us to bag-skate for the last five minutes. I fucking hate ’em but there’s no better way to condition your lungs for the marathon of playoff hockey.
Down and back. Down and back. The accumulation is the point, not the single rep. My legs feel like concrete blocks by the end, my lungs like I swallowed razors.
Final whistle. “Cool down and stretch. Film review in twenty.”
As I glide to the bench, I pull off my helmet and run my fingers through my soaked hair. The sting of cold air is like needles on my scalp, but it feels good.