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)
“It was amazing,” I assure her.
“I told Atlas I’d hang out with you while the guys are showering. It won’t be long before they come to collect us. The girls have gone over to Mario’s to put some tables together.”
We chitchat for about twenty minutes and Winnie introduces me to a few of the family members, but admits to me in a hushed whisper, “I’m the newest to the Titans group, so I don’t know all of them yet. But everyone’s so nice.”
Agreed. For all of Atlas’s talk about this being a family, I haven’t seen anything to indicate otherwise.
And then Atlas is there, Lucky right behind him. Atlas’s hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends. He’s not wearing the suit he left the house in, rather jeans and a black V-neck sweater that molds to his torso.
Lucky grabs Winnie up in a huge hug and spins her around, but I stare at Atlas awkwardly.
“Great game,” I blurt out. “Congratulations.”
Atlas grins and I know it’s because he can tell I’m nervous. He steps closer, easy, steady, and I make the mistake of going in for a half hug. It’s awkward, until his arm hooks around me firmly, pulling me into his warmth. For one long second, I lean in. Then I force myself back, nerves snapping.
“Relax,” he whispers in my ear. “No one would dare think we like each other.”
I give him a backhanded slap on his chest. “Smart-ass.”
“Seriously, though,” he says earnestly. “How did you like the game?”
“I had a lot of fun and Brienne was wonderful.” My words trip over each other, too formal, like I’m giving a Yelp review.
“Come on,” he says, like nothing was awkward at all. “Let’s head over to Mario’s.”
The walk from the lounge to the arena’s exit feels like moving from one world to another. Lucky and Winnie stroll with us, their hands clasped firmly. I wonder what that feels like. I wonder what I’d do if Atlas took my hand in his.
We reach the bar and restaurant known as Mario’s, apparently the preferred hangout after a win. It’s a place for the players to mingle with fans and according to Atlas, just a really laid-back atmosphere.
We enter and he puts his hand on my lower back, a steady guide as we weave through the crowd. We don’t make it ten paces before he and Lucky are stopped by requests for autographs and selfies. He crouches to sign a kid’s jersey, grins for a picture with two women waving posters, fist-bumps a guy in head-to-toe Titans gear. I watch with wide eyes, my heart thudding. In a million years, I never imagined myself here.
“I’d like to say you get used to it,” Winnie says with a smirk. “But it’s still very weird to me.”
“So weird,” I agree. Because until recently, I’ve never associated Atlas with fame. He’s just been a regular guy to me. Seeing people fawn all over him is a shock to the senses.
We eventually make it to the VIP section the restaurant has set up, cordoned off with velvet ropes. I note several high-tops shoved together into one long stretch with pitchers of beer sweating on the wood. The entire team isn’t here, but enough of them are that they make quite the spectacle. Players and their women, voices overlapping, hands flying as they retell plays from the game. Laughter carries louder than the TVs on the wall and we join the gang—all men and women I’ve met already. In getting to know more about Atlas’s life the last few weeks, it’s those teammates who he’s closest to and hangs out with the most off the ice.
I’ve learned that while the entire organization as a whole is very bonded, there are subsets of friends within the larger group.
Surprisingly, I get pulled into many hugs with warm smiles and easy waves, invited into the space at the end of a table like I’ve always belonged. Atlas steers me into the open seat beside him, close enough that our knees brush under the table, before reaching for a pitcher of beer.
Lucky leans across and grabs a chicken wing from the many baskets of food laid out. He points it at Penn. “You gonna explain that wide-open net you whiffed on, or should we all pretend it didn’t happen?”
Penn groans, dragging a hand over his face. “The puck hopped.”
“The puck didn’t hop,” Lucky fires back. “You panicked.”
“I did not panic.” Penn stabs a fry at him. “I was screened.”
“By air?” Foster chimes in, grinning. “Because there wasn’t a soul within ten feet of you.”
The table erupts in laughter. I have no clue what they’re talking about, but I can tell it’s exaggerated teasing.
“Don’t talk to me about phantom plays,” Foster adds, waving a hand. “That tripping call in the second against Raff? Cleanest poke check I’ve ever seen. Refs are blind.”