“Couples,” I repeat, and his eyes bounce to mine, startled, then softer.He doesn’t walk it back.Neither do I.“We could get apples,” I say, skirting the word that just detonated quietly between us.“We’re low.”
“Apples,” he says solemnly.“And baby wipes.We always need wipes.”
I bite down on a smile and nod.“Okay.Walk, then groceries.”
“Game plan settled.”
He reaches out without thinking to adjust the robe belt that’s gone loose, fingers brushing my waist.We both freeze.His hand lingers a second too long and my breath hitches.The space between us feels delicate, like a soap bubble ready to pop.
He pulls back, eyes searching mine, apology and wanting tangled there.“Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I stammer and my cheeks flame.“I mean, I didn’t mind.”Atlas’s eyebrows rise.“I mean… no harm, no foul.”
His answering exhale is half laugh, half relief.“Good to know.”
We look at each other, and I realize this is the moment—a turning point.The last scraps of adversary have fallen away and what’s left is partnership with a pulse.
“Team,” I say again, because it anchors me.
“Team,” he echoes, and his smile is slow and devastating.
He gets the stroller from the hall closet while I go upstairs to throw on leggings and a sweater.When I return, he’s got Grayce zipped into a light jacket, her hair a ridiculous, glorious fluff.He’s tucked a small blanket around her like he’s been doing it for years.The sight hits me in the softest place.
“Ready?”he asks.
I tuck my keys and a pacifier in the diaper bag and sling it over my shoulder.“Ready.”
We step out into the crisp morning.The sun is bright, the sky a clean blue with fat fluffy clouds of cotton white.As we head down the front walk, Grayce jabbers happily, Atlas gives her a running commentary of the world, and I listen, smiling.Eight days stretch ahead of us like a gift I didn’t know I wanted.Time to practice being a team.
Time to see what this could be.
CHAPTER 15
Atlas
The damn cabinetdoor won’t shut right.
I shove it harder than necessary, the bang echoing through the kitchen like a gunshot.The drawer handle rattles in protest.Grayce doesn’t seem to care.She’s in her playpen babbling at the ceiling fan, plastic ring shoved in her mouth like its filet mignon.But the sound pulls Maddie’s eyes off her laptop, and now she’s watching me with that sharp, assessing gaze that has me bracing.
“You okay over there?”she asks.
“Fine.”The word snaps out before I can temper it.I take a sip of coffee, scald my tongue, and mutter a curse.
The truth?I’m not fine.The downside to sweeping a round in four games is that we’re in wait mode until the next round starts.The buzz of playoff adrenaline goes into hibernation, which is like slamming on the brakes of a runaway freight train.My entire being is tuned for motion and competition, and instead I’m stuck in neutral.
It makes me restless, feeling out of place in my own skin.
“Fine,” Maddie repeats, arching a brow.“Did the toaster hurt your feelings too?”
I drag a hand down my face.Normally, I’d give her a smart-ass comeback, but today I just sigh.“Sorry.I don’t know what to do with myself.”
“And why’s that?”she asks, pushing her laptop aside and fully turning my way.
I lift a shoulder.“Playoffs.”
“I need more than that.”
“It’s hard to explain, but the energy required, and even caused, by the playoffs is almost supernatural.When you’re in the thick of it, it’s a vibe that takes over your entire being.And now that we have to wait for the next round to start, it feels like a big letdown.Does that make sense?”
