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.”
“Blind and biased,” Rafferty says, and then pushes his chair back to reenact the scuffle.He throws an exaggerated shoulder check into thin air, feet shuffling like he’s back on the boards.“Guy comes at me like this—boom!—so I give him a little nudge—”
Tempe smacks his arm with the back of her hand.“You make it sound like you were defending the crown jewels.You just wanted to scrap.”
“I won the scrap,” Rafferty insists, puffing out his chest.
“Barely.”She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifts.
King raises his glass like a toast.“Hey, doesn’t matter—what matters is we shut them down.Beautiful game.”
Winnie picks up a pitcher and sets it in front of Lucky with a flourish.“Your turn, hero.Pour me one without spilling it all over yourself.”
Lucky’s brows shoot up.“I’m a professional athlete.I have balance and hand-eye coordination out the—”
Beer sloshes over the rim of the glass as he tips the pitcher too far.
The whole table breaks into laughter, Winnie cackling the loudest.“Hand-eye coordination, huh?If only I had gotten that on camera.”
Lucky sets the dripping glass down with mock indignity, wiping his hand on his jeans.“That was strategy.Foam adds flavor.”
And so the banter goes.I find myself laughing too, harder than I have in months.Somewhere between bites of fries and sips of beer, my shoulders loosen and I start to have fun.It helps that Atlas is by my side because even though everyone is friendly, I realize he’s the one who grounds me.
