I expect Atlas to burn holes in the rookies with his eyes just because he needs to aim the pressure somewhere.
What Idon’texpect is for all three of them to pretend—badly—that everything is normal.
The moment we walk into the rink’s tunnel, Finn bumps my shoulder like we didn’t have the most intimate night of my life yesterday.Kael hands me my clipboard without a word, but he’s holding it like it’s an explosive device he’s passing off.And Atlas...well, Atlas stands between me and the rest of the world like he’s been assigned to bodyguard every molecule of air I breathe.
Still...none of them fight me on my decision again.
Not with their voices.
Just with their eyes.
The players file in, rowdy and loud, oblivious to the tension orb hanging over the four of us.I slip behind the medical cart and start checking tape rolls, gauze stocks, ice packs—anything to ground myself.
I canfeeltheir attention even when I’m not looking.
Especially Atlas’s.
Finn skates past the boards and taps the glass twice—his silent, I’m here, you’re good signal.I raise an eyebrow at him.He tries to wink but does it wrong and ends up blinking like he has something in his eye.
I grin despite myself.
Kael whistles loudly at the forwards, “Positions!”and the players jump like they’ve been caught doing something illegal.
The rink fills with movement.Bodies weaving.Blades carving.Voices echoing.The weight in my chest lightens a little.
My world feels almost normal again.
Almost.
***
During a water break, Finn leans over the boards.“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?Because your face—”
“My face is fine.”
“You have your ‘I’m pretending to be fine’ face on.”
I glare.“Do I?”
He grins.“Yeah.But it’s cute.”
I throw a roll of tape at his helmet.He laughs, skates backward, fails to stop properly, and crashes into Rowan, who curses loud enough to shake the rafters.
Atlas materializes beside me with impossible quietness for a man his size.“You slept?”
There’s no judgment in his voice.Just a question.
“I did,” I say softly.“Really well.”
His jaw flexes.“Good.”
Something else moves under his voice—something dark and complicated—but he doesn’t push.He just stands at the boards, hands braced on the edge, eyes scanning the whole rink like he’s cataloging threats in every corner.
I follow his gaze by instinct.
