Chapter Five

Atlas

My buddies and I are sitting in the limo, heading to the venue where the gala is being held. We are all dressed to the nines. My suit is dark blue with silver threading going throughout, so it looks like it is glittering, without the glitter. I opted for a bow tie instead of the tie, as I felt it tied everything together, no pun intended. The bow tie is made from the same material. Tom Ford sure can make a suit. Even the suspenders under my jacket give a sparkle from the silver threading. Hopefully my choice of suit will please my mother, and I will not have to deal with her much tonight.

The guys from the team and the coaching staff said they would meet us all there. The guys that I am closest to—Simms, Gabe, Bailey, and Zander—ride with me in the limousine. We are all dressed similarly, in different designer suits with silver or gold ties and bow ties.

We all chat excitedly about the game we won, our voices overlapping in a symphony of optimism. This year, we are determined to make it all the way to the World Series. Last year, we were just two games away before our dreams were dashed. But this year feels different. I have a good feeling about it.

The limo inches forward, joining the line of vehicles waiting to drop off guests at the front door. I can already see the flashes of cameras and hear the murmur of journalists and paparazzi, eager to capture every moment.

As we reach the entrance, I take a deep breath. The valet opens both side doors, allowing my teammates to exit gracefully. I nod to the worker, offering my thanks and slipping him a crisp fifty-dollar bill. "Thank you," I say, appreciating the small but significant role he plays in this grand event.

I always make it a point to tip generously. These workers don't get paid much, and their efforts often go unnoticed. Whether it is opening a door, filling my drink, or handing me a towel, I want them to know their service is valued. It is my way of showing gratitude for their hard work and dedication.

The flashes are blinding, and the cacophony of journalists' voices filled the air, each one trying to outshout the other. All I can make out are our names, repeated over and over like a mantra. I take another deep breath, steeling myself to get through this part of the evening.

As I step away from the limo, the cool night air hit my face, a stark contrast to the heat of the flashing bulbs. I square my shoulders and put on my best smile, knowing that every moment is being captured. My teammates follow suit, each of us playing our part in this well-rehearsed dance.

The crowd surges forward, microphones and cameras thrust in our direction. Questions are hurled at us, but they all blend into a single, overwhelming noise. I focus on keeping my composure, reminding myself that this is just another step towards our ultimate goal.

"James, how the hell are you, man? Been a long time," saying a little over the top, if I say so myself. James is my least favorite journalist. Most in part because he is the one that Mallory went to when she felt she needed an ear for her stories and would no doubt print them. James's face lights up, and his chest puffs a bit, thinking, Yep, this big-time MLB player for the Legends, knows me by name and wants to talk to me. But I am looking forward to bursting his bubble of confidence. Maybe then, he will understand not to fuck with me.

"I'm doing great, Atlas; how are you? Tell me, who are you wearing? Who is your plus one tonight? Someone new, or is that flame still burning bright for a special someone?" James starts spitting out his questions, not giving me any time to answer, well, if I were going to answer any of them. I just give him my best stink eye and turn to the person next to him.

"Good evening, ma'am, I'm Atlas Kensington, and you are?" I say to the pixie looking woman standing next to James—looking a little out of place and a lot uncomfortable—who I know works for the same magazine as he does. By the look on his face, I am correct, and from the looks of it, they do not get along in the slightest. The mystery woman takes my hand, giving James the cold shoulder.

The mystery woman shakes my hand firmly, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so petite. She has short, tousled hair the color of autumn leaves and bright, inquisitive eyes that seem to take in everything around her. "I'm Joey," she replies, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kensington."

James shifts uncomfortably, clearly annoyed by Joey's presence. I can't help but wonder what history lies between them. "Likewise, Joey," I respond, offering her a warm smile. "I hope you're enjoying the evening."

Joey's expression softens slightly, and she nods. "I am, thank you. It's quite the event." Joey's voice is clear and professional; I would place her in her mid-thirties, medium height, curvy, and a face like an angel. I only say that because we have a common enemy. James. Speaking of James, he is standing there, mic in hand, mouth open in aghast. Fuck you, James! is what I want to scream in his face, but I am a professional, and I have some questions that need to be answered for Joey here.

"Of course I have time; it must be your lucky night because Legends PR staff told us to only complete one interview tonight, and you, my newly best friend, are the chosen one." I give James another evil eye, and he slinks back into the crowd of journalists where he belongs.

After answering a few more intriguing questions from Joey, I make my way inside with my buddies at my side. The banquet room where the speeches and dinner are being held looks stunning. Dark fabric drapes the walls, and even the ceiling is covered with flowing material that looks like satin. Twinkling lights are woven in and out of the fabric, creating an enchanting atmosphere that makes it feel like we're under a starlit sky. The floor has been freshly waxed, and you can see your reflection in the black gloss finish, which mirrors the lights from around the room. The people my mom hired to set up this place did an incredible job. Even the boys look impressed.

Everyone scatters, heading in different directions to greet the people we were told by the higher-ups that we needed to converse with at some point during the night. I spot my mother, and she and my father make their way over to me.

"It looks great in here, doesn't it?" Mom gushes, eyes darting around, taking it all in.

"It does; they did a great job bringing your vision to life. I am excited to see what they have done with the garden area," I exclaim, my eyes going to the closed doors that lead to the gardens.

"It is just as beautiful as the inside; your mother has outdone herself this time," my father dotes on my mother, because we are in public and have an image to uphold. Mom just beams at the positive reaffirmations that dad is giving her.

We chat about the game, upcoming family gatherings, and other unimportant things before they head off to greet someone else. I take a moment to look around, taking in everything—the display of lights, the elegantly set tables, the intricate centerpieces. Each detail is meticulously arranged, creating an atmosphere of sophistication and warmth.

I glance around the room, trying to get a feel for where I need to be and who I need to speak to before the evening is over. As I wander around, catching up with people I haven't seen in a while and talking baseball with others, I feel a sense of camaraderie and nostalgia. These are the moments that remind me why I love this sport and the community it brings together.

The host's voice cuts through the chatter, announcing that the evening is about to begin and asking us to make our way to our seats. I take one last look around, appreciating the effort that went into making this night special, before heading to my assigned table. The anticipation in the room is palpable, and I can't help but feel a mix of excitement and curiosity about what the night will bring.

I find my table easily; as usual, I am seated with my parents and siblings. As I glance around the table, I grit my teeth, trying to hold in all the anger that wants to spill out. Mallory is sitting in the chair next to the one that has my name on it. I tighten my hands into fists, as she looks at me like I am a snack, and she wants to devour me. Not today, Satan. You are not going to ruin this night for me; this is the only gala I look forward to every year. No one, not my mother, father, or even this bitch, Mallory, is going to devalue the evening for me.

Mallory sits up straighter as I draw closer, ready to sink in her claws. But before I can reach her, I catch a familiar scent—fresh and floral, like a spring morning. A smile takes over my face as I turn, just in time to be hit with a tiny tornado known as my little sister, Lyra.

Lyra is a twenty-two-year-old spitfire, with no filter, no shame, and no problem standing up for what she believes in and those she loves. Her dark, wild curls bounce as she throws her arms around me, her laughter infectious.

"Atlas!" she exclaims, her voice full of excitement. "I've missed you!"

I hug her back, feeling a rush of warmth and affection. "I've missed you too, Lyra. How have you been?"

She pulls back, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, you know, causing trouble and making sure everyone knows it," she says with a wink. "But enough about me. How's my big brother doing?"

We chat until Lyra notices Mallory sitting at our assigned table, not giving me a chance to respond. Lyra hates Mallory, not only for what she did to me all those times, but also because one of the guys she slept with was Lyra's longtime boyfriend. Lyra had been with Nick since she was in fifth grade. Mallory decided that since I had broken up with her, she would take her revenge out on my sister. Well, apparently, she didn't think that through, because Lyra came home early and caught them in the act.

It turns out my little sister can hold her own; she beat both of their asses to the point that they had matching fat lips and a matching black eye. Nick tried to come up with the excuse that he didn't know what was happening, and Mallory tricked him, blah, blah, blah. He took the hint when Lyra told him the next time she saw him, if he didn't remove himself from her sight, she would have both of her brothers knocking on his door. She hasn't seen or heard from him in years. I think I heard he moved to the East Coast, if I'm not mistaken. If only he had taken Mallory with him.

Lyra's eyes narrow as she spots Mallory, her posture stiffening. "Whore," she greets.

"Excuse me, but who do you think you are calling a whore, you little—"

"Watch your words around my sister, Mallory, or I will have you escorted from the building," I interrupt what she is about to say. I can deal with a lot of things, but when it comes to my brother and sister, especially my little sister, I will bring hell down on the person who causes her any type of pain.

"Why are you at this table, anyway? This table is for family only, and you are definitely not anywhere close to being family," I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Your mother said I could sit next to you so we can present a united front for the charity, showing people that we are still close, and that we ar—"

"You are as delusional as our mother. That is never going to happen. Atlas will never give you another chance. So go find another place to sit, or it will be me and my mother you sit between all night, and I will make it my mission to be your shadow. I'll let everyone you speak to know the type of person you truly are beneath the designer clothing and thirty layers of makeup. You should probably start moving before I change my mind about being civil and give you a chance to retreat on your own," Lyra says, giving her a smile that says, I am a sweetheart; if you fuck with me or my brothers, I will break your face.

I just stand there chuckling. Every time Mallory gives me a look that says, ‘Are you going to say something to her?' I simply shake my head and continue chuckling. My little sister is a badass, and she knows she will follow through with her threats, no matter where we are or who is around; that is just the way Lyra works. Mallory gathers her things quickly and leaves the area.

We don't watch to see where she ends up, as long as it is not near me. I grab Lyra up in a hug so tight, she starts pushing away, saying she gets it, but she can't breathe. I set her down on her feet as my parents and brother find their way to the table. My mom looks around, confused, but doesn't say anything about the missing person she had sitting next to me. Lyra and I look at each other, rolling our eyes and shaking our heads. Mom will keep up with her antics until she has to face the consequences of her actions, which I don't have time to implement. But they are coming, and she is going to be very unsettled when they do.

The gala begins with the speakers, and the first three are from different public schools in the surrounding areas. Each one steps up to the podium with a mix of nerves and determination, their voices echoing through the grand hall.

The first speaker, a young woman with bright eyes and a hopeful smile, talks about what it would mean to the students to have the opportunity for the scholarships. "For many of us," she says, her voice steady despite the emotion behind it, "these scholarships are more than just financial aid. They are a lifeline. Without them, we wouldn't be able to afford the education we need to succeed."

The second speaker, a tall boy with a confident stance, shares his story. "I come from a family where college was always a dream, but never a reality. These scholarships make that dream possible. They give us a chance to break the cycle and build a better future."

The third speaker, a soft-spoken girl with a shy smile, adds, "Education is the key to unlocking our potential. With these scholarships, we can pursue our passions and contribute to our communities in ways we never thought possible."

As they speak, the room falls silent, the weight of their words sinking in. The audience listens intently, moved by the heartfelt stories and the undeniable impact these scholarships can have on the lives of these young students.

The elementary school principal from Riverside speaks next, telling the audience that it is great to see that there are still people in this world who care about children's education. Out of all the speakers, my old high school principal is the one who touches my heart the most.

"Good evening. My name is Terry Lane, and I am the principal of Riverside High School. I know every one of the speakers has mentioned what a great opportunity this is for the students. I want to take that a little further, more in-depth, to explain what it would mean to have this spectacular opportunity. To do that, I would like to introduce you to Cameron Peters. Cameron is a sophomore at my high school and would like to tell you what it would mean to him personally to get a scholarship like this."

Principal Lane passes the microphone to a tall, scrawny-looking kid with light brown shaggy hair that keeps falling into his light brown eyes. The best thing about this kid is that he is wearing scuffed-up sneakers with his black dress pants and light blue button-down. Cameron looks a little green in the face as he takes the microphone from Principal Lane.

"Hey everyone, I'm Cameron. When Principal Lane asked me to accompany him tonight, I thought he had lost his mind. For one, I live in the trailer park on the side of town most of you wouldn't dare to enter, with a single mom of four kids all under the age of sixteen. Two, what made him think I enjoy giving speeches to groups of people, especially one this size?"

The audience laughs, and Cameron seems to relax a bit, encouraged by their response. He waits for the laughter to die down before continuing.

"I thought about it for a couple of days, and then when he told me the Riverside Legends were more than likely going to be in attendance—I jumped on board like I was a speaker for the Senate. Huge fan right here, Legends players out there."

All the players in attendance, including the coaching staff, give the kid a standing ovation. The way his eyes bulge lets me know he hadn't noticed any of us before. His cheeks turn a rosy pink, and he clears his throat before continuing.

The crowd chuckles again, and Cameron's confidence grows. "But seriously, this scholarship would mean the world to me. It's not just about the money; it's about the chance to prove that where you come from doesn't define where you can go. It's about showing my little brothers and sisters that they can dream big, too. So, thank you for believing in kids like me. We won't let you down."

The room falls silent, the weight of Cameron's words sinking in. There's a collective sense of admiration and hope, a reminder of why everyone is there tonight.

"I have always felt like I didn't fit in anywhere at school. I was too smart for the smart kids and too smart for the average kids. I have never been athletic, but academics have always come easy for me. The friends I did have are either in jail, dead, or in gangs. This is what happens to kids who get bored in school. They have to find something else that stimulates their mind. If school isn't doing that, then they go out into our neighborhoods and find something to keep them occupied, not even realizing that it is wrong until it's too late."

Cameron finishes, and I don't think there are words to describe the feeling I have for that kid's speech. A lot of people here must be thinking the same thing, because as I look around, I can see it on their faces. It's kids like Cameron that make this charity my favorite. Knowing that it will help him in the long run only makes it that much sweeter.

The host steps back on stage, letting us know there is one more speaker, and afterward, dinner will be served. A heavy- set man steps up to the podium and clears his throat. A petite woman follows him and stands next to him, facing the table directly in front of the podium. When he begins to speak, her hands start moving with speed and grace. I wonder if what she is doing is sign language.

I lean forward and see that there is an older woman watching her intently, a soft smile on her face. She must be Mr. Moore's wife. I miss most of what he says because the woman dressed in stars has captured all my attention. My main focus is on her—who she is, where she came from, does she live in Riverside, and how is she moving so fast with her hands, yet still so gracefully and fluidly with every motion. Her face mirrors the exact emotion that Mr. Moore is speaking with.

I think that if I were the person she was signing to, I would know the exact emotion that goes along with each word. It's amazing. Truly amazing. Her presence adds a layer of depth to the speech, making it more than just words. It's a performance, a dance of hands and expressions that brings the message to life in a way I've never seen before.

My sister elbows me, snapping me out of my reverie. My eyes drift from the beauty from the heavens back to the table where my brother and sister both have raised brows, giving me weird looks while clapping.

Shit, they're clapping—that means the speech is over. I stand and start to clap, causing others to stand as well. My eyes go back to the spot where I saw the woman, but she's gone.

As we all get our plates of filet mignon, creamy mashed potatoes, and sautéed vegetables, I notice the red wine reduction artfully drizzled around the golden plate, tying the meal together. We also receive a side salad with a red wine vinaigrette and a glass of Pinot Noir. After the dinner and entrée dishes are removed, we are given a dish of chocolate mousse paired with a small glass of port. The port and the mousse are phenomenal together, bringing out the richness of the chocolate. I'm about to ask for a second helping of dessert when the doors open to the gardens, signaling that mealtime is over. Now is the time to mingle, rub elbows, and dance the night away.

Everyone makes their way outdoors, which looks even better than the inside. They have raised the floor with some kind of clear plexiglass so that we can see the bushes and flowers that make this garden beautiful, and wound more twinkling lights around plants and along the walkways. It feels like we are walking on air, especially when I realize we are not covered with a tent—it's just us and the night sky, full of stars.

My mother and I may not get along all the time, nor do we want the same things in life, but I have to say, her vision for this night has been spectacular. I am in awe of everything that was accomplished to make this night as magical as it has been.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of sparkle. My head snaps around quickly, my heart racing, desperate not to lose sight of my angel once again. The way the light dances off her dress, it's as if she's surrounded by a halo of stars, drawing me in with an almost magnetic pull.

Every movement she makes is fluid and graceful, captivating my attention entirely. She is standing next to Mr. and Mrs. Moore, smiling, as Mr. Moore signs to his wife and then holds his hand out to her, she takes it, and they head to the dance floor. This is it, my chance, do not fuck this up. I repeat to myself as I make my way over to the goddess standing against the wall, her eyes following the couples gliding across the dance floor. I clear my throat, and her gaze snaps to mine.

A jolt of electricity crackles between us, igniting the air. We stand there, locked in each other's eyes. Her pulse flutters visibly in her neck, and goosebumps rise on her skin. My breath quickens, my heartbeat racing to match hers. The connection is undeniable, palpable. She feels it too—I can see it in the way her eyes widen, the way her lips part slightly, as if she's about to speak but can't find the words.

"Hi," I say, my voice betraying a rare hint of nervousness. When do I get nervous around beautiful women? Never. I don't know what this woman is doing to me, but I am feeling things I have never felt before, emotions I can't even begin to describe.

"Hello," she replies, her voice soft and angelic. She is tiny, no more than 5'3", with dark hair and the clearest, lightest blue eyes I have ever seen. She truly looks like an angel. Her makeup is subtle, a golden shimmer on her eyes, but her bold red lips keep drawing my gaze back to them. I step closer, and she seems even smaller compared to my six-foot-two frame. She tilts her head to look up at me, her eyes locking onto mine.

"My name is Atlas. Would you like to dance?" I ask, my voice tinged with nerves, silently praying she won't turn me down.

"Nice to meet you, Atlas. My name is Indya. Um, I would love to dance," she says, tucking her hair behind her ear and revealing the crystal drop earrings that dangle from her perfect little lobes. Her waist-length dark hair is curled in big waves, giving her an even more angelic look. All she is missing is wings, I think to myself.

I take her hand and guide her to the dance floor. The moment our hands touch, a spark ignites, sending a shiver down my spine. Her touch is electric, and I can feel the connection deep in my soul. My hand goes around her small waist, bringing her closer to my body, as my other hand clasps hers. Indya has one hand in mine and the other on my shoulder, but close to my neck, like she wants to reach up and play with my hair. If she didn't have those heels on, we would be a little awkward trying to dance like this.

We move together, our bodies in perfect harmony, as if we've danced this dance a thousand times before. Her eyes never leave mine, and in that moment, it feels like we are the only two people in the universe. The music swells, and we are lost in each other, our souls meeting in a dance of destiny.

When I begin to speak, hoping to get to know her a little better, the song changes. I turn my head toward the DJ booth and see my sister, Lyra, staring straight at me. Her smile is so big that her teeth are shining, and her dimples are making themselves known.

I understand why when the music starts. The song playing is one of my all-time favorites. When I was younger and heard it for the first time, I told Lyra that when I meet the girl I am going to marry, I will know right away because this song will be my sign that she is the one and not to let her go. My eyes widen as the memory floods back. I am dancing with Indya, a girl I just met, a girl with whom we have only exchanged names and nothing else, to the song that I felt was my destiny leading me to my future.

We don't speak as we dance, only looking into each other's eyes, letting the connection grow stronger with each lyric. The world around us fades away, leaving just the two of us in this moment. As All-4-One sings, I Swear , I feel a profound sense of certainty wash over me. This woman, this moment, feels like fate. My heart swells with emotion, and I know, without a doubt, that Indya is the person I will love with every beat of my heart. The lyrics echo my feelings, and I silently vow to cherish her, to never let her go. This is the beginning of something extraordinary, and I am ready to embrace it with all that I am.