The night before the press meeting was long, and Sheila found herself restless in her apartment. The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, tapping gently against the windows like a metronome counting down to the inevitable chaos. She sat at her desk, reviewing notes, crafting statements, trying to anticipate every angle Carter might exploit. But her thoughts kept drifting back to Atticus.
The memory of their brief kiss before the morning practice replayed in her mind relentlessly. Not a full confession, not even a moment of surrender—but a brush of lips, a heartbeat shared, and a tension that had left her pulse still erratic hours later. She told herself it had been about luck, a good-luck gesture, nothing more. But the way he looked at her afterward, the vulnerability hidden beneath his
