The rink was nearly empty when Sheila returned the next morning.
The faint scrape of maintenance equipment echoed across the arena as the ice crew finished resurfacing the rink, leaving behind a flawless sheet that shimmered beneath the overhead lights. The silence felt unusual compared to the usual buzz of players and coaches, but Sheila welcomed it.
She needed clarity.
Last night’s conversation with Atticus replayed endlessly in her mind. Every word. Every look. Every dangerous moment where her carefully constructed professional boundaries had nearly collapsed entirely.
She tightened her grip around her coffee cup as she stepped into the observation booth, setting her tablet on the counter before opening the day’s performance files. Numbers, charts, and player statistics flooded the
