The arena was quieter than usual that evening. The players had dispersed after a long practice, and the ice gleamed under the bright overhead lights, reflecting the tension that lingered in the room. Sheila stood near the observation deck, her clipboard clutched tightly, scanning through her notes, though her attention was elsewhere.
Atticus Finch appeared at the edge of the ice, helmet in hand, the way he carried himself making it impossible for anyone to ignore. His posture was less rigid now, but there was a subtle intensity in his eyes that told Sheila he hadn’t stopped thinking about the kiss from earlier that morning.
He approached without a word, the sound of his skates scraping softly against the ice, each step measured and deliberate. Sheila’s stomach tightened, and she forced h
