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Sheila Feint hated Atticus Finch, that first time she saw him. It wasn’t the way he looked although he was tall enough to make people feel small, and built like someone who had never met a limit. And it wasn't even that he carried himself like he owned the ice, the arena and every person in it. It was his presence demanding attention without asking for it.
Sheila hated that.
She had come to the rink for one reason only: an internship assignment to watch players perform and track injury patterns in their performance for a sports science study. Nothing dramatic. No fanfare. No headlines. And definitely no famous hockey star. But her supervisor had already warned her before she even walked into the building.
“Don’t let him intimidate you,” the supervisor had said in half-amused, half-serious tones. “Atticus Finch has a reputation.”
Sheila’s only response was a nod, because she never believed in reputations. She had faith in facts and figures and evidence.
She passed through the hallway in the direction of the training room, clipboard in hand and shoes squeaking softly on the shiny floor.
Somewhere in the distance beyond the doors the sound of skates on ice echoed. Like a warning, the heavy smell of sweat and metal wafted through the air. That’s when she saw him.
Atticus Finch, half-unzipped jersey, tape wrapped around his wrists, stood near the locker room entrance. His hair was damp, his eyes sharp, his expression unreadable as if always calculating, always judging. He looked like a man who never needed anyone.
Sheila felt her skin prick. She stopped, making herself breathe the way it should. She did not want to be seen as nervous. She didn’t want to indicate that he impacted her. He looked up, as if feeling her gaze. Their eyes met. Not in a romantic way. Not in a “fate” kind of way. In a way like being stared down by a predator.
Atticus's lips curled into a small, mocking smile.
“Are you lost?” he said, voice low and calm. As if he were questioning a child about whether they needed directions.
Sheila didn’t blink. ”No. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
His eyes narrowed. “You sure about that?”
Sheila lifted her chin. “Why? Because I’m not here to worship you?”
His smile disappeared. “You’re not here to do what?”
Sheila’s jaw tightened. “To stand here and act like you’re the only important thing in this building.”
Atticus approached her and the scar on his eyebrow was visible. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. His proximity was a warning in itself.
“You don’t know who you’re talking to,” he said.
Sheila didn’t flinch. “I know exactly whom I’m addressing. A man who thinks he can intimidate everyone with a name.”
Atticus’s eyes flashed with what looked like anger. Then he laughed, a short, quick sound that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Big mouth,” he said.
Sheila met his gaze evenly. “And you’re arrogant.” Sheila took a step closer.
"You don't belong here."
“I belong wherever I’m allowed to be.”
Atticus’s voice dropped. “You don’t want to be on my bad side.”
Sheila’s voice stayed steady. “I’m not afraid of you.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Atticus looked at her as if he was considering whether she would be worth his time or worth his hate. Then he finally stepped back, as if he’d decided she would be annoying rather than dangerous.
“Stay out of my way,” he said, turning toward the rink.
Watching him go, and for the first time in more than seven seconds, she felt something she didn't want to feel. Curiosity. She quickly pushed it away, focused on the clipboard she was holding in her hand, forced herself to remember why she had come here.
Sheila Feint didn't get involved with famous athletes. She didn't fall for them. She didn't let herself be drawn into their world. She was here to study the game, not the man. And if Atticus Finch thought she’d be intimidated or impressed by him, he was mistaken. Because she hated him. And she was going to prove it.
