The arena lights dimmed one by one, leaving only the cold glow from the maintenance lamps hanging above the rink. The ice shimmered like glass beneath them, scarred with skate lines that told stories of every battle fought that day. Sheila stood near the barrier with her notebook pressed tightly against her chest, her eyes scanning the rink even though practice had ended nearly twenty minutes ago.
She should have left.
Everyone else had.
Yet her feet refused to move.
Atticus Finch was still on the ice.
He skated in slow, controlled circles, the blade of his skate slicing through the frozen surface with smooth precision. No teammates. No coach. No crowd. Just him and the echo of his own movements.
It was different watching him like this.
There was no arrogance in his posture tonight.
