Morning arrived like a blade sharp, bright, and unforgiving.
Sheila barely slept.
The moment replayed in her mind over and over again. The way Atticus had looked at her. The way his voice had broken when he admitted what he wanted. The way her own body had frozen instead of reacting instantly.
She hated that part most.
By the time she reached the arena, her coffee had gone cold in her hand, untouched. The air outside still carried the early chill of winter, and as she pushed through the heavy glass doors, the familiar scent of polished ice and equipment oil hit her like déjà vu.
She needed today to be normal.
Structured.
Professional.
No tension. No emotional chaos.
The universe, apparently, had other plans.
The arena was louder than usual. Staff members hurried past her in tight
