Sheila Feint did not believe in emotional aftershocks.
She believed in data. Cause and effect. Observable reactions. Measurable consequences.
Which was why she found herself deeply irritated when, two days after Atticus Finch admitted he wanted to kiss her, her concentration kept slipping like wet ice beneath her skates.
She sat in the analysts’ booth overlooking the rink, fingers hovering over her keyboard while players cycled through endurance drills below. Numbers filled her screen—heart rate spikes, acceleration recovery, torque strain along shoulder joints. It was routine. Predictable.
Safe.
Except Atticus was different today.
He moved with sharper aggression, pushing into collisions harder than necessary. His passes were flawless but violent, shots cracking against the boards w
