The arena roared with energy, the familiar rhythm of skates carving the ice under bright lights, the echoing clang of pucks against boards, the collective shouts of fans fueling the atmosphere. Sheila stood at the edge of the rink, clipboard in hand, observing with the meticulous focus that had made her indispensable. Her eyes tracked every movement, every stride, every subtle shift in posture, her mind calculating, analyzing. But even in this familiar environment, the air felt tense, electric.
Atticus Finch was in the middle of it all, moving with a controlled aggression that made the crowd cheer and the other players scramble to keep pace. He was perfection in motion, his presence commanding every inch of ice he touched. Sheila’s chest tightened as she watched him, the pull of admiratio
