Sheila didn’t sleep that night. Not really. The images from the headlines, the way his hand rested casually on her ex-girlfriend’s arm, the easy laughter—every detail had etched itself into her mind like a brand. By morning, the apartment felt colder, emptier, even though the space hadn’t changed. She moved mechanically, dressed in silence, and left without so much as a glance at her phone.
The arena was loud and chaotic, but Sheila felt detached, as if she were observing from behind a thick glass wall. The players’ shouts, the clash of sticks, the squeak of skates—it all felt distant, muted, unreal. Her mind replayed the photos over and over, the sensation of betrayal heavy in her chest. Every time she saw Atticus across the ice, something in her stomach twisted. He was there, focused, c
