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1230 Words
Sheila Feint didn’t like to lose. It wasn’t in her nature. She didn’t care to be pushed out of her own path, and she didn’t like feeling small in any space she went into. But after her second day in the arena, she had to admit something she hated admitting:
She had been made to feel defeated by Atticus Finch.
Not an explanation she could put into context. Not because he had physically abused her or because he had won an argument. But because he had broken her confidence, made her question her own place and even whether she was supposed to be inside the building with him.
Sheila attempted to deny it as she entered the rink that morning. She attempted to convince herself it was simply a job, and that she just didn’t deserve to be affected by a player who didn’t know her name at all. But as soon as she stepped over into the training room, she felt it again his presence like a storm cloud passing nearby.
Sheila’s gaze scanned the room, for the disconcerted, angry faces of the players. The clipboard was heavy in her hand. She remained quiet and walked to the corner, away from the group. She was already writing when she heard his voice.
“Feint.” It wasn’t a question. It was a command.
Sheila froze. She didn’t immediately look up. She didn’t want him to see her react and enjoy it.
"Feint," he repeated, this time much louder.
Sheila lifted her head slowly, setting her gaze into his. He was in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw clenched. With eyes glued to her, as predator eyes upon prey. Sheila felt her stomach drop. She hated that she was nervous. She hated that her heart was pounding.
"What do you want?" she asked, her tone steady but incisive.
Atticus crept his way into the room. Each step was deliberate in intent. He didn’t go to her right away. He paused a few feet away and simply looked.
“You’re still here,” he said.
Sheila’s lips pressed together. “Yes. I’m still here.”
He canted his head somewhat, studying her. “You’re not afraid of me.”
Sheila’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Atticus’s mouth turned to a smirk. “Good.”
Sheila felt her anger flare. “Why do you keep speaking to me as if I’m a problem?”
Atticus didn’t switch his expression. Sheila choked up sharply and then felt compelled to defend herself. “I’m not a problem. I’m doing my job.”
Atticus’s eyes flicked to her clipboard. “What is your job right?”
Sheila’s voice stayed steady. “To view training patterns, to monitor injury prevention.”
Atticus inched near, and she could feel the tension in the air. He was too close. He was invading her space. He was trying to intimidate her.
“I don’t want you in my space,” he said.
Sheila stared at him. “This is not your space. This is a building. We all use it.”
Atticus’s eyes flashed. “You’re not one of us.” Atticus’s voice was low. “You’re not safe here.”
Sheila had a shiver in her blood. “What do you mean?”
Atticus straightened up, stepping back. He looked at her, unreadable. “You’re not protected by not knowing how this world works,” he said. “You have no idea what kinds of people you’re dealing with.”
Sheila’s jaw tightened. “And what sort of people are those?”
Atticus’s eyes narrowed. “People who will use you.”
Sheila’s voice sharpened. “I’m not a child.”
Atticus’s eyes never faltered. “You’re not a child. You’re just naive.”
Sheila’s anger rose. “I’m not naive. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Atticus’s face remained calm. “Then why are you still here?”
Sheila’s breath hitched. “Because I’m not scared of you.”
Atticus’s eyes ritually glanced across her face as if intent on reading her mind. Then he said, softly, “You should be.”
Sheila’s heart pounded. She hated how he said it. She despised the confidence in his voice. She dreaded the feeling that something in her chest tightened in a way that sounded like a warning. Sheila stopped there and bit the bullet thinking. She did not want any more of that. Never had the words to describe why she never knew someone so close so small, and even alive in the least could be so close to a thing she truly loved. She hated that too.
Next, she spoke, her voice icy. “I’m leaving.”
Atticus's eyelids darted up toward the door. “You’re not leaving.”
Sheila pivoted to walk to the exit. She didn’t run. She didn’t show fear. She strutted as though she owned the space. But she didn’t get much there before he loomed, blocking her path. Sheila stopped. She looked up at him and refused to show weakness.
“You’re blocking me,” she said.
Atticus’s face was inscrutable. “I’m warning you.”
Sheila’s voice rose. “Warn me about what?”
Atticus leaned in slightly. “Warn you about what happens when you keep poking at a storm.”
Sheila felt a surge of anger. “I’m not poking at anything. I’m doing my job.”
Atticus’s eyes narrowed. “Your job is to observe. But you’re watching too much.”
Sheila knotted her hands into fists. “You don’t tell me what to do.”
Atticus’s voice lowered. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m telling you what will happen.”
Sheila’s voice shook slightly. “What will happen?”
Atticus’s eyes met her and stayed on hers. “You’ll get hurt.”
Sheila stiffened her throat. “I don’t get hurt.”
Atticus’s lips curled. “That’s what you think.”
Sheila didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Not she was supposed to. Because for the first time, she wondered if he was right. Was she just being reckless, she wondered. She questioned whether she had underestimated the threat. Sheila inhaled deeply, working hard to remain calm. She stepped around him.
“I’m not leaving,” she said, and the tone kept steady. “Not because you want me to be there. But because I have a job.”
Atticus stood by her, watching her go. Sheila resisted his stare and felt its weight; she despised it. She disliked that she knew it existed. She hated that she couldn’t be rid of it. She despised himself.
Sheila went back to her clipboard, trying to do her work. But there was a persistent drift of thoughts back to the confrontation. His eyes, or his body. His gaze on her. To the way he said her name. All the rage never to have left Sheila. In Sheila she had never felt as alive. She hated it. Sheila Feint did not fall in love. Not with a man like Atticus Finch. Not with anyone. Not ever. Still, her distance from him meant that she couldn’t ignore the truth. He was dangerous. He was intimidating. He was arrogant. And he was not going away.
Sheila Feint would survive. She would prove herself. And she would ensure he knew that she wasn’t a person he could break.
- Writer
