Chapter 12

The storm broke quietly.

No alarms. No press swarm. No screaming headlines splashed across Sheila Feint’s phone when she woke up the next morning. Just a single notification that sat there like a loaded weapon.

Unknown Sender: We should talk. Today.

Sheila stared at it for a long moment, heart thudding against her ribs. She hadn’t replied last night. She’d needed sleep. Space. Time to convince herself that ignoring problems made them less real.

It hadn’t worked.

She rolled out of bed, muscles tense, mind already racing through worst-case scenarios. Carter. Media. Leaks. Or something worse something that involved Atticus Finch more deeply than she’d already been dragged.

By the time she reached the arena, she’d made a decision.

She wasn’t running.

The parking lot buzzed with early-morning activity. Equipment trucks. Trainers hauling bags. Players moving in clusters, laughing too loudly. Everything looked normal. That was the problem. Sheila had learned by now that normal was camouflage.

Inside, the training room felt different again. The air carried a charged quiet, like everyone was waiting for permission to breathe. Sheila took her usual spot, clipboard under her arm, eyes sharp.

She found Atticus without meaning to.

He stood near the boards, lacing his skates, movements clipped and efficient. He hadn’t shaved. A faint bruise shadowed his jaw, yellowing at the edges. His posture was tense not aggressive this time, but coiled.

Aware.

He looked up.

Their eyes met, and this time neither of them looked away.

“Morning,” she said flatly, hating that her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

He held her gaze for a beat too long. “You didn’t leave.”

“Neither did you.”

A corner of his mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “Thought about it.”

She almost laughed. Almost.

Practice started rough.

Coach Rivera ran full-contact drills earlier than usual. The ice thundered with collisions. Atticus took every hit like punishment was something he owed the world. Sheila tracked his stats, jaw tightening with each red flag she recorded—reaction delays, shoulder stiffness, recovery lag.

He was hiding an injury.

And he knew she knew.

During a break, he skated toward the bench, helmet coming off in a sharp motion. He stopped directly in front of her.

“You’re writing too much,” he muttered.

She didn’t look up. “You’re moving wrong.”

His breath hitched. Just slightly.

“Careful,” he said. “That’s not your call.”

“It is when it turns into long-term damage.”

He leaned closer, voice low. “You planning to report me?”

She finally looked at him. “I’m planning to do my job.”

His eyes searched her face like he was looking for something—weakness, maybe. Or loyalty. Whatever he found didn’t satisfy him.

“Stay out of my body,” he said quietly.

She stiffened. “Then stop destroying it.”

For a second, something cracked in his expression. Just a hairline fracture. Then the wall slammed back into place.

“Mind your lane, Feint.”

She watched him skate away, anger simmering under her skin. This was the push and pull she hated—the way he dared her to care and punished her for it.

Halfway through practice, her phone vibrated.

Unknown Sender: Media room. Noon. Come alone.

She swallowed.

She didn’t have to go. She knew that. But not knowing was worse.

She finished practice on autopilot. When the whistle blew, she packed up quickly, slipping toward the hallway before anyone could stop her.

Someone did.

Atticus stepped into her path.

“You’re leaving early,” he said.

“I have a meeting.”

“With who.”

She hesitated. Just long enough.

His eyes sharpened. “You got a message.”

“That’s not your business.”

“It becomes my business when it involves you.”

She laughed, short and bitter. “Since when do you care?”

His jaw tightened. “Since I warned you.”

She tried to step around him. He blocked her again, not touching, just existing too close.

“Don’t go,” he said.

Her chest tightened. “You don’t get to tell me where I can go.”

“I get to tell you when you’re walking into a trap.”

“And what if I’m already in one?”

He looked at her then—not like a king, not like a predator. Like a man who had learned the cost of mistakes.

“Then don’t go alone.”

The words landed heavier than she expected.

“I can handle myself,” she said.

“I know,” he replied. “That’s why they’ll use you.”

She searched his face. “Why does this matter to you?”

Silence stretched between them. His eyes flicked away.

“Because I didn’t stop it the last time,” he said quietly.

Her breath caught. “Stop what?”

“Someone like you,” he said. “Getting crushed.”

The honesty stunned her.

Before she could respond, a voice echoed down the hallway.

“Sheila.”

Carter.

Atticus’s body went rigid. Instinct took over—he stepped closer to her, not possessive, protective. The realization unsettled her more than Carter’s smile.

“Change of plans,” Carter said pleasantly. “Coach wants Atticus present.”

Atticus’s gaze cut sharp. “Since when?”

“Since this involves you.”

Sheila’s pulse spiked. “Involves us how?”

Carter’s eyes gleamed. “Concerned parties.”

The media room felt like a courtroom.

No cameras rolling. No reporters. Just Carter, a legal rep Sheila didn’t recognize, and a man with cold eyes who introduced himself as “communications strategy.”

“We’ve received an inquiry,” Carter said smoothly. “Regarding inappropriate access and influence within the training facility.”

Sheila’s blood went cold. “Access?”

“Your presence,” the man clarified. “Your proximity to a high-profile athlete.”

Atticus laughed. “You’re joking.”

“No,” Carter said. “We’re mitigating.”

Sheila’s voice shook. “Mitigating what?”

“Perception,” Carter replied. “It would help if you clarified your relationship.”

“There is no relationship,” she snapped.

Atticus turned to her. “They’re building one anyway.”

The strategist leaned forward. “A statement could resolve this quietly.”

“No,” Sheila said. “I won’t lie.”

Carter sighed. “Then we escalate.”

Atticus slammed his palm on the table. “Touch her career and I burn yours.”

The room went still.

Carter smiled thinly. “That kind of threat is exactly the story we’re trying to avoid.”

Sheila stood. “This ends now.”

All eyes turned to her.

“You don’t get to weaponize my silence,” she said. “Or his reputation. I documented training patterns. Nothing more. If you publish anything else, I go public first—with everything.”

The strategist studied her. “You have no platform.”

Atticus spoke without looking at them. “She has me.”

She stared at him.

He met her gaze. “And I’m done playing nice.”

The room shifted. Power recalibrated.

Carter’s smile finally faltered. “This isn’t over.”

“No,” Sheila agreed. “It’s just finally honest.”

They walked out together.

In the hallway, the adrenaline drained, leaving something raw behind. Sheila stopped.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.

“Yes, I did.”

“You put yourself at risk.”

He looked tired. “Welcome to my world.”

She hesitated. “Why me?”

He held her gaze, unguarded for once. “Because you don’t flinch. And because you see things no one else wants to.”

Her throat tightened. “That scares you.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said softly. “It should.”

A silence settled between them charged, unresolved.

This wasn’t love. Not yet.

But it wasn’t just hate anymore either.

And that, Sheila realized as she walked back onto the ice beside Atticus Finch, was far more dangerous.