Chapter 13

The locker room corridor smelled like disinfectant and adrenaline, a sterile attempt to mask the violence of competition. Sheila stood just outside the threshold, tablet pressed against her chest, heartbeat syncing with the distant thud of skates against concrete. Practice had ended ten minutes ago. The team should have been flooding out by now, laughing, shouting, tearing off gear.

They weren’t.

The silence was wrong.

Sheila checked her watch, then the practice schedule. Everything was on time. Atticus Finch, however, was not a man who followed schedules unless they bent to his will.

She stepped forward.

The locker room door was half open. Steam rolled out, fogging her glasses. Inside, most of the stalls were empty. Helmets rested upside down like abandoned crowns. Atticus stood alone near his locker, shirtless, back to her, shoulders rigid as if carved from stone. A thin line of red traced down his ribs—fresh, angry.

She stopped breathing.

“I thought analysts weren’t allowed back here,” Atticus said without turning.

“I thought captains didn’t bleed during drills,” Sheila replied, finding her voice.

He scoffed. “You documenting my injuries now?”

“I’m documenting patterns,” she said. “And this one doesn’t fit.”

He turned then, slowly, eyes sharp, dark, assessing. The bruise on his jaw had deepened since morning, purpling like a storm cloud. He didn’t bother covering himself. He never did. Control was his armor.

“Get what you need and leave,” he said.

She didn’t move.

“Someone hit you,” she said.

His jaw tightened. “Hockey.”

“That wasn’t hockey,” she countered. “I’ve watched enough footage to know the difference between impact and intent.”

Something flickered across his face surprise, maybe. Or irritation that she’d seen through him again.

“You should be careful,” he said quietly. “This curiosity of yours will get you hurt.”

She took another step inside. “So will silence.”

Their eyes locked, tension thick enough to fracture. This was the push and pull her editor had begged for, though Sheila didn’t think in those terms. All she knew was that every encounter with Atticus felt like stepping onto thin ice dangerous, thrilling, impossible to walk away from.

“Who?” she asked.

He laughed, humorless. “You think I’d give you names?”

“No,” she said. “But I think you want someone to notice.”

That did it.

In two strides, he was in front of her. Too close. The heat from his skin cut through the cold air. Sheila didn’t retreat, even when instinct screamed at her to.

“You think you know me,” he said. “You don’t.”

“I know you’re being targeted,” she said evenly. “And if it’s happening during practice, it’ll happen during games. That affects performance. That affects my report.”

“Ah,” he murmured. “There it is. The job.”

She bristled. “You think I’m using you?”

“I think everyone does.”

The words landed heavier than she expected.

“Then stop making it easy,” she said.

His gaze searched her face, like he was looking for a crack, a weakness he could exploit. Instead, he found none. Sheila Feint stood her ground, just as she always did.

“Get out,” he said again, but softer this time.

She hesitated, then nodded. “This isn’t over.”

“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”

The press conference was a bloodbath.

Sheila sat in the back row, notebook open, pen still. Questions flew like knives—about Atticus’s aggression, his penalties, the rumors of locker room unrest. He sat at the podium, composed, deadly calm.

Until one reporter asked, “Is it true that your personal conflicts are affecting team morale?”

Sheila watched his hands clench.

“No,” Atticus said. “Next question.”

“Is your analyst influencing team decisions?”

Her pen froze.

Atticus’s eyes flicked toward her. Just for a second. Enough.

“No,” he said again, sharper. “Sheila Feint is doing her job. Unlike some of you.”

The room erupted.

Afterward, she cornered him in the tunnel.

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

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

He looked exhausted suddenly, the king stripped of his crown. “Because they were aiming for you.”

Her chest tightened. “Why would you care?”

He met her gaze, unguarded. “That’s the problem.”

They stood there, the world rushing past them, neither willing to name what was forming in the silence.

A forbidden game. One neither of them knew how to play.

And somewhere on the ice, unseen forces were already moving, waiting for one of them to fall.