Chapter 14

Atticus Finch had kissed a lot of people.

Fans. Strangers. People whose names he forgot before the night was over. Kissing had never meant anything to him just another transaction, another way to keep control, to keep distance disguised as intimacy.

So the fact that he wanted to kiss Sheila Feint badly, relentlessly, stupidly felt like a flaw in his system.

And flaws were unacceptable.

He noticed it first during drills.

She stood at the edge of the rink, coat pulled tight against the cold, tablet in hand. Focused. Always focused. She barely looked at him, except when she needed to. No starstruck awe. No fear. No fake smiles. Just observation sharp enough to slice through bone.

Atticus missed a shot.

The puck slammed into the boards instead of the net. A rare mistake. The rink went quiet for half a second before the drills resumed.

Sheila didn’t react. She just wrote something down.

That annoyed him more than if she’d stared.

“Again,” he barked.

His body moved on instinct, muscles burning, breath harsh in his chest. But his mind traitor that it was kept drifting back to the way she’d stood her ground in the locker room. The way she hadn’t flinched when he’d stepped into her space. The way her voice never shook, even when she was clearly angry.

He wanted to shake her.

Or pull her closer.

The thought hit him so hard he nearly collided with another player.

“Captain?” someone called.

“I’m fine,” Atticus snapped.

He wasn’t.

Sheila felt it too something had shifted.

Atticus had been watching her more lately. Not openly. Not the way men usually did. This was sharper. Intent. Like he was trying to solve a problem and kept getting the wrong answer.

It made her uneasy.

After practice, she packed up quickly, hoping to avoid another confrontation. She didn’t trust whatever tension had started coiling between them. It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t safe.

“Feint.”

She stopped anyway. Damn it.

She turned to find Atticus leaning against the tunnel wall, hair damp, jacket half-zipped. He looked tired. Not physically emotionally. Like someone who hadn’t slept properly in years.

“What?” she asked.

“Walk with me.”

“That’s not a request,” she said.

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”

She considered refusing. She should refuse. Every instinct told her to keep distance, to maintain boundaries, to remember why men like Atticus Finch were dangerous not because they were cruel, but because they blurred lines until you didn’t know where you stood anymore.

She walked anyway.

They moved down the corridor in silence, footsteps echoing. Sheila waited for him to say something cutting, something defensive. Instead....

“You don’t look at me the way others do,” he said.

She blinked. “Is that a complaint?”

“It’s an observation.”

“I’m not here to admire you.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

She stopped walking. “Explain.”

He turned to face her, close enough that she could smell the cold air on him, the faint metallic scent of ice and effort. His eyes dropped not to her lips, she noticed with a jolt, but to the space just below them. Like he was actively avoiding looking where he wanted to.

“I keep thinking about you,” he said.

Her stomach tightened. “You shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

“Then stop.”

He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

She took a step back. “Atticus...”

“I don’t want anything from you,” he said quickly, like he needed her to understand. “Not your trust. Not your loyalty. Not even your forgiveness.”

“Then what do you want?” she asked.

His jaw clenched.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, voice low. Honest. Dangerous.

The words hit her like cold water.

“No,” Sheila said immediately.

He nodded once, like he’d expected that. “I figured.”

“This whatever you think this is it’s not mutual,” she continued. “You’re used to people wanting you. I don’t.”

His eyes flickered. Hurt flashed there before he masked it.

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You’re crossing a line,” she said. “And I won’t let you turn this into something messy just because you’re bored or lonely or .....”

“I’m not bored,” he cut in.

“Then you’re confused.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I’m not lying.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.

She softened just a fraction. “I respect you as an athlete. And… maybe as a person, on a good day. But I won’t be another distraction in your life. And I won’t be a secret.”

He stared at her like she’d struck something deep.

“I wouldn’t hide you,” he said quietly.

“That’s not reassuring,” she replied. “That’s terrifying.”

She turned to leave.

“Feint,” he said again.

She paused but didn’t look back.

“I won’t touch you,” he said. “Not unless you ask.”

Her throat tightened. “Make sure you keep that promise.”

She walked away before he could see the way her hands were shaking.

Atticus stayed where he was long after she left.

He replayed the moment over and over—the way she’d said no without hesitation. The way she hadn’t softened it, hadn’t tried to spare his ego. He wasn’t used to rejection that wasn’t fueled by fear or strategy.

This one had been… clean.

And somehow, that made him want her more.

He hated that.

On the ice, he could dominate. He could control outcomes, crush opponents, bend narratives to his will.

But Sheila Feint?

She was untouched territory.

And for the first time in a long time, the Ice King was losing control of the game.