Chapter 2

The next day, that arena felt different. Nothing about the building changed, Sheila Feint had changed inside it. She had come in expecting exactly that process — observe, record, analyze, leave. But after she first met Atticus Finch, the atmosphere seemed suddenly charged with something she didn’t want to name. Each time she passed the locker room, her blood raced—not because she was afraid of danger but because her body sensed one. What she hated most was that her body continued to respond. Sheila did what she could to convince herself it was just the environment. The heat. The sweat. The adrenaline. The athletes who take their bodies to extremes. But she knew the truth. It was him. She’d been warned. She’d been advised to expect the worst. She had thought he was a problem, a monster and star. She’d scoffed. Until she saw him. Now she couldn’t deny it. Atticus Finch wasn’t just a man. He was a storm. Sheila entered the room, on the move, clipboard in hand like a shield. As it was weight-studded and trainers gave instructions and heard the low murmur of players talking to one another. As soon as she entered, however, all else changed in the room. Someone looked up. And another person looked up. And then the entire room, inevitably, looked up. Sheila could practically sense the attention as if it were a real weight. She tried not to flinch. She was unwilling to show that she cared. It was her superior with a woman with a steady and poised, gentle demeanor, called in by Dr. Harlow and gestured for her. “Sheila, I need you to start documenting all players’ warm-up routines today. We’re tracking injury prevention,” Sheila said. “Understood.”

Dr. Harlow’s eyes flicked to a corner of the room. “And… stay professional. You know what I mean.”

Sheila’s lips tightened. “I know what you mean.” Dr. Harlow did not continue, but her point was clear. If she drew near to Atticus, she would be judged. It made it tough for Sheila to be judged. But she didn’t like being underestimated, either. She began writing about things, the specific stretches of each player, the tension in their muscles, their posture. She wanted to check for anything that felt off. Anything that could easily cause injury. Anything that would make her boss proud of her. The door opened. And then the heavy footsteps that she recognized every now, the footsteps of that person coming in the room with heavy confidence that this is his. The air tightened around her. Sheila glanced up. Atticus Finch walked in. He wasn’t alone. It wasn't just a friendly laugh. A teammate walked next to him and laughed at something. But Atticus didn’t laugh. His stern expression was unruffled; barely bored; almost bored—yet Atticus didn’t care what anyone else thought. His eyes scanned the room. They landed on Sheila. His expression shifted for a little, a flash of something black and calculating. Then he walked by, very close, so she could smell the bitter scent of his cologne, heat from his body, a faint sting of sweat — he didn’t even bother looking at her. But Sheila felt the message. He was aware of her. And he didn’t like it. Sheila clenched her jaw. She tried not to see him yet couldn’t avoid catching her eye again. He was out stretching against the wall, muscles tight, movements precise and measured. The tape that stuck at his wrists stood a little stiff, tight as he readied himself for an inescapable war. Sheila wrote everything down in an essay on the document. She wrote how he moved his weight in and out of this, how he leaned his shoulders and pushed them flat, how he exhaled. She wrote how his gaze continuously glided over to her. She didn’t like that she was writing it. She hated that she noticed. She hated that she cared. Her pen moved faster. Sheila was still working through the writing when Atticus cut through the room with a knife. "Who are you?" His eyes were cold. They did not look like the eyes of a man asking a question. They were eyes of a man who wanted to trap her. Sheila didn't flinch. She raised her clipboard and announced: “I’m an intern. Documenting training patterns.” Atticus eyed her but was not impressed. “You don’t belong here.” This infuriated Sheila. “I belong wherever I’m assigned.” Atticus walked up beside her and it made her feel like they were getting closer together. He wasn’t physically touching her, but he was proximate such that she could almost feel him being a physical part of her. “You don’t play,” he said. “You’re not part of the team. You’re not one of us.” Sheila’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need to be one of you. I’m here to observe.” Atticus’ mouth twisted into a dangerous smile. “Observe, huh? So you’re spying.” “I’m not spying. "I'm doing my job.” Atticus leaned in, his voice low. “You’re doing your job in my building. You’re doing it in my space.” Sheila swallowed, keeping her voice steady. “You’re not the only person who uses this building.” Atticus’s eyes flashed. “I’m the only person who matters.” Sheila felt her blood boil. She took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “You think you’re the only one who matters because people cheer for you. But that doesn’t make you special.” Atticus’s face hardened. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.” Sheila didn’t back down. “And you don’t get to talk to me like I’m invisible.” A few players watched from the side, smirking, waiting for the confrontation to escalate. Atticus’s voice dropped into a dangerous whisper. “You want attention, Sheila?” Sheila’s heart jumped at the sound of her name. She didn’t know how he knew it. She felt the room close in around her. Her mind raced. Did she say it out loud? Did someone mention it? Was he just that familiar with the team’s staff? Sheila’s throat tightened, but she refused to show weakness. “I don’t want attention. I want respect.” Atticus’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Sheila thought she saw something like amusement in them. Then he turned and walked away. Sheila exhaled sharply, as if she’d been holding her breath for the entire conversation. The room went silent again. Then, like a wave, the noise returned. Players started laughing, joking, teasing. Sheila heard someone mutter, “She’s got nerve.” Sheila forced herself to continue writing, to act like nothing had happened. But her hands shook slightly. She hated that. She hated that she had allowed herself to be affected by him. She hated that she couldn’t stop thinking about the way he said her name. Sheila kept working, determined not to let him win. But the rest of the day felt different. Every time she saw Atticus, it was like a silent challenge. Like he was daring her to speak again. Like he wanted to break her down and make her leave. Sheila wasn’t going to leave. She would not be pushed out of a place she had every right to be in. And she would not be intimidated by a man who used his fame like a weapon. But as the day ended, Sheila found herself alone in the corridor, waiting for the elevator. The building was quiet now. Most of the players had left. The lights were dim. Sheila’s thoughts returned to Atticus. He was dangerous. He was intimidating. He was arrogant. And he was everywhere. Sheila felt the hairs on her arms rise. A shadow moved behind her. She turned sharply, ready to confront whoever was there. It wasn’t a stranger. It was Atticus. He stood there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable. For a moment, Sheila thought he was going to apologize. But she knew better. Atticus Finch didn’t apologize. He stared at her for a long moment, then finally said, “You shouldn’t have come back today.” Sheila lifted her chin. “Why? Because you didn’t like the way I spoke to you?” Atticus’s eyes flicked toward her clipboard. “You’re taking notes.” Sheila’s voice was firm. “Yes. I’m taking notes.” Atticus’s gaze stayed on her. “You’re making a lot of enemies.” Sheila’s lips tightened. “I’m not here to make friends.” Atticus’s eyes narrowed. “You’re here to cause trouble.” Sheila’s voice rose slightly. “I’m here to do my job.” Atticus stepped closer, close enough that Sheila could feel his breath. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. But his presence alone was enough to make her heart race. He looked down at her clipboard and then back into her eyes. Then he said, quietly, “You’re not ready for this world.” Sheila’s jaw tightened. “I’m ready for anything.” Atticus’s expression hardened. “We’ll see.” He pushed off the wall and walked away. Sheila stood there for a moment, her heart pounding, her mind racing. She hated him. She hated the way he made her feel. She hated the way he made her want to prove herself. But she couldn’t deny it. He had gotten under her skin. And that was the worst part. Sheila didn’t love him. Not even close. But she couldn’t stop thinking about him. And she didn’t like that. Because in her world, there was no place for a man like Atticus Finch. And yet, she knew one thing with absolute certainty: He was going to make her life harder. And she wasn’t going to let him win.