Chapter 6

Not immediately did the fallout follow. That was the worst part. Sheila learned very swiftly that silence in a place like this was not peace it was strategy. When she reached the arena for Day Six, the camera incident had already passed over invisible channels. No headlines. No posts. No public outrage. Just whispers. Side glances. Conversations that halted while she walked past. The instant she stepped inside, she could feel it. The security guard behind the entrance paused and allowed her through. A half second too long. The look said he’d heard something but didn’t know what to believe. Sheila straightened her shoulders and remained calm in the face. She refused to shrink. The training room hummed with suppressed chaos.....skates clacking, weights lowering, sharp chuckles jangling from concrete walls. But there was an undertone, low somewhere in the background, of awareness too heavy in thought that seemed to suggest a scene was about to break. Sheila assumed her customary place near the edge of the rink, clipboard clutched under her arm. She didn’t look for Atticus. She told herself she wouldn’t. She failed. He was already there. Atticus Finch was standing near the bench, helmet off, sweat darkening the collar of his compression shirt. His jaw was clenched, his eyes glued to the ice, but his posture was stiff in a way she was beginning to understand. Guarded. Controlled. Ready. He hadn’t looked at her yet. That didn’t mean he didn’t know she was there. Sheila forced herself to concentrate on her job. Heart rate recovery times. Warm-up efficiency. Shoulder rotations. She wrote fast and neat and professional. She could do this. She could be the same as him without reacting. Then Carter walked in. The room shifted. It wasn’t dramatic. It was subtle. Players straightened. A trainer glanced too quickly up. Someone muttered something under their breath. Carter wore that same polished smile as ever, dressed too clean to call it a rink, phone in hand. Sheila felt a coil of tightening in her spine. He didn’t approach her. That was worse. Rather, he paused beside the coaching staff, speaking quietly and gesturing to the ice. Toward Atticus. Toward her. She glanced up just in time to see Atticus turn his head. Their eyes met. For a second it seemed as the whole world narrowed to that appearance —sharp, discerning, inscrutable. Then his expression hardened. He pushed off the bench and skated back onto the ice with a force that was more than necessary. Sheila exhaled slowly. Whatever Carter was doing, it was working. Practice turned brutal. Atticus pushed himself harder than any of the others, body pounding through drills with such ferocity that even the veterans went along. His shots were vicious. His motions were painful but perfectly exact. Sheila saw things she didn’t want to see. The slight hitch in his left shoulder following a collision. How his breaths shifted when he believed no one was watching. The fact that he never slowed down, even when he should have. She wrote it all down. Because that was her job. Not because she cared. She repeated that over and over to herself until it seemed almost true. A whistle blew halfway through practice. Coach Rivera skated over to the bench, frustration on his face. “Enough. Finch, off the ice.” Atticus stopped short. “I’m fine.” Rivera’s voice was steel. “That wasn’t a suggestion.” Atticus tore off his helmet and stalked toward the bench, anger exploding in waves. He slowed very briefly to speak as he passed Sheila. “You still here,” he muttered. She didn’t look at him. “You noticed.” “Hard not to.” “Then stop trying.” That made him pause. His eye burned on the side of her face. “Careful,” he said quietly. “You’re standing in the crossfire.” She finally looked up at him. “I didn’t ask to be.” “No,” he agreed. “But you didn’t run either.” Before she had a chance to respond, Carter’s voice sliced through the air. “Atticus.” Both of them turned. Carter came nearer, smile bright in the background. “Media wants a word after practice. About yesterday.” Atticus’s jaw flexed. “There was no ‘yesterday.’ ” Carter’s smile thinned. “That’s not how stories work.” Sheila moved forward before she was ready to stop. “He said the camera was removed.” Carter’s gaze moved toward her, steely and icy. “And it was.” “Then there’s nothing to talk about.” Carter viewed her as if she was a puzzle he hadn’t finally broken. “You’re very confident for someone who doesn’t have any leverage.” Atticus moved instantly. He passed between them, his presence a wall. “She’s not part of your game,” he said. Carter raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?” The air went still. Sheila felt it; the moment when all might tip off. Atticus leaning closer, voice soft enough that only three of them could hear it. “You want a story? Pick someone who won’t destroy you for it.” Carter’s smile came back and it was slow and it was menacing. “Careful, Finch. Threats look bad on tape.” Sheila had a pounding heart in her ribs. Carter spun and then marched away as if he’d already earned something. Silence followed him. As he exhaled through his nose, Atticus turned his attention to Sheila, eyes aglow. “You can’t do that,” he said. “Do what?” she snapped. “Defend myself?” “You made yourself visible.” “I was already visible.” “You have no idea how this works.” She lifted her chin. “Then explain it to me.” Atticus looked at her for a long moment, something on his face was conflicted. Then he shook his head. “You don’t want my kind of explanations.” “Try me.” His voice dropped. “They chew people up. Especially the ones who won’t play along.” She swallowed. “I won’t play along.” “I know,” he said quietly. “That’s the problem.” A trainer called his name. Atticus stepped back as if the whole thing had no meaning at all from now on. “Stay sharp, Feint.” he said. Then he walked away. Sheila loomed, heart racing, fingers clutching her clipboard. She hated that he was right. She hated it that he had stepped in. She hated feeling safer and angrier at the same time. Her notes were perfect as the day wore on. Her nerves were shot. She leaned over her phone as she left the arena. One new email. No sender name. Just a subject line. We should talk. Sheila stared at the screen, pulse racing. She didn’t know who it was coming from. But she knew one thing. This wasn’t about hockey anymore. And Atticus Finch was at its center whether either one of them wanted to be in it or not.