Chapter 9

Sheila looked at Atticus for just an instant too long. It felt like the walls were closing around her, the room smaller. There was tension in the air, the kind that prickle your skin and took too much air. Atticus had his arms at his sides, stiff like a man who didn’t want to be weak. Coach Rivera’s eyes shifted within between them as if he were witnessing a match. The silence stretched. Then Atticus spoke. “Why are you here?” he said again, but his voice had no resemblance. It had turned sharper, colder a blade. Sheila swallowed hard. She didn’t want to answer. Not because she didn’t have anything to say, but because she knew what she said would be used against her. Still, she held her ground. "I'm here because I was assigned," she explained. "And because I'm doing my job." Atticus just gave a slight lip curl, a smile, but not a full-throated one. “Your job,” he said again, as if he was sniffing the words. Sheila felt anger flare. “I’m not your enemy,” she said. “I’m not your target.” Atticus’s gaze stayed on her. “You are now.” Sheila’s heart stopped. The words struck her like a punch. She looked at Coach Rivera. “What does he mean?” Coach Rivera’s jaw tightened. “He means what he said, exactly.” Sheila turned back to Atticus. “You’re not going to intimidate me.” Atticus narrowed his eyes. “You already are,” he told her. Sheila felt her blood begin to heat up. She stepped forward. Not close enough to be threatening, but close enough to make him feel her presence. “Let me be clear,” she said. “You don’t get to control me. You don’t get to threaten me. And you don’t get to say what I’m allowed to do.” Atticus stared at her. Then he turned away. “Fine,” he said. “Then keep doing your job.” Sheila exhaled sharply, relief flooding her. For a moment. But then Atticus spoke in a voice again. “Just don’t pretend you’re not being used.” Sheila froze. She turned slowly. “What do you mean?” she asked. Atticus kept gaze on her, unreadable. “You’re not here to document,” he said. “You’re here to be the story.” Sheila’s stomach dropped. She felt cold. She didn’t feel good about the sound of that. She didn’t like what he was insinuating. “Who’s using me?” she asked. Atticus didn’t answer. He just stared at her as though she was a puzzle piece he couldn’t solve. Then he said: “Be careful who you trust.” And with that, he left. Sheila was standing in there; trembling heart pounded in her chest. Coach Rivera looked at her. “You’ll have to leave,” he said softly. Sheila shook her head. “No. I’m not leaving.” Coach Rivera sighed. “You don’t know what you are dealing with.” Sheila stared at him. “I understand enough.” Coach Rivera’s eyes softened slightly. “You don’t. Not yet.” Sheila’s voice was firm. “I’m not going anywhere.” Coach Rivera nodded slowly. “Okay.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a small folder. He slid it across the table for her. Sheila’s eyes widened. “What is this?” she asked. Coach Rivera’s voice dropped. “A warning.” Sheila opened the folder. Inside was a photo. A photo of her. From behind. Taken at the arena. The picture was clear. Someone was watching her. Someone had been recording her. Sheila’s hands trembled. “Who took this?” she asked. Coach Rivera’s look turned grim. “We don’t know.” Sheila’s voice shook. “This is a violation.” Coach Rivera nodded. “Yes.” Sheila stared at the photo again. She didn’t like there being a presence of another who was watching her. She resented thinking she had already become a target. She didn’t like the notion that Atticus was correct. She was the story. And she had no idea how deep the story really went. Sheila closed the folder and stood up. “I need to go,” she said. Coach Rivera shook his head. “You can’t. Not yet.” Sheila stared at him. “Then what am I supposed to do?” she asked. Coach Rivera met her eyes. “You have to find out who’s behind this.” Sheila’s heart pounded. “How?” she asked. Coach Rivera’s voice was quiet. “By being careful.” Sheila stared at him. “You’re not being helpful,” she said. Coach Rivera’s cheeks furrowed. “I’m trying.” Sheila reopened the folder. She knew he was right. She couldn’t remain blind. But she also knew that the instant she said ‘dig,’ and then ‘ask questions,’ she was going to be more dangerous. Sheila left the room. She trotted down the hallway, her step felt observed. She paused when she got to the main training room. The ice was transparent via the glass. Atticus was skating. But not alone. Two men stood next to the bench, looking at him. Sheila recognized them. They were not players. They were not trainers. They were men who simply didn't belong there. They looked as if they belonged to the world of power. The world of money. The world of control. Sheila felt a chill. She knew she had to leave. But she also knew she couldn’t do it. Not yet. For she desired to get answers. And she wanted to protect herself. She looked toward the exit. But her eyes stopped. She saw him. Atticus. He was staring directly at her. His gaze was sharp. His expression unreadable. Sheila’s heart raced. She was like standing at the precipice. She didn’t know whether he would pull her up or push her off. Atticus lifted his hand. Not in greeting. In warning. He pointed toward the exit. Then he pointed toward her. The message was clear. Leave. Or stay. But if you stick around you will face danger. Sheila stared at him. She felt anger. She felt fear. She felt something else. Something she didn’t want to admit. She felt… drawn. Not in a romantic way. In a way that made her feel as if standing in the storm’s path. Sheila looked away. She turned toward the exit. She walked out of the arena. The cold air hit her face. She breathed in. She tried to calm her mind. But she couldn’t. Because she knew one thing:

Atticus Finch was not just dangerous. He was powerful. And he was someone you couldn’t ignore. Sheila walked to her car. Her hands trembled. She sat down and locked the doors. She gazed at her phone. There was a new message. No sender. No name. Just words. “Stop digging.” Sheila’s heart stopped. She stared at the message. Her stomach dropped. She found she didn’t know who had sent it. She didn’t know what it meant. But she knew one thing:

She was no longer simply an analyst. She was a player. And the game had only just begun.