Page 10 of Uncoachable

“Callahan’s probably just stressed about St. James,” Kovács chimes in from across the room. “The big man has been breathing down everyone’s neck since the trades went through.”

That hits closer to the truth than I care to acknowledge. St. James has been circling me for months, offering praise that feels more like a threat.

Before I can snap back at Kovács, the heavy locker room door swings open. The noise dies instantly as Rick Anderson, our head coach, steps inside.

“Alright,” Rick says, his voice low. “Circle up.”

Helmets go on and the room shifts as thirty men move into a tight semi-circle. I stand at the front, keeping my gaze fixed on the purple logo on the wall.

“Quick introduction before we hit the ice,” Rick says, tapping the door behind him. “The front office has been looking to modernize our development systems, and we’ve finally found the right fit to lead that charge.”

The door opens, and she walks in.

My body reacts before my brain can process the sight. My stomach drops, my breath hitches, and my spine goes rigid.

It’s her.

The same dark hair is now pulled back into a tight bun and she wears a team-issued rink jacket zipped to the chin with a tablet tucked under her arm.

“This is Iveline Talvi St. James,” Rick announces. “Our new assistant coach in charge of systems and player development.”

The name hits the room like a physical shock wave.

St. James.

My heart does a strange, violent kick against my ribs. Seeing her here, under the unforgiving buzz of the fluorescent lights, the reckless version of her I’d built in my head begins to crumble.

There is a lethal precision to the way she stands. She isn’t just the GM’s daughter; she looks like she knows the game better than half the veterans in this room.

My mouth goes bone dry. I wait for her to see me, waiting for the moment of recognition to break her composure.

“She’ll be on the ice for every session starting now,” Rick continues.

Iveline nods once.

Then, her gaze finally lifts and lands on me.

It lasts only a second. There is no flicker of recognition, no narrowing of the eyes, no reaction at all. It’s as if I’m a complete stranger—as if that bridge and that rain never happened.

Somehow, the total lack of reaction feels worse than a confrontation.

“You okay, Callie?” Cash murmurs, leaning in.

“Fine,” I grunt, though my jaw is clamped so tight it aches.

Rick claps his hands once, signaling the end of the meeting. “Enough talk. Helmets on. We’re five minutes behind.”

He turns to leave, and Iveline follows him without a word.

As the door shuts, the room explodes.

Everyone is talking at once about the GM’s kid. The air is thick with nepotism, sexism, and dismissal.

My jaw tightens with an odd, unwanted tug of protectiveness. For a split second, a flash of genuine guilt hits me for the way I’d treated her that night.

I shove it down immediately.

Cash turns slowly toward me, a sharp, knowing grin spreading across his face. “Callie. You look like you just saw a ghost.”