Page 102 of Uncoachable

Rick walks a few steps ahead of me, his phone pressed to his ear as he negotiates something in a low, urgent tone. Jenna and her intern trail a few paces behind, quietly arguing about interview rotations and the specific talking points we need to hit to keep the narrative on the game and off the drama.

I don’t notice the cameras at first. I notice the noise. It hits me wrong—too sharp and too sudden. I hear my name being shouted with varying degrees of confidence, butchered by some and then hastily corrected by others.

There is a sudden, violent ripple of movement to my left, a sharp shift in the atmospheric pressure. My body registers the danger a full second before my mind can process what is happening.

“Iveline, over here!”

“Coach St. James, look this way!”

“Is it true you’re—”

The crowd surges forward. Adrenaline spikes through my system, and my stomach lurches.

People spill out from behind a parked van like they’ve been waiting in ambush for hours. Cameras lift in unison. Someone’s shoulder slams into my arm hard enough to sting, and the space around me collapses inward.

They are getting too close.

The microphones look like blunt weapons shoved inches from my mouth, close enough to catch every uneven breath I draw. I can see my own reflection in the curved glass of a camera lens, looking distorted, small, and hunted.

In Finland, the media is polite, almost distant. In Boston, they are a pack of wolves that have been starving for a story, and I am the only thing on the menu.

I can feel the heat of the bodies pressing in on me, the friction of nylon jackets rubbing against my professional blazer.

For a woman who has spent her entire life perfecting the art of the “controlled exit,” this is a living nightmare.

I feel the air thinning, the oxygen being replaced by the rapid-fire clicking of shutters.

Jenna swears and spins around. “Hey, back up!” she snaps, but her voice is swallowed whole by the shouting.

I try to sidestep, to keep moving toward the safety of the doors. I try to keep my footing on the uneven concrete. A hand brushes against my back—it’s not a guiding hand or a protective one. It is just careless, reaching for a better angle.

“Iveline, are the rumors true?”

“What rumors?” I ask automatically, but my voice disappears into the crush before it even leaves my lips.

Another shove comes, harder this time. My heel skids on the concrete. For half a second, the world tilts. My center of gravity is gone, and my body begins to brace for the inevitable impact of the ground.

Then, a hand lands on my waist.

It is firm, it is immediate, and it is unmistakable.

Callahan.

His fingers spread at my side, his grip precise and steady, correcting my balance with an instinctive efficiency that leaves me breathless. I feel the sudden, intense heat of his body at my side, solid and grounding. His shoulders angle wide, blocking the worst of the surge like it is part of his muscle memory. Like he’s done this a thousand times before.

“Back the fuck up,” he spits, looking around.

The shift in the atmosphere is instantaneous.

When Callahan Moore steps in, it is like a riot shield has been dropped between me and the rest of the world.

I realize, with a jolt of clarity, that this is the first time the public has actually seen us together outside of the bench.

To them, this is a scandal caught in real time.

The way he angles his head, shielding my face from the harshest flashes of the cameras, tells me everything I need to know about where his loyalties lie.

The cameras explode with renewed vigor. Flash after flash hits us. Shutters clatter like gunfire in the small space. I flinch despite myself, my vision turning spotty with white bursts of light.