Page 11 of Uncoachable

“Shut up, Finn.”

“Oh,” his eyes light up as he reads my face. “You know her. You definitely know her.”

“I don’t.”

“Bullshit.” He plants his hands on my shoulders, blocking my path to the door. “Tell me the truth or I’m going to start a rumor that you’re retiring to become a professional mime.”

I push him off and try to ignore him, but he bumps his shoulder into mine as I stare at the empty doorway.

“Dude,” he says, his voice dropping to a hiss. “Close your mouth. You’re drooling.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he interrupts, his grin returning. “And I support the drama, I really do. But also? You’re an idiot if you think this ends well for you.”

We hit the ice a minute later.

She is already there, standing at the boards with a whistle around her neck, looking like she owns the rink.

It throws me off enough that I nearly catch an edge on my first turn, a rookie mistake that makes my ears burn.

She steps toward the center circle, and every eye follows her.

“Warm up,” she says. Her voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the sound of skates carving ice. “Same pace as last week, but I want your transitions tighter. Don’t coast through the turns.”

No one moves at first. A few of the veterans glance at Rick for confirmation. When Rick remains silent, leaning against the glass, we finally move.

Her drills come fast, designed with a complexity that leaves no room for laziness. By the third rep, even the younger guys are breathing hard.

I can’t stop watching her—not because I want to, but because I’m looking for a flaw.

Standing ten feet away from her, I feel that old knot in my chest return: a volatile mix of the irritation I’d nurtured for four years and a new, begrudging realization of her competence.

Finn skates past me during a water break, panting heavily. “Okay. She’s legit. My lungs are on fire.”

I don’t answer because I’m too busy realizing that the woman I’ve blamed for the worst night of my career is no longer a ghost on a rainy bridge.

She’s real, she’s sharp, and she’s holding a whistle.

This is going to be a massive problem.

4

Iveline Talvi St. James

“Line up.”

I wait until every man is breathing hard before I say it. I can feel the vibration of their skates through the soles of my own, a low, rhythmic thrum of expensive steel on fresh ice.

It is a sound I have lived in since I was four years old.

To most people, a hockey rink is a chaotic blur of noise, but to me, it is a language.

I can hear who is skating on tired edges, and I can hear exactly who is cheating on their crossovers.

I look down the line.

They are giants in their pads, hulking silhouettes that block out the light. Standing among them, I am only a fraction of their size, but the ice is the great equalizer.