Page 115 of Uncoachable

Jenna, Sam, and Miguel have been hanging near the bench all practice, subtly observing the fallout of the media circus. I could feel their quiet interest all morning, but their eyes were always polite and never intrusive—until this moment.

“Just noticing,” Hale continues, his voice carrying easily in the silent arena, “that you and Captain Moore haven’t exactly been… aligned lately. Different sides of the rink. I thought maybe it was—what do they call it in the movies?—creative differences.”

“Creative differences,” I repeat softly, stepping closer to the glass. “Is that what you think this is, Carter?”

Hale shrugs, his eyes darting briefly toward Callahan before returning to mine. “Looks like tension to me. And tension usually means someone isn’t pulling in the same direction.”

“You don’t get to comment on my relationships,” I say, my voice sharp. “You don’t get to speculate on the dynamics of this staff. And you certainly do not get to undermine authority because you’re bored and looking for a headline of your own.”

Hale’s brows lift in mock surprise. “Touchy.”

“One more word out of you today that isn’t about hockey, and you’ll be running laps until condescension stops being your entire personality. Do I make myself clear?”

The rink goes dead silent. Even the ice seems to be listening.

Then—unexpectedly—Hale smiles. It’s not a smug or mocking smile. It’s something quieter, almost a look of approval.

“Noted, Coach,” he says, pushing off and skating back into line without another word of argument.

Only then does Callahan look at me. Just once.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are dark with something heavily restrained.

I flinch subtly, a small hitch in my breath betraying the tension I’ve been holding for days. Irritation and longing tangle together in a knot that I can’t untie.

Practice ends shortly after without further incident.

The team files off the ice, their energy muted and heavy.

Jenna bumps my shoulder with hers as we begin to gather our things near the bench. “So… now that the cat is out of the bag—he didn’t exactly hide that little look he gave you back there, did he?”

I freeze, my hand hovering over my clipboard. “What look, Jenna?”

She grins, dragging her water bottle along the boards as she starts toward the tunnel. “The one that makes the rest of us want to buy popcorn. You know the one, the foreheads-almost-touching, eyes-locking, heat-melting-the-ice look. Admit it, Ivy. You love him. Or at the very least, you’re halfway there.”

Sam snorts from a few feet away, busy packing up pucks. “Finally. Someone said it out loud.”

Miguel shakes his head, chuckling as he walks past. “Iveline, your face gave you away before your words ever could.”

I huff, grabbing my clipboard and holding it against my chest like it’s a piece of tactical armor. “You are all completely insufferable.”

Jenna winks over her shoulder. “And yet, we’re right. We are always right.”

I walk through the narrow hallway toward my office, intent on leaving before I have to face anyone else.

“Ivy.”

I stop dead in my tracks, but I don’t turn around to face him.

“Yes, Moore?”

The name lands between us like a serrated blade.

I see him flinch out of the corner of my eye—just a microscopic twitch—and the sight of it kills me.

He isn’t Moore. He is the man who held me when I was burning up with a fever. He is the man who stood in my father’s office and risked his entire career.

But I need him to be a player; I need him to be a jersey number. Because if he’s just a man, then I am a woman who is currently failing every professional standard she ever set for herself.