Page 126 of Uncoachable

I find myself leaning against the far end of the mahogany bar, the weight of the night pressing into my shoulders. The ice in my glass has long since melted into a lukewarm amber puddle, but I don’t care.

I’m watching her.

She is standing at the other end of the marble island, her emerald gown catching the low light like a warning sign. She’s alone for the first time all night, her fingers tracing the rim of a martini glass with a slow, hypnotic rhythm. I set my drink down and bridge the distance, sliding into the space beside her.

“You look like you’re plotting a massacre.”

She doesn’t look at me, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “I’m calculating how long I have to pretend I’m enjoying myself before I set this place on fire. So far, arson is winning.”

“Then drop the match,” I say, leaning in until my mouth is inches from the dark strands of hair at her temple. “The donors have had their fill of the Ice Queen tonight. You’ve done your time.”

She finally lifts her gaze. “And what about you, Callahan? Have you had your fill?”

“Not even close,” I rasp.

I let my hand find the edge of the bar, my knuckles grazing the emerald silk of her gown. I don’t stop there. I hook my thumb deep into the dip of her waist, my palm coming to rest flat against her hip.

“I’ve spent three hours watching you pretend I’m just a name on your roster,” I say, my voice dropping to a low, predatory crawl.

I sink into her space, my thigh lacing between hers under the cover of the marble overhang—forcing her to lean back into me.

“I’ve seen you handle every man in this room like they’re a nuisance. But mostly, I’ve seen the way you haven’t looked at me once—not because you didn’t want to, but because you knew if you did, we’d be exactly where we are right now.”

Her breath hitches, a sharp, broken sound that she tries to swallow, but I feel it vibrate against my own chest.

She leans into the pressure of my hand, her fingers curling around the stem of her glass so hard the crystal groans.

“The finals start in three days,” she whispers. “If we leave this room together, there is no professional distance left to hide behind.”

“Good,” I grate out, my fingers splaying wide against her side, my grip turning firm and demanding. I trace the curve of her lower lip with my gaze, my hunger so unvarnished it’s a scandal in its own right. “Because I’m done hiding. Tell me you want to go, Iveline. Tell me right now, or I’m going to ruin both of our reputations in front of everyone.”

She sets her glass down with a definitive, ringing clink and looks at me with a lethal, dark challenge. “If you can get us to the curb before my father notices I’m gone, I’m yours.”

“Done.”

I keep my hand low on her back as I guide her toward the side exit.

The city of Boston watches us from a distance as we step into the cool night air—a million witnesses who have no idea that the fate of their team is currently hanging by a thread of green satin.

We’re halfway to the curb when a shadow detaches itself from the stone pillars near the valet.

It’s Mark Delaney. His tuxedo jacket is unbuttoned, his tie askew, and the smell of expensive scotch precedes him by five feet.

“Leaving early, Captain?” Delaney sneers, his eyes darting between my hand on her waist and the defiant set of her shoulders. “Found a better way to secure your ice time, have you? I told the board—this whole thing is a circus. They’ll see. Once we drop next game, they’ll realize a pretty face doesn’t win Cups.”

I feel the groan building in my chest, my fingers tightening on her side as I prepare to step in front of her, but Iveline doesn’t flinch. She stops exactly three feet in front of him.

She doesn’t even look angry; she looks bored.

“Mark,” she says. “I assumed you’d be halfway to the parking garage by now. Didn’t the GM’s assistant find you at the bar?”

Delaney’s smug expression falters. “What are you talking about?”

“The email went out ten minutes ago. Mass BCC to the entire organization.” She reaches into the small clutch at her side, pulls out her phone, and tilts the screen just enough for him to see the header.

Personnel Update: Restructuring of Coaching Staff.

“I spent four hours with the front office yesterday reviewing the power play metrics and the locker room feedback. Turns out, the ‘De-Lamey’ effect is a luxury the budget no longer supports.”