Page 160 of Uncoachable

Three years ago, they were a scandalous headline that almost broke the sport. Now, they’re just two people arguing about whether the flower girl is allowed to wear sneakers under her dress.

This place does that to people.

It makes you believe in second acts. It makes you reckless enough to think that maybe someone could see all your worst habits, your jagged edges, and your loud mouth, and still choose to love you anyway.

Scottie leans against the counter beside me, her arms crossed over her chest.

“You’re skating too much on your off days,” she says.

“It’s called conditioning, Scottie,” I reply. “You know, the thing athletes do to stay athletic?”

“It’s called unnecessary risk to your hip flexors. We’ll be renegotiating your off-season training program starting Monday. I’ve already sent a list of approved trainers to your inbox.”

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly feeling like a desert. My brain is performing a very frantic interpretive dance to avoid saying the actual words I want to say.

I’m a professional hockey player; I’m supposed to be able to handle pressure, but this is a different kind of heat.

“You’re very intense,” I manage to say.

She tilts her head to the side. The corner of her mouth tugs up in a way that makes me forget how to use my lungs.

“You love it.”

I absolutely do not say yes. I cannot afford to give her that much ground this early in our professional relationship.

She steps a few inches closer, lowering her voice until it’s just for me. It’s a casual movement, but it feels as final as a guillotine.

“Are you nervous around me, O’Connell?”

“No,” I lie.

She raises one eyebrow. It’s a slow, surgical movement that tells me she knows exactly how fast my heart is beating.

“…Hm. We’ll see about that.”

Her laugh is bright, unapologetic, and dangerous.

“Relax,” she says, patting my arm. “I don’t bite unless the contract negotiations get really ugly.”

My brain short-circuits.

There are actual sparks. Somewhere in the distance, a small fire starts in my subconscious. I’m pretty sure a smoke alarm is going off, but it might just be the ringing in my ears.

Across the kitchen island, Ivy catches my eye for a split second and silently mouths the words good luck before turning back to her seating chart.

Traitor.

Scottie taps her tablet with a manicured nail. “Dinner tonight. Seven o’clock. We need to discuss the new endorsement deals for the hydration brand.”

“Is this a professional dinner?” I ask, my voice sounding much weaker than I’d like.

She smirks, and the look in her eyes is pure chaos. “Define professional, Cash.”

I am so, so screwed.

***

Later—because with Scottie, there is always a “later”—she brushes past me on her way to the living room. Her fingers trail briefly, almost accidentally, over my forearm. My chest tightens, and the air in the room suddenly feels very scarce.