Page 18 of Uncoachable

Marcus shrugs. “The confidence. The authority. The way Rick backed her without blinking an eye.”

“Or,” Carter says, bitterness sharpening his voice, “she is only here because of her last name.”

There it is.

The thing everyone has been dancing around.

I have thought it too; I will not pretend I haven’t. Nepotism is baked into this sport with the sons of GMs and nephews of owners, legacy hires dressed up as opportunity.

On paper, it fits perfectly.

Except she walked into her first practice and saw problems no one has fixed in years. She didn’t soften herself to make the room comfortable. She didn’t hide behind her name or blink when she was challenged.

I wanted to believe she didn’t earn it because that would protect my ego, but every fiber of my body knows that doesn’t explain the way she commands attention.

I lean back against the locker, my jaw tight. “You really think Rick would burn this room and risk the season for her? He’s not tanking the season just to do someone a favor.”

Cash’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second. He knows me too well. He sees the tension and the reflex to argue even when I cannot admit why.

Kovács scoffs, clearly wanting blood because she embarrassed him. “It’s a joke. You see the way she looked at us? Like we were a budget report she was about to cut.”

“I did a deep dive on the European forums while I was on the stationary bike,” Nico interjects, holding up his phone. “There’s zero personal info. No social media, no ‘hometown’ fluff pieces. But the fan boards in the Elite leagues? They all call her the same thing: The Ice Queen.”

The name hangs in the humid air of the locker room, sharp and fitting.

“They say she’s a ghost. She shows up, fixes a failing power play with surgical precision, and leaves before the victory parade. No one knows where she actually lives or how she got started, just that she’s the coldest person to ever hold a whistle.”

Cash whistles low. “The Ice Queen. It’s perfect. It explains why the temperature in the room drops ten degrees the second she walks in. I bet she drinks liquid nitrogen for breakfast.”

“She knows her shit,” the rookie, Leo, adds quietly. “Like… actually knows it.”

“That doesn’t mean she didn’t get a massive head start,” someone else mutters.

I am on my feet before I realize I have moved. The bench screeches against the floor, loud and ugly.

“You want to talk systems? Then talk systems. You want to talk politics? Do it without me.”

Cash’s eyebrows shoot up. “Damn.”

I grab my bag and head for the showers, catching my reflection in the glass.

I look pissed.

The truth is, I do not know what I am.

She told me I was a distraction. Not unprofessional or insubordinate, but a distraction.

The word sticks under my skin as the hot water pounds against me. I lean my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water slice over my shoulders.

My muscles are screaming from the tension of trying to act like I was not affected by her.

She is a challenge I do not know how to beat.

She knew exactly which button to press when she called me a distraction. She is telling me that my ego is getting in the way of the game, and the worst part is that she is right.

I scrub soap through my hair, trying to wash the thought out. It doesn’t matter if she is good or if she looks—no.

It does not matter.