Page 20 of Uncoachable

Me: I haven’t even had coffee yet.

Noah: I brought you one.

That makes me pause.

Why? Why would the guy who lives in a world of spreadsheets and cold data points go out of his way for a coffee?

The light turns green before I can respond.

I drop the phone back onto the seat and drive, refusing to text and navigate Boston’s aggressive traffic at the same time.

Noah can wait. Whatever revelation he’s sitting on will still be there in five minutes.

When I pull into the parking lot, I check my phone.

Noah: You didn’t drink anything yesterday until 3:17 PM and you didn’t eat until after 5. Your energy levels were visibly low by the end of practice.

Me: You can’t see energy levels.

Noah: I can. You blink slower when you’re tired.

I freeze for a second with my hand on the door handle, caught completely off guard.

Who notices something like that? And why does it feel so strangely intimate to be watched that closely?

I unlock my door, sling my bag over my shoulder, and grab my laptop and water bottle; the same one that will likely stay full until tonight when I inevitably pour it out and try again tomorrow.

Me: Where are you?

Noah: Next to reception. With the coffee. And the data. And a banana. Rick said you like bananas.

Me: Rick is a liar.

Noah: Should I throw the banana away?

Me: No. I’m coming.

I lock the car and start toward the entrance when my phone buzzes again.

“Vittu helvetti,” (Fucking hell) I mutter.

The curse feels sharp on my tongue, a jagged bit of Finnish frustration that matches the rhythmic pounding of my heart against my ribs.

I brace myself instinctively, like my mother might materialize out of the Boston fog to scold me for the language—then I remember she isn’t here.

I’m a grown woman; I can swear before sunrise if I want to.

Noah: Also, you did well yesterday. I forgot to say that part.

I slow down for a second, the irritation from being “late” softening.

Me: Thank you, Noah. I’ll be there in five.

Noah: Four. You move fast.

I push through the heavy glass doors of the arena, the smell of recycled air and old ice immediately hitting me.

Noah Klein is an anomaly.