Page 29 of Uncoachable

Noah hesitates for a split second, then lifts his beer. “And to statistically unlikely bonding experiences.”

Sam joins in, grinning. “And to hot assistant coaches who swear in foreign languages. Now that’s a stat I can get behind.”

A genuine warmth settles in my chest. It’s unexpected and, in this business, probably dangerous. But as I look around at the faces in the booth, I realize that maybe this place won’t be as lonely as I feared.

* * *

“THE ADULTS”

05:36 AM

Rick: Everyone drink water and get to the rink on time.

Sam: Rick, you were slurring when we left.

Rick: No, I wasn’t.

Jenna: You told the bartender you were “emotionally Swedish.”

Rick: …Ignore that.

8

Callahan Eli Moore

Cash changed the name to “THE UGLY DUCKLINGS”

Cash: So apparently our new assistant coach can get Rick drunk.

Marcus: Wait. Rick Anderson? The man who never touches alcohol?

Brick: …I’m officially terrified.

Cash: Terrified? Yes. Also, jealous.

Carter: Does she do this to everyone or just the men in power positions?

Cash: Whooo caress. I just want her to speak foreign words at me. Scary, hot foreign words.

* * *

The locker room is a pressure cooker of rumors this morning.

Usually, the talk is about trade deadlines or which club someone hit up on the weekend, but today, the air is thick with the name Iveline.

I can hear the whispers as I pull on my socks, the hushed tones of grown men gossiping like they’re in a high school hallway.

Cash had only learned about the bar night because he’d been shamelessly flirting with the arena receptionist. She’s pushing sixty, but apparently Cash’s ego doesn’t recognize age limits.

I pull my jersey over my head, the heavy fabric familiar, but today it feels like a weighted vest.

By the time I get to the rink, something feels off.

It’s too quiet, the kind of quiet that screams someone important—or terrifying—is about to appear. The guys are already dressed, sticks half-taped resting on their shoulders.

Someone yawns. Someone else groans like they slept on concrete.

“Why does it feel like a funeral in here?” I mutter, dropping onto the bench to tighten my skates.