Page 30 of Uncoachable

Before anyone can answer, Rick Anderson walks in. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin has a grayish tint, and he’s moving with the deliberate care of a man whose brain is currently three sizes too big for his skull.

“Morning,” he says flatly. He lets out a long, pained sigh. “You’re all going to do me a favor today.”

No one breathes. Some guys glance at each other, quietly hoping for a miracle of a canceled practice.

“You’re going to shut up,” he continues, his eyes narrowing as he scans the room. “You’re going to listen. And you’re going to skate exactly how you’re told. Anyone who can’t manage that can enjoy conditioning drills until their legs fall off. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Coach,” comes the chorus of voices.

Rick nods once, looking like the sound of our collective voice physically hurt him. “Good. She’ll be here in a minute.”

She.

That’s all it takes.

My pulse picks up, a steady thrum in my ears. I force myself to relax, leaning back against the locker, but I find myself glancing toward the entrance too often. I look across the room and see the carnage from last night.

Miguel Santos looks like death warmed over. Sam is rubbing his temples in sync with the overhead lights. Rick sits next to Miguel, his jaw tight, looking like he made a series of terrible life choices sometime after midnight.

Even Jenna, usually the most composed person in the building, is slumped against the wall, half-asleep.

Then Iveline walks in.

And yeah—she’s clearly hungover.

She’s quiet and lethal in the kind of controlled way that makes caffeine a necessity and murder a serious consideration. Her hair is pulled into a bun that looks even tighter than yesterday’s, and she’s wearing sunglasses indoors. It’s everything I need to know.

She looks like a beautiful disaster.

There’s a slight paleness to her skin that wasn’t there before. The way she’s holding her coffee cup—both hands wrapped around it like it’s a lifeline—is the most human thing I’ve seen her do.

Most of the guys are smirking, but I can’t find the humor in it.

Even with a pounding headache and dark lenses hiding her eyes, she still commands the air in the room.

She doesn’t apologize for the sunglasses. She doesn’t make a self-deprecating “rough night” joke to fit in with the boys.

She just stands there, a lethal statue, and waits for us to be worth her time.

I find myself wondering what she was like last night.

Did she laugh? Did she finally let that severe bun down? Did she talk about our car accident to Rick and the others, or is that a secret she’s only keeping with me?

The thought that I might have a version of her that the others don’t have is a dangerous, sharp little thrill in my chest.

She stops just inside the doorway, surveying us like she’s counting idiots. She sighs heavily, as if she’s already bored with the entirety of humanity.

“Good morning,” she says, her voice raspy. She pauses. “You all look… hydrated.”

A few guys snort before remembering Rick’s warning, choking the sound back into a cough. She removes the sunglasses then, revealing eyes that are sharp despite the exhaustion.

“We’re going to keep this efficient today,” she says, her tone clipped. “That benefits all of us. Mostly me.”

She turns to Rick, but he’s sitting there with his eyes half-closed. When he notices her staring, he simply waves a hand toward the ice. The respect is given; she doesn’t even have to ask for it.

She walks straight to the large whiteboard mounted near the tunnel and starts drawing. There’s no hesitation. Her voice carries through the quiet arena—clear, precise, and impossible to ignore.

“We’re adjusting neutral zone pressure today,” she explains. “Less drifting. More intent. If you’re unsure where you’re supposed to be, that’s not the system failing. That’s you failing the system.”