Page 32 of Uncoachable

He grins, unbothered. “If it means watching you trip over your own skates trying to impress her? Absolutely.”

I ignore him.

Iveline steps closer, just enough that I catch the faint scent of her perfume. She doesn’t look at me directly, but her voice drops a fraction lower, meant only for my ears.

“Half a second earlier,” she says. “You’re reacting, Moore. You aren’t anticipating.”

My throat goes dry. “I am anticipating.”

“No,” she replies, her eyes flicking up to mine for the briefest, most devastating second. “You’re distracted.”

It hits harder than any body check I’ve ever taken.

Because she’s right.

Because she knows exactly why I’m distracted.

A chorus of muffled snickers rises from the guys behind us who are definitely eavesdropping.

“Distracted,” Cash repeats loudly from the line. “Yeah, that’s one word for it. I can think of a few others.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, skating back to my position.

Iveline straightens up, her professionalism snapping back into place like a suit of armor.

“Again!” she orders, stepping away before I can read anything else in her face.

And I go.

I go because she told me to.

But the ice feels different under my skates now—sharper and thinner, like one wrong move will send me crashing straight through the surface.

That’s when Carter Hale decides to open his mouth.

“Easy for you to talk about systems,” Hale says, loud enough for the entire rink to hear. “Must be nice walking in here with daddy sitting at the top of the stairs.”

The ice goes dead silent.

The only sound is the hum of the cooling system beneath us. Iveline stops skating. She turns slowly, her eyebrow lifting just enough to let everyone know she’s dangerous.

“Say that again, Hale.”

Her hangover has clearly made her irritable.

Nice.

Hale shrugs, trying to look cocky in front of the guys.

“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. I’m the only one brave enough to say it out loud. You’re here because of your last name, not because you’re some tactical genius.”

She skates closer to him.

“You think,” she says calmly, her voice echoing in the rafters, “that if nepotism was enough to get me into this league, I’d be standing on the ice with you at seven in the morning? Do you think I’d be dealing with your ego instead of sitting in a climate-controlled office upstairs?”

Hale scoffs, but he’s losing his nerve. “I’m just saying—”

“No,” she cuts him off. “You’re deflecting. You’re deflecting because it’s easier for you to question my résumé than it is to admit you missed your defensive assignment twice in under a minute.”