Page 36 of Uncoachable

There’s a long pause. He looks me straight in the eyes, his expression unreadable.

“I would have chosen a different word,” he says carefully. “But I’m not the one standing on the ice anymore. It’s a different game now.”

That’s as close as he ever gets to a glowing endorsement.

His eyes soften for a moment—a flash of warmth so brief I almost consider I imagined it. He turns his head back toward the rink, the professional mask sliding back into place.

“You’re coaching well today,” he says. “Better than yesterday.”

“Well I wasn’t hungover yesterday,” I say before I can stop the words from jumping out of my mouth.

The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared, but I saw it.

He knows exactly what happened at the Blue Line last night. He probably got a full report from Delaney before the sun came up.

“Be mindful,” he says, his voice regaining its edge. “In your position, you don’t get many missteps. People are waiting for you to fail so they can say they were right about you. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

I hate the reminder that every move I make is under a microscope, every breath analyzed for weakness. I swallow the anger down, letting determination harden in its place.

“I know.”

He nods once, the conversation over as far as he’s concerned.

He turns and starts walking toward the executive elevators, leaving me standing in the tunnel. I watch him go, feeling the weight of the St. James name pressing down on my shoulders.

I missed him when I was in Europe. I missed the way he could simplify a crisis into a single sentence. I let myself sit in that feeling for a beat, breathing in the cold, recycled air.

And then, I turn back toward the rink.

The rest of the practice is brutal. It’s clean, efficient, and almost eerily quiet.

Hale avoids my eyes entirely, skating with his head down like he’s trying to become invisible.

Moore doesn’t avoid me, though.

I try to focus on the drill, but Callahan is making it nearly impossible.

He’s playing with a new kind of intensity now, his movements aggressive and fluid. He isn’t just following the system anymore; he’s testing the absolute limits of it.

Every time he crosses my line of sight, I feel a prickle of electricity at the back of my neck.

He saw the “St. James” family meeting, and I can tell he’s dissecting it in that sharp, arrogant brain of his. I can practically hear the gears turning: Is she the Ice Queen or is she just the Daddy’s Girl?

I wait until he’s skating past the bench to catch his eye. I don’t smile, and I don’t acknowledge the tension vibrating between us. I just tap my clipboard with my pen and point to the blue line—a silent, authoritative command for him to tighten his gap.

For a split second, his lips twitch. It’s not a smirk this time; it’s a challenge accepted. He digs his edge into the ice, sending a spray of snow hitting the glass, and launches himself into the next rep with a speed that makes my heart skip a beat.

It’s a conversation without words, and it’s more exhausting than the hangover I’m currently nursing.

It irritates me more than if he’d just been an outright asshole.

At least I know how to deal with assholes.

When the final whistle finally blows, the players file off the ice without the usual loud chaos.

Rick claps his hands together, and as the last player disappears down the tunnel, he looks over at me. “Good work today, Ivy. I’m proud of how you held that line.”

As I step off the ice and begin to unlace my skates, Noah appears again. He’s been hovering like a quiet shadow near the bench.