Page 38 of Uncoachable

By the time I grab my keys, I’m already annoyed.

The arena is already awake by the time I pull into my spot. The lights are humming, the ice has already been resurfaced into a glass-like sheet, and the staff is moving with a quiet sense of purpose.

The locker room is loud when I enter.

Finn is talking too much as usual, someone is blasting a heavy bass track, and Leo is laughing like this isn’t the most serious season of our lives.

For him, maybe it isn’t.

But for me? This is all I have.

I drop into my stall and start getting ready, trying to tune out the noise. But despite my best efforts, my eyes keep flicking toward the door.

I hear the click of her arrival before I actually see her.

I can feel the shift—the way conversations suddenly dull and the volume of the music seems to dip just enough to be noticeable. I keep my head down, focusing intently on the laces of my left skate, pulling them tight enough to feel the pressure against my foot.

Every guy in here is pretending they aren’t looking at her, but the silence is far too loud to be natural. We’re a bunch of professional athletes, some of the toughest men in the league, and yet we’re all acting like we’re about to be inspected by a boarding school principal.

It’s embarrassing and it’s infuriating.

And yet, I’m doing it too. I’m holding my breath, waiting to see where her gaze is going to land.

“Practice starts in twelve minutes,” Iveline says evenly. “If you’re not dressed and on the ice by then, you’re skating extra until I get tired. And I don’t get tired easily.”

A few guys chuckle, thinking it’s a joke. I know better. Looking at the set of her shoulders, I know she’s dead serious.

She’s standing near the entrance, a tablet tucked under her arm, her posture perfectly straight and her expression completely unreadable.

My gaze travels over her, and it’s a form of torture.

The black dress pants are professional, sure, but they’re tailored well enough that I can see the slight, powerful curve of her quads—the legacy of a lifetime on skates.

I find myself fixating on the small patch of bare skin at her wrist where her sleeve is pushed up, and the thought of putting my mouth right there, right over her pulse, is almost loud enough to drown out Finn’s entire conversation.

Cash grins at her from three stalls down. “You serious, coach? Twelve minutes? I haven’t even finished my espresso.”

She meets his eyes. “Yes, O’Connell. I’m serious.”

Cash’s smile falters just enough for me to see it. He immediately scrambles for his skates. Leo mutters a curse under his breath and starts pulling on his pads faster than I’ve ever seen him move.

I go back to taping my stick, my jaw tight.

I don’t like being managed, and I never have. And yet, I can’t deny the fact that under her direction, the drills run cleaner and smarter than they ever did under the old regime.

She turns and walks out without a word, without a glance in my direction. My pulse stutters anyway, traitorous and infuriating.

I give my laces one final, sharp tug, forcing my focus away from the door and down toward my skates.

By the time I hit the ice, the transition is instant.

The humid air of the locker room is traded for a dry, biting cold that lunges at my lungs. We move in synchronized patterns that leave no room for a wandering mind. Every pivot must be perfect, every weight transfer intentional.

There is a quiet, suffocating pressure in the way she watches from the bench, her eyes tracking the gap between our blades and the puck.

“Again,” she says when a line fumbles a zone entry.

From the crease, Cash lets out a dramatic groan, tapping his stick against the post. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Coach?”