Page 39 of Uncoachable

“I’d enjoy it more if you actually cut inside when you were supposed to,” she fires back without looking up from the whiteboard. “You left a three-foot lane open for the shooter.”

He blinks, surprised. “That was specific.”

She glances over, raising her brows. “It was obvious to anyone who was actually looking at the play.”

Someone in the back laughs. It’s not a mocking laugh directed at her; it’s a laugh of genuine surprise.

That’s new. Usually, the guys are defensive when a coach calls them out, but her bluntness is almost refreshing.

Cash skates a little closer to her, leaning in with that casual, obnoxious charm he uses on everyone from puck bunnies to referees.

“What was your full name again? I missed the introduction,” Cash asks.

Iveline narrows her eyes. I can tell she’s expecting him to make a comment about her father, but I know Finn better than that. He’s looking for a different angle.

“Iveline Talvi St. James,” she answers.

Cash grins, leaning in like he’s about to share a massive secret. “Talvi? That’s not exactly a Boston name. Where are you from exactly?”

Iveline’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t give him a full smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Cash?”

The rest of the players have stopped skating. The few who were still moving freeze in place, listening to the exchange. The fact that she used the nickname Finn gave himself carries weight in this room.

Cash gasps, putting a dramatic hand to his chest.

“Are we friends now? You used the name.”

Her brows go up. “I can take it back and call you ‘Number 30’ for the rest of the season if you’d prefer.”

“No, no, please—call me Cash,” he says, finally taking off his gloves. “And I can call you Talvi?”

She narrows her eyes, pursing her lips as if she’s considering the structural integrity of his ego. “If you want to die on the ice today, then yes, feel free.”

I suppress a smirk. I’m partly impressed by her handle on the room and partly frustrated by the ease of it.

I watch the way the name sits in the air between them.

Cash is a flirt—it’s his default setting—but I see a genuine curiosity in his eyes that makes my jaw lock. He’s breaking through the coach barrier, finding the person underneath the whistle, and I hate that he’s the one doing it.

I want to know where she’s from. I want to know the story behind the name that sounds like winter and iron.

But I’m the one she’s already labeled as a “distraction.” And if I start asking personal questions, I’m just proving her right.

So I stay at the edge of the circle, my stick blade resting on the ice, feeling like an outsider in my own team.

“Hell yeah, Coach Talvi. I like to live dangerously,” Cash says without missing a beat.

She laughs—just for a second. It’s a low, genuine sound that transforms her face before she goes serious again. “Show’s over. Everyone, back to the blue line.”

So we skate.

And when it’s my turn, I push myself harder than the drill requires. I know she’s watching me, and I hate how much that knowledge affects my stride.

I miss a read on a pass. It’s a tiny mistake, barely noticeable to anyone else.

“Moore,” she calls out.

I stop at the boards, my chest rising and falling. Irritation is sharp in my throat. She skates closer, maintaining that professional distance.