Page 40 of Uncoachable

“Your first step is half a second late,” she says quietly, so the other guys don’t hear.

“I saw the lane,” I snap back. But as soon as I look into her eyes, some of that irritation softens against my will.

“I know you did,” she replies calmly. “You hesitated anyway.”

That should piss me off, but instead, the advice actually sticks. I nod once, not trusting my voice, and push off without another word.

When I nail the transition on the next rep, she doesn’t offer any praise. She just checks something off on her tablet.

Somehow, that feels better than a “good job.”

It feels like I’ve met a standard.

I finish the rest of practice and finally skate to the bench, grabbing a towel.

Not a minute later, Cash is beside me, tossing me a water bottle. “You good, Callie?”

“I’m fine,” I say, wiping the sweat from my face.

“Cool. Because you look like a kicked puppy and I didn’t bring any emotional support snacks today.”

I glare at him. “I don’t look like a kicked puppy.”

“You do,” he insists. “But it’s okay. She scares me too. Did you see her eyes when I called her Talvi? I thought I was going to be sent to the minors.”

I snort despite myself. “She doesn’t scare me, Cash.”

“Sure,” he says, grinning. “And I’m the Pope.”

By the time practice ends, the mood of the team has shifted. The guys are talking and laughing as they head toward the tunnel. There’s less of an edge to the room and more of a rhythm.

Rick nods at us. “Good work today, boys.”

As the players peel off the ice, Finn skates past me one last time. “Seriously, she’s scary. But in a good way, right?”

“Focus on your skating, Cash,” I mutter.

He grins, wiggling his eyebrows. “Oh, believe me, I’m focused.”

I glance back toward the center of the ice one last time before I leave.

Iveline is already talking to Noah. Her head is inclined as she listens to him explain something on his screen. She doesn’t look up as I go.

And that—more than anything else—is what makes me want her attention.

I want to see that focus and that quiet authority she wields. I want to be the person she notices—not because she’s required to as a coach, but because she chooses to.

My hands curl slightly around my stick as I walk into the tunnel, my knuckles turning white.

It’s maddening.

I’ve spent my entire life being the center of the universe.

When I walk into a room, people turn. When I score, twenty thousand fans scream my name until their throats are raw. But to Iveline St. James, I’m just a “half second late” transition on a spreadsheet. I’m just a data point that needs to be corrected for the system to function.

I shouldn’t care. I should be happy she’s focused on the work and not on the drama. But as I walk away, I find myself wondering what I have to do to make her look at me the way she looks at those numbers.

I don’t just want her to coach me.