Page 41 of Uncoachable

I want her to see me.

And that is easily the most dangerous thought I’ve had in years.

11

Callahan Eli Moore

6:28 AM

Cash: Guess what I’m about to get

Me: On my nerves?

* * *

The private terminal is a sea of black rolling suitcases and oversized team hoodies.

There is a specific energy here; a mix of caffeine-fueled adrenaline and the low-grade grumpiness of twenty-five men who haven’t had enough sleep.

I’m leaning against a cold marble pillar, nursing a lukewarm coffee and watching the guys.

Cash is busy trying to convince the flight attendant that he needs an entire row to himself for “optimal spine alignment,” and Marcus is already wearing his noise-canceling headphones, effectively opting out of reality before we’ve even left the ground.

Then I see her.

She’s walking toward the gate with Rick and the rest of the coaching staff.

She isn’t wearing the team gear; there is no black, purple, or even gold for that matter. She’s in a charcoal gray tracksuit, her hair tucked into a neat, low bun that hasn’t moved a single millimeter since our 5 AM meeting.

She looks like she’s headed to a high-stakes board meeting, not a cross-country flight to Washington.

My heart does a stupid, irregular thump against my ribs.

I tell myself it’s the caffeine.

She doesn’t look at the players as she passes. She doesn’t look at me. She just walks onto the plane like she’s boarding a private shuttle to her own island.

She’s already seated by the time I step onto the aircraft. Her legs are crossed at the ankle, and her tablet is balanced on her knee like the cabin is just another annex of her office.

I stop dead in the aisle, my duffel bag hitting the seat beside me.

She’s in the window seat. My usual window seat. I stand there for a second, feeling the lack of sleep catching up to my patience.

“You’re in my seat,” I say.

She looks up slowly.

She just gives me that same assessing look she uses on the ice, then glances down at the ticket tucked into her tablet case.

“No,” she says. “I’m not.”

I check my own ticket, ready to argue, but then I see the row and seat number. She’s right. I drop into the aisle seat with more force than necessary, the leather creaking under my weight.

The space in these seats is generous, but with her sitting three feet away, the entire cabin feels like a cramped cardboard box. Every time she shifts, the faint scent of her perfume drifts over the armrest.

I try to focus on my own tablet, but the screen is just a blur of unread emails from my agent and sponsorship requests I don’t want to deal with.

I’m acutely aware of her hands, her fingers flying across her touchscreen with a rhythmic pace that’s almost hypnotic.