Page 42 of Uncoachable

“You’re going to give yourself a headache,” I say, nodding toward the bright screen in the dim cabin light.

She doesn’t look up, but I see her lips thin into a straight line. “I’ll just add it to the list of things I’ve inherited since taking this job.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning that between the bad defensive rotations I’m fixing and the unsolicited medical advice from my captain, my head is already plenty full, Moore.”

“Fantastic,” I mutter, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

“Try to contain your enthusiasm,” she says lightly. She sounds perfectly calm, which only makes me more restless.

The plane starts to move, the engines beginning their low-frequency roar. The seat belt signs click on with a synchronized chime. Someone a few rows back—probably Leo—is already complaining about the Wi-Fi speed.

Iveline doesn’t react to the noise. She doesn’t even flinch when the plane tilts.

“You’re not nervous about flying,” I remark, watching the way her hands rest perfectly still against the armrests.

She doesn’t turn immediately, her gaze fixed on the receding terminal below. “No. Why would I be? Gravity is a constant, and the engineering is sound. Statistics are on our side, Captain.”

“Not even a little? Most people have a physiological response to the G-force. It’s a natural reaction to leaving the ground.” I let my voice drop a fraction, a bit lower than the professional standard we usually maintain.

She looks at me finally, her expression unreadable until one of her dark brows lifts in a silent, pointed challenge. “Are you suggesting I lack a basic survival instinct, or are you just projecting your own discomfort?”

“Maybe I’m just wondering what it takes to actually rattle you,” I say, my voice dropping to a low, gravelly hum that vibrates in the narrow space between our seats.

I let my gaze travel deliberately from the sharp line of her jaw down to her throat, then back to her eyes. “Because from where I’m sitting, you look like you’re made of marble. It makes a man want to see if you’re actually that cold to the touch.”

The air in the cabin suddenly feels ten degrees hotter. Iveline doesn’t blink, but the hand resting on her tablet tightens, her knuckles turning a stark, ivory white. A faint, treacherous bloom of pink creeps up the column of her neck, disappearing under the edge of her neat bun.

“Careful, Captain,” she whispers, her voice steady even as that flush deepens against her pale skin. “I’d hate to have to file a report on your lack of boundaries before we even hit cruising altitude.”

“I’m just observing,” I say, shifting slightly closer, my shoulder nearly brushing hers. “You’re remarkably composed. It’s almost intimidating.”

“Good,” she says, her voice as smooth and cool as the glass of the window. “Intimidation is an excellent tool for maintaining efficiency. Are you nervous?”

“No,” I mutter, though my throat feels a bit dry as her eyes lock onto mine. There is a spark there, buried under layers of professional ice, that makes it hard to breathe for a second.

“Good. I don’t have time for a panicked captain, and I certainly don’t have the patience to manage your adrenaline levels through a bit of turbulence.” She turns back to her tablet, the movement crisp and dismissive, yet she lingers just a second too long before tapping the screen.

I shake my head, leaning back into the headrest with a short, frustrated huff of a laugh. “You’re impossible, you know that? Completely unreachable.”

She hums quietly, a low, melodic sound that almost suggests she’ll take that as a compliment.

A few minutes pass in a silence that isn’t exactly awkward, but it is heavy. It feels present, like a third person sitting between us.

I allow myself to look at her while she’s preoccupied.

The charcoal sweats are casual but fitted perfectly to her frame. I realize I’ve never seen her out of dress pants and tailored professional layers before. It’s disorienting and oddly intimate to see her in something soft.

My brain begins to wander into a danger zone that I have to shove down fast.

She scrolls through game footage on her tablet. She pauses a clip, rewinds it five seconds, and watches it again.

“What are you looking for in that replay?”

“Patterns,” she replies, finally turning her head to meet my eyes. “Yours, mostly.”

My chest tightens.