Page 43 of Uncoachable

“And?” I ask. My voice is lower than I intended it to be.

She studies the screen for a moment longer before answering.

“You rely heavily on instinct,” she says. “It’s the reason you’re as good as you are.”

I wait, because I know with Iveline, there is always another layer to the critique. “And?”

“And it’s also the reason you resist structure so much. You trust your gut more than the system.”

I glance at her, feeling a spark of incredulity. “Are you psychoanalyzing my playing style now?”

She smiles faintly. “No, Callahan. I’m just coaching.”

“Yesterday,” she adds quietly, her voice almost softer than the hum of the jet engines, “you adjusted fast. I noticed.”

I nod, staring at the back of the seat in front of me. “I didn’t want to make a habit of arguing in front of the rookies.”

“Smart,” she says.

Then, even quieter, in a tone that feels almost private: “Thank you.”

My breath catches in my throat. My pulse jumps. I can’t tell if it’s pure surprise or the sheer weight of hearing her actually acknowledge my effort.

The rest of the flight passes in this strange, silent rhythm.

I catch myself leaning slightly closer to her, just to see the notes she’s scribbling on the digital margin, to see the flicker of intense concentration in her eyes. There are side glances, minimal words, and observations that feel more like tests than conversation.

I can’t tell if I’m learning her system, or if she’s simply seeing right through me.

Maybe it’s both.

By the time the descent begins, I’ve come to two very clear conclusions.

First, I am completely, embarrassingly aware of her every move.

Second, I can’t stop noticing the small things, like the way she tilts her head when she’s thinking or how she holds her pen.

It is exactly what she wants, or at least, that is the lie I tell myself to keep my ego intact.

The plane touches down in D.C., and I feel a shift in gravity—not just the physical landing, but the shift in my own thoughts. I’ve spent the entire flight in a state of high alert, half annoyed and half curious, all of it tangled up in her presence.

The aisle clears faster than I expected once we reach the gate.

She’s out of her seat first, her head down and her hands firm on her bag. She moves with that easy authority that makes people instinctively step aside without even realizing they’re doing it.

The airport is a chaos of rolling luggage and echoing PA announcements. People are bumping into each other in the rush to get home. Cash is already complaining about the lack of duty-free snacks in this terminal.

The team bus is waiting outside in the humid evening air. The guys filter out of the terminal, groaning and stretching their stiff muscles.

I lag a step behind Iveline, noticing the way she steps onto the bus and chooses a seat in the middle.

I end up sitting two rows behind her. It’s close enough to see her, but far enough to try and keep my cool.

The bus is dark; the only light is coming from the passing streetlamps of the highway and the blue glow of a dozen different phone screens. Most of the guys are already asleep, their heads lolling against the windows, but she’s still awake.

From where I’m sitting, I can see the curve of her neck and the way a single stray hair has escaped her bun, curling softly against the collar of her hoodie.

It’s a tiny, human imperfection on an otherwise perfect woman.