Page 44 of Uncoachable

It fascinates me.

It makes her look reachable in a way she never does on the ice.

I want to say something to her.

I want to ask her why she stayed in Europe for so long when she clearly had the talent for the NHL. I want to ask her if she hates me as much as I’ve hated the memory of what she represents to my past.

But the air on the bus is heavy with the collective breathing of the team, and any word I spoke would feel like a shout in a library. So I just watch the shadows play across her shoulders.

I feel like a predator stalking prey, except I’m the one who feels caught in the trap.

By the time we hit the hotel lobby, it’s well past midnight.

The key cards are handed out in a haze of exhaustion. She takes hers without a word, disappearing into the elevator bank before I can even find my voice.

I spend the night staring at the ceiling of my room, the scent of her perfume competing with the smell of hotel bleach.

My mind won’t shut off.

Every time I close my eyes, I see her checking her tablet, her fingers moving with that hypnotic, surgical precision.

***

Morning skate at the Capitals’ facility is a different kind of torture.

The ice is hard and fast, mirroring the temperature in the room. I feel the travel in my joints—a dull, heavy ache that protests every stride. But the moment I see her standing at the center circle, the fatigue vanishes.

She’s back in the charcoal gear, whistle in hand, looking like she hasn’t slept a wink and doesn’t care who knows it.

I follow behind the rest of the team, noticing how the chatter among the players dips the moment they see her. Conversations die mid-sentence; laughter quiets down; eyes flick to her with a mix of respect and something that looks like caution.

Rick appears at the entrance to the rink, clipboard in hand, but even he steps back slightly as she reaches the boards.

She owns the space without saying a single word.

She doesn’t acknowledge me as we take the ice. Not yet. But I can feel her awareness of my position. I feel it in the subtle tilt of her head as I skate past and the way her gaze sweeps across the players.

I skate through the motions, pushing myself harder than I usually do for an after-travel day skate. Every time I glance toward the bench, I catch her watching. Her eyes move over me in a slow, steady sweep, as if she’s taking my measure one inch at a time.

I realize then that I desperately want her to notice me.

I hate that I want it, but the truth settles in anyway.

Cash is skating beside me, rolling his eyes and muttering something about “Finn the Fearless” under his breath. I ignore him, focusing entirely on the puck.

Halfway through the session, Carter Hale tries to slip in one of his usual smart-ass comments. He mutters something about nepotism and how her last name is the only reason we’re listening to her.

He smirks, looking around for a laugh, but the reaction he’s hunting for doesn’t come. The room is quieter than it was yesterday; there’s a new, cautious weight to the silence that follows his words.

As I head toward the locker room after the skate, the sound of my own footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway makes my skin feel too tight for my body.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

She was supposed to be a ghost, a mistake from my past that I could bury under the weight of a new season. But every time she opens her mouth, she carves out a little more space in my mind.

She isn’t a ghost; she’s a force of nature.

I stop at my stall and lean my forehead against the cool metal of the locker.