Page 47 of Uncoachable

“You were smiling in there,” Callahan says. His arms are crossed lightly across his chest.

I turn to look at him.

God, he’s handsome. He always has been, and he always will be.

I quickly avert my eyes to the street.

“I’m drunk,” I murmur. I sound defensive, even to my own ears.

“Doesn’t make it any less real,” he says with a half-smile.

He moves a step closer. We aren’t touching, but the proximity feels entirely deliberate. The city buzzes around us, indifferent to our silence.

I let my gaze drift.

Washington is louder than Boston, and in a strange way, it reminds me of home. Not Finland itself, but something about the cold air and the hum of life passing by.

Sometimes I miss Finland so much it aches.

Sometimes I don’t miss it at all.

I remember my mother—her smile, her quiet strength.

She’s gone now, but I carry her with me in the smallest, most unshakable ways. I see her in my habits, hear her in my tone, and feel her in the careful precision with which I move through my life.

My mother used to say that Finland was a place of Sisu.

It’s a word that doesn’t quite translate to English, but it’s a mix of grit, resilience, and a stubborn refusal to give up when the winter gets too dark.

I’ve built my entire life on Sisu.

I’ve stayed cold and hard because that is how you survive in this industry.

But looking at Callahan under the hazy glow of the streetlamp, the Sisu feels brittle.

He’s looking at me not as a coach, and not as a St. James, but simply as a woman standing in the cold. It’s a level of being seen that makes me want to bolt into the hotel or hide behind a clipboard where it’s safe.

I try to tuck a stray hair behind my ear, but I miscalculate the distance. My hand brushes against my temple with a clumsy, soft thud.

“You’re swaying, Iveline,” Callahan says, his voice a low vibration in the cold air.

“I am not swaying. I am… oscillating,” I correct him, the word feeling too big and round in my mouth. I realize as soon as it leaves my lips that it’s a ridiculous thing to say, but the alcohol has stripped away the part of my brain that usually filters for dignity.

I look at him, my focus slipping for a second before I force it back.

“Why is your voice like that? It’s distracting. It’s a tactical disadvantage for the rest of the league.”

“My voice is a tactical disadvantage?” he repeats, the amusement in his tone dropping into a lower, more intimate register that vibrates right through me.

He leans back against the stone pillar of the hotel, the movement causing his jacket to pull tight across his chest, and he watches me with a look that is far too steady for someone who just heard a ridiculous accusation.

“Very rude,” I emphasize, trying to summon my usual coldness, but it comes out as more of a breathless whisper.

He huffs a quiet, dark laugh, stepping just an inch closer into my personal space. “I’ll try to speak in a higher pitch during the next briefing if it helps you focus, Iveline.”

“Don’t be patronizing,” I mutter, swaying slightly.

I look up at him, and for a second, the bustling street noise of D.C. fades into a dull hum. The silence between us stretches, no longer jagged with our usual bickering, but softened by the late hour and the shared heat of our proximity.