Page 5 of Uncoachable

He’s mid-stride when he really sees me. And then he stops. Not slows. Stops. Like he’s walked into an invisible wall.

His shoulders lock.

He stares at me, his gaze hard and heavy as it moves over my face and down to my boots, then back up again. He scans me with a grim sort of focus, his jaw tightening as he connects the woman in the blazer to the girl shivering in the rain.

Something sharp and electric snaps through the space between us.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks.

Yeah, he remembers me.

“Working,” I say calmly.

He exhales, a short, disbelieving breath.

“That’s funny.” A pause. “Because this area’s restricted.”

I say nothing.

Annoyance flashes across his face—too fast, too sharp—like he’s pissed off that I’m not just a memory anymore.

“I don’t have time for this,” he says. “You should leave before I call security.”

I take a step forward. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that his breath stutters before he catches it.

“I’m on a schedule that doesn’t include stopping for your temper tantrum. Out of my way, Moore.”

He doesn’t step aside. He just stands there, rigid and unreadable, like he’s daring me to blink first.

Fine.

I shift my weight forward and walk past him. His cologne trails after me and I catch the twitch of his hand at his side, the instinct to reach out strangled before it can surface.

I don’t slow down and I don’t look back.

My watch buzzes.

Three minutes.

The hallway opens into the staff wing, the boardroom door coming into view. Laughter spills out—low, easy, familiar—cutting off the moment they see me.

I don’t adjust my posture, I don’t smooth my clothes, and I don’t hesitate.

I step into the room like I belong here.

Because I do.

2

Iveline Talvi St. James

Dean: Whatever today brings, I know you will handle it better than most people could.

* * *

The room is cold.

It’s a space designed specifically to make people feel small. The table is a slab of dark, polished mahogany that reflects the fluorescent lights like a frozen lake. Every chair is a heavy, black leather—the kind that creaks when you shift, announcing your discomfort to the room.