Page 54 of Uncoachable

***

The bar is loud before I even step inside.

It’s not the kind of noise that comes from speakers alone, but from bodies packed too close together, from laughter that punches through the music, and from the hum of victory vibrating in everyone’s bones.

Hockey bars have always been familiar territory for me—too familiar, maybe—but tonight carries a different edge.

The season has barely started, and the stakes are already climbing. I am supposed to keep my head down, keep the routine clean, and my focus sharp. Instead, my chest tightens with the kind of tension that warns you something bigger is waiting just around the corner.

I scan the room automatically; my eyes flick from face to face, player to player, checking the perimeter.

But then, my gaze stops.

I’ve seen Iveline Talvi St. James in a lot of uniforms. I’ve seen her in the sharp, high-collared blouses that make her look like she’s about to testify in a high-stakes court case. I’ve seen her in the team tracksuits, hidden under layers of nylon and discipline.

I thought I knew her silhouette, the way she holds herself like a fortress.

I was wrong.

The red dress isn’t just a garment; it is a provocation.

The material catches the low, amber light of the bar, shimmering with every breath she takes. It clings to the curve of her spine, trailing down to where the fabric splits dangerously high at her thigh.

My mouth goes dry instantly.

I’ve spent years around some of the most beautiful women in the world—actresses, models, influencers—but none of them carried themselves with this kind of effortless, terrifying gravity.

She isn’t trying to be the most beautiful woman in the room.

She just is, and she seems entirely bored by the fact.

I find myself leaning against a wooden pillar, my drink forgotten in my hand, watching the way her bare shoulders move as she talks to Scottie and Dean.

There is a small, pale scar just below her left shoulder blade—a tiny imperfection that makes my heart stutter.

I want to ask her where it came from.

I want to know every story the coach version of her hides behind that clipboard.

She is in the middle of a laugh, her head tipped back just slightly, her throat exposed in a way I shouldn’t notice. One hand is wrapped loosely around a glass, the other gesturing sharply as she talks. She looks completely unguarded, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed as she keeps pace with Scottie’s relentless energy.

Scottie’s red curls bounce as her mouth runs a mile a minute, clearly telling a story that involves too many details and not enough shame, and Iveline leans into her, hanging on every word like they’re back in a school hallway.

What surprises me most is Dean.

When he arrived at the rink, he looked like a man physically incapable of a smile, scanning the arena with an expression carved from stone.

But here, standing just behind the girls, the bouncer persona has vanished. He’s actually laughing, a deep, genuine sound that pulls him into their tight-knit circle.

Ivy takes a playful swing at him, and Dean leans away with the practiced ease of someone who’s been her friend forever.

Cash is somewhere near the bar, his voice raised about something—likely his own greatness on the ice. Nico is with him, laughing too hard, already halfway gone. But my gaze keeps returning to her, to the way she exists when she isn’t trying to be the coldest person in the room.

There is a pull—physical and undeniable. My body angles toward her before my brain can even intervene.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low as I move into their space.

She turns, her brow lifting and her lips tugging into a smirk that feels deliberate, pointed specifically at me.