Page 55 of Uncoachable

“Don’t glare at me like that, Callahan,” she says, face flushed in that unmistakable two-drinks-in way. “It’s distracting.”

I scoff, the sound softer than I intended.

“You’re distracting,” I murmur.

And God help me, I mean every word.

I let my eyes roam, slow and deliberate, taking her in.

The curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, and the way the fabric moves like it knows it’s being watched. Her heels are ridiculous, but somehow they make her look more grounded.

She catches me looking, and her lips curve with a satisfied edge. She doesn’t call me out or try to cover herself. She just tilts her head, daring me to keep going.

Scottie notices immediately. Her eyes dart between us, widening dramatically.

“Oh,” she says, loud enough for half the bar to hear. “Ohhh. This is interesting.”

“Scottie,” Iveline warns, though she’s still smiling.

Dean’s eyes snap to mine, and the warning is loud enough. I step back just enough to give him space before this turns into a lecture or a legal deposition.

The night blurs after that.

I buy rounds of drinks I barely taste. The team gets louder and looser.

Cash reenacts his third-period save like he’s auditioning for a Broadway production, using a pool cue as a stick. Nico spills beer on a stranger and claims he doesn’t mind, though the man definitely minds. Brick stops a non-existent fight just by standing there and looking heavy.

I laugh when I’m supposed to and nod when someone speaks to me, but my attention keeps drifting back to the red dress.

The music shifts, the tempo slowing down. The bass crawls instead of jumps, wrapping around the room and pulling everyone in.

Cash grabs Iveline’s wrist, laughing and tugging her toward the center of the floor. Brick follows, pretending not to dance while absolutely dancing. She goes with them easily, moving between them like she belongs there, like she owns the floor.

My jaw tightens before I even realize I’m doing it.

Brick catches my look first. He freezes mid-step and raises his hands in mock surrender.

Cash notices, bursting out laughing.

“Abort,” Cash announces. “Abort mission. Captain is going to kill us.”

They scatter, leaving a gap in the crowd.

Iveline frowns, looking around. “What was that about?”

I don’t answer. I just offer my hand without thinking it through.

She looks at my palm, then at my face, then slowly places her hand in mine. Heat lances through me, sharp and grounding, as if the world just snapped into focus and everything else disappeared.

The contact hits harder than the alcohol ever could.

We move together instinctively, our bodies aligning like we’ve done this before in another life. We aren’t really dancing; we are just swaying in the small, crowded orbit we’ve carved out for ourselves.

Around us, the world is a blur of drunken teammates and shouting fans, but here, in the few inches between our chests, the air is still.

I shouldn’t be holding her this close.

I am the captain.