Page 60 of Uncoachable

Iveline stands by the boards, her tablet tucked under her arm. She’s even quieter than usual. Observing, precise, sharp. And yet, her eyes pause on me more than once.

She knows something is off. For a second, that knowledge cuts through the fog of my morning.

I remember the almost kiss from last night. The way she moved and laughed without her armor.

Then reality snaps back. I focus back on the puck and keep skating.

Practice ends, and the guys file off the ice, their chatter slowly returning like a tide coming back in. I head for the tunnel, intent on disappearing before the weight of the day catches up to me again.

“I know you’re avoiding me.”

My body freezes before my mind can formulate a response, my breath hitching as if I’ve been caught doing something I didn’t realize was visible. Her footfalls quicken until she’s standing just behind me.

“But you’re doing a very bad job of it,” she adds.

I turn around.

She stands a few feet away, her hair pulled back and her expression careful. Concern sits there openly on her face, like she’s decided not to hide it for once.

“Look, nothing happened last night,” she starts, her professional instinct kicking in to smooth over the tension. “So you don’t have to—”

“It’s not that,” I cut in.

She studies me, her eyes searching mine, and then she takes a step closer. “Are you okay?”

I let out a breath that sounds more like a dry laugh. “Define okay.”

“You’re quieter,” she says gently. “Angrier. And Cash tried to make you smile twice, which tells me it’s serious.”

I snort despite myself.

“It’s the anniversary,” I say finally. The words feel heavy, like stones I’m finally setting down. “My mom.”

Her face softens instantly. There is no pity there, which I appreciate, and no shock. Just understanding.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Cancer,” I add, because for some reason, I need her to know the specifics. “Eight years ago today.”

She nods once, her gaze steady. “My mom passed away, too.”

The words land heavier than I expect.

“How?”

She hesitates—just long enough that my chest starts to tighten.

“Car crash,” she says evenly. “I was fifteen. She was on her way home from work.”

The shock hits me hard, followed by a sharp bloom of empathy that makes my chest ache.

I remember that day four years ago with terrifying clarity now.

I remember her car. I remember my own adrenaline and the blind, stupid anger that spilled over because I didn’t know where else to put it. I remember the look on her face back then—shocked, hurt, and then instantly closed off.

“Oh my God,” I mutter, closing my eyes as a wave of genuine shame washes over me.

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” she says, and I open my eyes when I feel the weight of her hand settle gently on my shoulder.