Page 67 of Uncoachable

Nico: Spicy Arrabbiata, actually. Get it right.

Cash: Same thing. You’re officially a life ruining pasta.

Me: What the fuck are you guys talking about?

Cash: Film room secrets. You had to be there, Cap.

* * *

Practice hasn’t even started yet, and I’m already watching her.

It’s not in the casual, accidental way I’ve been pretending for weeks—like my eyes just happened to land there and stayed a second too long because I was distracted by the scoreboard.

No. This is intentional.

I can still see the text Cash sent me last night, the one that made me nearly choke on my water when it flashed across the screen.

It is a ridiculous, juvenile comment. It is exactly the kind of thing that should be laughed off in the group chat with a middle finger emoji or a quick jab at Cash’s intelligence.

But “spicy” and “ruining lives” are two things I’ve been feeling acutely since the moment she arrived in Boston.

The fact that she said it—even as a joke during a film session with the guys—means she’s thinking about me in a context that isn’t just power plays and neutral zone traps.

I look at her now and I have this sudden, irrational urge to walk right up to her and ask her exactly which part of me is ruining her life.

Is it the way I look at her when no one is watching? Is it the apology I gave her in the hallway four days ago? Or is it the fact that we both know the air in the rink gets ten degrees hotter every time we’re within five feet of each other?

I should be annoyed that the guys are already using her nickname. But hearing that they were sitting in the film room laughing together while I was down the hall with the forwards makes my chest feel tight with a strange, prickly kind of envy.

I’m supposed to be the one in the inner circle, the one who knows what’s going on with the team. Instead, I’m out here on the perimeter, watching the woman I want and the team I lead become a family I’m not sure I’m allowed to join just yet.

She’s standing at the far blue line, her clipboard tucked against her chest. Her hair is pulled back in that sharp, no-nonsense way that should make her look severe or unapproachable.

It doesn’t.

It just makes her look like she’s about to ruin me.

She’s talking to Sam, pointing at something on the ice, her brows drawn together in total concentration. Her posture is straight and controlled, every movement deliberate.

And then—there it is.

That thing she does when she’s thinking too hard.

She bites her lip.

It’s not dramatic or performative. It’s just a small, unconscious press of her teeth against her bottom lip as she studies the ice.

I feel it immediately—a low, tight pull in my gut that is entirely unwelcome. I drag a hand across my jaw, trying to shake the feeling loose, but my body doesn’t listen.

It hasn’t listened to me since the hallway, since the apology.

I still don’t know what possessed me to say it. Maybe it was the guilt of the anniversary. Maybe it was the way she looked at me—like she expected me to fight her, but I folded instead.

It shouldn’t even matter that much; it was just an apology.

But something shifted between us. I felt it, and I know she felt it too. The air hasn’t settled since, and I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or the beginning of something I won’t be able to undo.

“Callahan,” Rick calls from the bench, breaking my trance. “You good?”