Page 68 of Uncoachable

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring far too long to be considered professional.

“Fine,” I say, skating toward him. “Just thinking.”

Rick snorts. “That’s dangerous. Stick to shooting.”

I ignore him and glance back at her.

She’s moved now, pacing along the boards with her pen tapping against her clipboard. She is focused and precise, completely unaware that she’s the only thing I can see in a room full of twenty-five men.

I shouldn’t be watching her like this.

Lines exist for a reason.

But the thing about lines is that they tend to blur when you get close enough to them.

And I’m close.

I’m far too close.

Warm-ups start, and I skate laps with the guys. My legs move on muscle memory alone while my attention remains splintered.

She’s talking to Leo now, demonstrating something with her hands. He’s nodding like she’s explaining the secrets of the universe to him.

She’s good with the younger players—patient without being soft, firm without being cruel. She corrects his stance, adjusts his angle, and taps the ice exactly where she wants his feet to be.

I didn’t expect that from her.

I didn’t expect a lot of things.

I didn’t expect the way she laughed when her friends showed up, or the way her voice softened when she told Nico to breathe before his shift. I certainly didn’t expect the way she looked at me in the bar that night—like she couldn’t decide whether to push me away or pull me closer.

I find myself noticing the tiny details I used to ignore.

The way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating. The faint crease between her brows when she’s frustrated. The subtle tilt of her head as she listens to a player’s complaint. The quick glance down at her clipboard, her fingers curling around the edge, before she shakes her head slightly at herself.

I’m not sure what I’m more obsessed with: her absolute control or the way that control slips in the tiniest, most human moments.

It feels like a sickness.

I’m counting the seconds between her glances. I’m tracking the way her skates carve into the ice, noticing that she favors her right side when she’s turning to talk to Rick.

I’ve spent my entire life studying tape, looking for weaknesses in goaltenders and gaps in defensive pairings, but I’ve never studied a human being like this.

I’m learning the architecture of Iveline St. James, and the more I see, the more I realize I’m hopelessly outclassed.

The frustration of it is starting to bleed into my play. I’m hitting the puck harder than I need to. I’m taking turns too fast.

I’m a man trying to outrun a feeling that has already caught up to him.

“Dude,” Cash mutters, skating up beside me during a drill. “You’re staring again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re practically burning a hole in her jacket.”

“Shut up, Finnian.”

He grins behind his mask. “It’s okay. I get it. She’s hot. Everyone knows it.”