Page 69 of Uncoachable

I shoot him a look sharp enough to cut through his goalie pads. My chest tightens, a sudden flare of territorial heat that I don’t want to acknowledge.

He lifts his hands in a mock surrender. “Relax. I’m not suicidal. Besides, I’ve found a new obsession. Redheads. I think I’m going to marry a redhead.”

“Good for you,” I mutter.

The thought of him even thinking about Ivy makes something dark and protective flare in my chest. I don’t want to be the kind of guy who gets jealous over a woman who isn’t even mine, but it’s there, and it’s growing every day.

Practice officially starts, and she is all business.

Her voice is sharp, her commands are clear, and she shows no hesitation. I watch her from the corner of my eye as I run through the power play drills. She weaves between players, adjusts cones, and corrects angles with quick, confident movements.

Halfway through practice, Delaney comes up beside me during a water break. He’s smirking, which is usually a bad sign for everyone involved.

“So,” he says. “How’s it feel being coached by the GM’s princess?”

My jaw tightens so hard it hurts.

I don’t respond, but he keeps going. Of course he does.

Delaney has always been a mouthpiece for the old guard, the guys who think a woman on the bench isn’t anything more than a PR stunt.

Even the players have heard the nickname the training staff uses behind his back—the “De-Lamey”—their way of mocking how he can stall an entire meeting and still blame someone else for it.

But standing there now, he looks entirely too comfortable leaning against the boards while he tries to dismantle the credibility of the best assistant coach we’ve had in years.

“Must be nice,” he continues. “Having someone who only got the job because of her daddy telling a veteran like you how to skate. It’s embarrassing for the league, honestly.”

I don’t react right away. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me ruffled. But then I see her across the rink.

She’s talking to Leo, helping him with his stick placement, completely unaware of the bullshit being said about her.

The idea of anyone reducing her to a shortcut or a favor hits me like a personal insult.

That’s when the anger turns sharp.

I step closer. I’m taller than Delaney, and I use every inch of it to loom over him. I can smell the Gatorade on his breath and see the flicker of genuine fear in his eyes.

This isn’t “Captain Callahan” giving a pep talk.

This is a man protecting something he hasn’t even admitted he has yet.

“She earned it,” I say, my voice low and vibrating in my chest.

Delaney blinks, taken aback. “What?”

“You think her dad did the work for her in Europe?” I snap. “You think he was out there on the ice at four in the morning when she was building her career from nothing while you were out partying? She has twice the hockey mind you do, and she has ten times the heart. You don’t have to like her. But you will respect her. Am I being clear enough for you?”

His smirk falters completely. “Jesus, man. I didn’t know you were so—”

“Careful,” I warn him, my eyes narrowed. “She’s smarter than half the staff and more qualified than you’ll ever be. If you ever talk about her like that again, you’ll regret it. I’ll make sure of it.”

He shuts up instantly, looking away.

I skate away before I do something worse, like punch him right in front of the cameras. I skate hard, the cold air stinging my face, trying to process why I’m actually this angry.

When the practice finally winds down, the players file off the ice, but I take my time. I stay out there stretching and cooling down, pretending I’m not waiting for everyone else to leave.

Iveline packs up her notes methodically. She pauses to adjust her sleeve, smooths the hem of her coat, and then steps toward the boards with a purposeful, silent authority.