Page 77 of Uncoachable

Iveline is already smoothing her coat, her expression shifting back to that impenetrable mask.

I want to reach out again. I want to tell her that Cash is a clown and that it doesn’t matter what he thinks.

But it does matter and we both know it.

This is the NHL, and she is the GM’s daughter. If the rumor mill starts turning, she is the one who would pay the price.

“Go,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “Before someone else comes by.”

I want to stay and finish what we started, but I see the flicker of genuine panic in her eyes. I realize that my “noticing” her has put her in a position she hates: being vulnerable.

I give her a single, sharp nod and turn away.

My boots feel heavy on the concrete floor as I walk. My hand still feels the lingering heat of hers, and my skin still feels the electricity that passed between us.

I push through the heavy doors into the cold night air, but it doesn’t cool anything down. Not the heat in my chest, and certainly not the frustration clawing at my ribs.

I shouldn’t have said it. I shouldn’t have touched her.

I shouldn’t want her like this.

But I do. God, I do.

The parking lot is mostly empty now, the kind of quiet that makes every thought feel ten times louder. I stop beside my SUV, bracing my hands on the cold metal of the hood, trying to breathe past the adrenaline still buzzing under my skin.

I almost kissed her and she almost let me.

That is the part that truly undoes me—the way she leaned in, the way her breath hitched, the way her eyes softened for a split second before she slammed the door shut again.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to reset.

A second later, I hear the arena doors open behind me. My heart jumps—a stupid, hopeful thud—for half a second before the footsteps hit the concrete. They’re too heavy and too careless to be hers.

Cash strolls past like he owns the parking lot, heading for his car and tossing me a look that is way too knowing for someone who once tried to microwave a plastic fork.

“Relax, Callie,” he calls out over his shoulder. “Your secret is safe with me.”

I straighten up, my jaw tightening. “There is no secret, Finn. Get in your car.”

Cash stops mid-step. He slowly turns around and stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You like her.”

I groan, scrubbing a hand down my face. The weight of his words hits me, and for the first time, I realize he might actually be right.

“Don’t say it out loud. Especially not here.”

He grins. It is a dangerous, delighted grin.

“You like her, oh my God, you’re falling in love with her,” he repeats, louder this time, like he is testing the acoustics of the empty lot.

“Finn, I’m warning you—”

He throws his hands up in the air. “This is amazing! This is terrible! This is—oh my god, I’m going to be the best man at your wedding. I’m already planning the bachelor party. We’re going to Vegas.”

“I’m not falling in love. We aren’t getting married. We aren’t even—”

“You are,” he interrupts with absolute confidence. “And I’m giving a speech. It is going to be incredibly emotional and deeply humiliating for you.”

I glare at him, my pulse still hammering. “You’re an idiot.”