Page 79 of Uncoachable

I move forward. I don’t linger in the weakness. I don’t listen to the part of my body that is quietly waving a red flag.

The bathroom mirror doesn’t offer any mercy.

My eyes are glassy and bright with fever. My skin is flushed in a way that has nothing to do with exertion or adrenaline—it is just dull, feverish, and wrong.

I stare at my reflection, cataloging my symptoms with a detached efficiency, searching for justifications or excuses I can use to get through the next few hours.

I can get through practice. I always can.

Failure has never been about the pain for me; it is about the precedent. Once you allow yourself to fail, people start to expect it from you.

Outside, the Boston cold bites at me immediately.

It is sharp and clean, and for a fleeting moment, I convince myself the temperature is helping. The chill feels clarifying, like it is burning something toxic out of my system. My breath fogs in front of me in thick clouds, and I cling to that sensation like it is proof that I’m still functioning.

By the time I reach the rink, the pounding in my head is already familiar.

Kids’ Day was only two days ago, and that’s probably where this started—a hundred tiny hands, too many hugs, and a schedule that hasn’t let me breathe since January. Mix that with travel and playoff pressure, and my immune system never stood a chance.

Inside the arena, the smells ground me instantly: the scent of fresh ice, the smell of expensive rubber, the faint traces of metal, and the sharp aroma of burnt coffee.

Homeostasis returns.

Muscle memory takes over.

“Morning,” Sam calls out from the equipment room. He stops and squints at me. “You look… festive.”

“Don’t,” I say, shrugging out of my heavy coat.

Miguel grins from behind him, leaning on a stack of sticks. “She looks like she partied harder than the rookies last night.”

“I didn’t,” I mutter, heading toward the coaches’ office.

Jenna appears beside me, a coffee in her hand. She stops mid-sip when she really looks at my face.

“Oh,” she says flatly, stepping back a full foot. “Nope. I don’t like that at all.”

I arch a brow, trying to look imposing despite the cold sweat on my neck. “Good morning to you too, Jenna.”

She lowers her voice so the players can’t hear. “Iveline, you look like you’re actively running a hundred-degree fever. Your eyes are practically glowing.”

“I’m just tired,” I lie. My voice is clipped, trying to reclaim the composure that is slipping through my fingers. “The travel caught up with me.”

“That isn’t tired,” she replies, her expression flat and unamused. “That is Victorian child. Do you need me to go find some smelling salts? Or maybe a fainting couch?”

Amusement flickers in my chest despite myself, but it is quickly smothered by irritation. She isn’t wrong, and I hate that she’s comfortable enough to call me out on it.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the stainless steel of the coffee machine as I pass it.

Jenna is right. I look ghostly. My skin is a translucent, sickly pale except for two high, angry spots of red on my cheekbones.

I look fragile. I look like someone who needs to be taken care of, and that thought is more nauseating than the fever itself.

I’ve spent years building a persona of indestructible iron. If I let the mask slip now—especially here, in front of Rick, in front of the boys—I’m not just Iveline anymore. I’m a liability. I’m the girl who couldn’t handle the pressure.

I open my mouth to retort to Jenna, but Rick’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade.

“If we don’t clean up our defensive zone coverage,” he says without looking up from his tablet, his voice measured and sharp, “we’re not making the playoffs. Period.”