Page 80 of Uncoachable

Silence follows his declaration. Then he lifts his eyes, tracking Jenna’s gaze until it lands on me.

He studies me the way he always has—measured, steady, seeing far too much without making a spectacle of it. The concern I see in his eyes twists something ugly in my chest; fear that I’m already disappointing the only person who gave me a real chance.

“You eat anything this morning, Iveline?”

“Yes,” I lie smoothly.

He hums, clearly unconvinced, but he doesn’t push it.

Rick doesn’t comment on the flush of my face or my rigid posture. He doesn’t mention the way I’m gripping my clipboard like it might float away if I let go. He just watches me for a beat too long—the kind of look that isn’t judgment, but a careful inventory of a damaged asset.

“Warm-up stays short today,” he says to the room at large. Then, even quieter to me: “You call the pace, Coach.”

Gratitude and shame land in my gut at the same time. I nod, equal parts thankful for the leeway and irritated that I need it.

On the ice, everything feels ten times louder.

The scrape of skates against the surface digs into my skull, a constant reminder that my body is no longer obedient. The lights seem brighter, the air colder.

Callahan glides past me, moving too slowly for a warm-up. His eyes flick to my hand where it is white-knuckled on the boards. They linger a beat longer than they should. I see his jaw tighten, the muscle leaping in his cheek, but he says nothing.

Cash skates up beside me during a reset. He doesn’t grin and he doesn’t chirp. That alone sets my nerves on edge because a silent Cash is a dangerous thing.

“Hey,” he says quietly, his voice devoid of its usual humor. “You want me to take the first reps on the drill today? Give the guys a bit more of a target?”

“Why would you do that?”

He shrugs, his eyes steady on mine. “Just figured. You’ve got that ‘about to pass out but pretending not to’ vibe going on. It’s a bit distracting.”

“How cute,” I mutter, trying to find my edge.

He holds my gaze, unblinking. “I’m not joking, Ivy.”

I wave him off with a flick of my hand, and he skates away, but he moves slower than usual, keeping me in his periphery.

Pucks snap against sticks, bodies collide, and the whistle pierces through my head like a needle. I grip the boards before pushing off for the next drill, waiting for the dizziness to settle into something I can manage.

Focus, Iveline. Just focus.

“Coach?” Leo’s voice cuts in, hesitant and soft. He’s already half-crouched, his stick resting on the ice, his eyes flicking over my face with genuine worry. “You sure you’re good to run this one?”

“Yes,” I say without slowing down.

He nods too quickly. “Right. Cool. Great.” Then, softer, like he’s trying to keep Rick from hearing, “Just, uh, tell us if you need a second.”

I don’t answer him. I just blow the whistle instead.

I move through the drills on autopilot—clipboard in hand, voice steady, posture rigid. I correct angles, call out adjustments, and maintain my authority. But my body is failing the mission.

“Coach,” Nico murmurs as he glides past. “You’re kind of… gray. Like, the color of a rainy day in Seattle.”

“You’re imagining things, Nico.”

“I usually imagine a lot of things,” he says with a snicker that dies quickly. “But not this. You look terrible.”

“Run the drill.”

He does, but his head turns back twice to look at me anyway.