Page 84 of Uncoachable

I glance at the screen. Scottie’s face is squashed close to the camera, her expression a mix of fury and terror.

Iveline doesn’t even have the energy to hold the phone upright.

“I’m not dying, Scottie,” she says weakly.

Dean’s voice cuts in from the background, calmer but just as worried. “Where are you?”

“Being kidnapped,” she mutters, her eyes drifting shut.

“Rescued,” I correct gently, raising my voice so they can hear me over the speaker.

Iveline snorts, then winces as the movement clearly hurts her head.

Scottie announces they’re on their way to her place, Dean confirming it in the background, and then she hangs up before Iveline can argue.

By the time we reach her apartment building, she has gone quiet.

I don’t wait for her to try and walk; I carry her inside, ignoring the curious looks from the few people in the lobby.

Her apartment is small. Much smaller than I expected for someone with her background.

It is a true studio—one room pretending to be three. The bed is only a few steps from the door, the kitchenette is tucked into a corner with a single burner and a kettle, and a narrow set of doors leads to what must be the bathroom.

There isn’t even a window—just four walls and the soft, constant hum of the heater.

It should feel impersonal and temporary, like a hotel room, but it doesn’t.

It is clean and organized, almost ruthlessly efficient. Everything has a place, and there isn’t anything extra cluttering the surfaces.

Yet, there are pieces of her everywhere.

Books are stacked in uneven towers on the floor, the titles in languages I can’t even begin to pronounce. A pair of skates is drying on a towel by the radiator. A mug with a chipped rim sits on the counter, looking like something she uses every single morning without thinking.

And then I see the thing that hits me the hardest: a framed photo on the tiny side table by the bed.

It’s a picture of her as a teenager, standing beside a woman who looks exactly like her. They have the same eyes, the same posture, and the same stubborn set to their chins. They are bundled in thick wool sweaters, with snow falling behind them like a memory she keeps close to her heart.

Something tightens in my chest.

I am standing in the sanctuary of the woman I’ve spent weeks trying to provoke. I am in the private space of the woman who keeps every part of herself locked down behind steel doors. She lives in a space this small, and yet she still manages to take up entire rooms when she walks into them.

I set her down gently on the bed. She lets out a soft, pained sigh—the kind that slips out before she can stop it—and the sound nearly breaks me.

I shouldn’t be here.

I’m not the guy who knows how to fluff pillows or check temperatures or care for someone who is hurting. But as I look around her living room, I realize I don’t want to be anywhere else.

I want to know what she reads. I want to know why she keeps that specific photo out. I want to know the version of Ivy that doesn’t have a whistle around her neck.

“Your shoulders,” she murmurs, her eyes closed. “Are annoyingly nice.”

I freeze. “…What?”

Heat crawls up my neck, slow and unwelcome. Compliments don’t usually land like this—soft, unguarded, and aimed straight under my own armor.

“Comfortable,” she adds, her voice trailing off. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Too late, I think, but I don’t say it.