Page 88 of Uncoachable

I lean down, my mouth inches from her ear, and murmur, barely audible, “I wish you knew how much you matter.”

She doesn’t wake. She doesn’t even stir.

That shouldn’t feel like permission to feel the way I do, but as I let myself out of the apartment, it feels exactly like that.

***

I don’t go looking for him.

That’s the lie I tell myself as I walk down the executive corridor of the arena later that morning.

My skates are slung over my shoulder, clinking with every step. The rink behind me is humming with its usual post-practice noise but every step I take toward the glass-walled offices feels deliberate. Heavy.

I tell myself I just need to check in. I tell myself I need to update the front office on the “staffing situation.”

I tell myself I’m fine.

William St. James’s door is open when I reach it. Of course it is. The man is a monument to transparency and power, provided both are on his terms.

He’s standing by the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the city, his tailored suit jacket already on, phone in hand.

He looks up when he senses me standing in the doorway.

“Moore,” he says, his voice polite and neutral. “Can I help you with something? I assume you’re here about the power play adjustments for tonight.”

I step inside the office and close the heavy oak door behind me. The click of the latch is sharp. Final.

It’s a reckless move, but it feels entirely necessary.

This office has always felt like a courtroom to me. It’s too clean, too quiet, filled with the kind of expensive leather and polished wood that makes a man feel like he should apologize for having dirt on his shoes.

My heart is hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to break out.

I’m the captain of his team, but in this room, the hierarchy is clear.

I’m an employee. I know that by being here, by saying what I’m about to say, I’m putting a massive target on my back.

But then I remember the way Ivy looked when she swayed on the ice. I remember how the light seemed to just go out of her eyes.

The risk doesn’t matter.

Not compared to the silence in her apartment.

“I think you can help me,” I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline.

William blinks once, slowly, recalibrating his expectations for this conversation. He sees the look on my face, the tension in my jaw.

“Is this about the practice schedule?”

“No,” I reply, taking another step into the room. “It’s about your daughter.”

He stills—not dramatically, but I see the tightening of his jaw and the subtle squaring of his shoulders. He sets his phone down on the mahogany desk with deliberate precision.

“Iveline is more than capable of handling her own affairs, Moore. If she has an issue with the team, she’ll bring it to—”

“She almost collapsed on the ice yesterday,” I cut in, my voice sharp enough to draw blood.

William’s expression tightens, a flash of something—worry or irritation, I can’t tell—flickering in his eyes. “She didn’t inform me of any medical distress. She said she was taking a personal day to catch up on scouting reports.”