Page 94 of Uncoachable

I blink, stunned. “I have to finish the post-game analysis.”

“No,” he says, his voice firmer. “You have to sleep. That’s an order from the GM.”

He turns and walks away before I can argue. I stand there in the quiet hallway, the echoes of the crowd still ringing in my ears.

He’s trying.

It’s clunky and weird and entirely too late, but he’s trying.

I’m still processing the conversation when a heavy shadow falls over me.

“You heard the man,” Callahan says, his hair damp from the shower, a towel draped around his neck. “Orders are orders.”

“I don’t take orders, Moore,” I say, though there’s no bite in it.

“Consider it a safety precaution, Iveline. You’ve been staring at those screens so long I’m surprised you haven’t gone blind.” He steps closer, the heat radiating off him cutting through the drafty hallway. “Besides, I’ve spent the last three periods trying to read your mind from the bench. I think I’ve earned the right to see if you can actually hold a conversation that doesn’t involve a power play.”

I feel the heat rising in my neck, a prickle of electricity that I shouldn’t be feeling in a cold arena at midnight. I force myself to meet his eyes, trying to find the cold, clinical distance I’ve spent years perfecting.

“That’s highly unprofessional,” I murmur, though the corners of my mouth betray me, twitching with a suppressed, breathless smile. “I’m fairly certain there’s a clause in your contract about making personal comments to the coaching staff.”

“Report me then,” he taunts, a devastatingly slow smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I’d love to see how you explain this conversation to your father. Tell him exactly what I said. See if you can keep a straight face while you’re doing it.”

I blink, my heart thudding against my ribs with such violence I’m certain he can see it through my blazer. He takes another half-step, close enough that the scent of his skin—clean, warm, and entirely distracting—settles into my lungs.

“So,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine with a focused, quiet heat. “The GM says you need sleep, and I happen to be heading the same direction as your apartment. Let me drive you. You can give me a lecture on professionalism the whole way there if it makes you feel better.”

I look at him, my brain frantically trying to find a tactical reason to say no while my heart hammers out a completely different rhythm against my ribs.

“I have my own car, Captain,” I say, finally finding my voice, though it’s still far too soft.

He freezes. Not dramatically—just a subtle stillness, like the word hit him somewhere he wasn’t braced for. Then that slow, unguarded smile spreads across his face, the real one, the one he never wastes on cameras or reporters.

“I know,” he says. “But I’ll follow you home anyway. Just to make sure the fire hydrants don’t give you any trouble.”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head as I turn toward the exit. “You’re annoyingly persistent.”

“Get used to it, Coach.”

As I walk out into the cold night air, the stadium lights glowing behind me, I don’t feel like the General Manager’s daughter or a tactical machine. I feel like a woman who survived a fever and found something better on the other side.

I’m not fine.

I’m better.

* * *

7:21 PM

Cash: Just FYI, I told the Monarchs’ backup goalie you were sick because you were too powerful.

Me: Why would you say that?

Cash: He believed me. I’m unstoppable.

25

Iveline