Page 97 of Uncoachable

“I said I wasn’t giving one.”

“You still did,” he replies, a rare, almost imperceptible glint of amusement in his eyes.

Silence stretches comfortably between us for a moment.

“You don’t like shortcuts either,” I say, watching him.

“They get people hurt,” he replies without a moment of hesitation. “On the ice and off it.”

“Yes,” I agree. “They do.”

He studies the liquid in his glass for a moment before looking back at me. “You’ve changed how we play, Iveline. You know that, right?”

“That wasn’t the primary goal. The goal was to win.”

“It still happened,” he says. There’s less of an edge in his voice now. There is more thought, more genuine curiosity. “You ever think about slowing down?”

I blink, caught off guard. “In what sense?”

“You’re always moving,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the room. “Planning three steps ahead. Scouting the next ten games while we’re still playing the first period.”

I smile faintly, the expression feeling more natural than it used to. “Someone has to do the thinking, Carter.”

“Does it always have to be you?”

The question lands much heavier than I expect it to. It echoes the thoughts I had in the apartment when I was sick—the exhaustion of being the only one holding the roof up.

“I don’t know how not to be that person,” I admit, the honesty feeling strange in my mouth.

He nods once, like that answer makes perfect sense to him. “Maybe you should learn.”

Carter doesn’t linger. He moves away quietly, rejoining the others near the bar.

Across the room, Callahan is watching me.

I feel his gaze before I even register it fully.

It is a subtle heat in my chest, a tightening in my shoulders, and the kind of hyper-awareness that makes every breath feel a little sharper than the last. My spine straightens instinctively. My hands tighten around the cool glass.

When our eyes meet, it is as if the rest of the noise in the restaurant fades into a dull, distant hum. There is a secret between us now—the fever, the apartment, and the “Cal” that I still haven’t apologized for using.

He raises his glass just a fraction of an inch, and I see his thumb graze the rim. It is such a tiny gesture, but it feels like a physical touch. My skin prickles as if he’s actually reached across the room and run his hand down my arm.

I return the gesture, lifting my glass slightly.

A flicker of warmth spreads across my skin, steadying me and reminding me of that night in the apartment.

I take in the room again, really looking at them.

Cash is currently miming an absurd, over-the-top slap shot for Nico’s amusement, nearly knocking over a water glass in the process. Leo is explaining something to Marcus, his hands flying through the air.

The warmth of the scene settles over me.

This isn’t home—not yet. But it is something I didn’t realize I’d been missing for a very long time. This loud, stubborn, and often infuriating collection of people… they’re becoming my family.

As the night finally winds down and the bill is settled, I find myself standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. The Boston air is biting and sharp, but I don’t reach for my coat immediately.

I want to feel the cold for a moment.