Page 37 of Uncoachable

“Um. I… there’s more coffee in the coaches’ lounge if you want it,” he says, looking at his feet. “Fresh pot.”

I manage a small smile. “Noah, you’re a lifesaver. Truly.”

He nods, looking genuinely pleased with himself. “Happy to support optimal performance. Your caffeine levels were likely dipping below the functional threshold.”

I laugh under my breath as I follow him toward the lounge.

By the time I reach my office, the adrenaline has worn off, leaving nothing but a headache and the urge to lie face down on the nearest flat surface.

If anyone asks why I look like I’ve lived three lives before noon, I’ll blame the hangover.

If they’re smart, they won’t ask.

10

Callahan Eli Moore

I wake up before my alarm.

I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom. The light from the streetlamp outside filters through the slats of the blinds, casting long, rib-like shadows across the bedspread.

Most guys on the team have lives that look like a whirlwind—dogs barking for breakfast, girlfriends sleeping on the other side of the mattress, kids waking up too early, or at least a mountain of laundry that needs to be addressed.

My life is a series of controlled environments. There is the gym, there is the rink, and there is this apartment.

I like the silence.

Or at least, I used to like it.

Now, the silence just leaves too much room for the memory of her voice to echo.

I can still hear the way she said my name on the ice yesterday—Moore. Not “Captain,” not “Callahan,” just my last name, delivered with a clinical precision that made me feel like a rare bug pinned under a microscope.

I lay there wondering if she’d say it the same way if I had her pinned against that gray wall in my hallway—if her voice would still be that steady, or if I could make it break into something breathless and jagged.

I kick the sheets off, the cool morning air hitting my skin and forcing the last of the sleep from my bones. If I stay in this bed any longer, she’s going to start taking up permanent residence in my head, and she hasn’t even paid the rent for that kind of mental real estate yet.

My apartment is quiet in the way that only happens when you live alone and don’t bother with the distractions of decoration. Gray walls. Clean counters. Nothing is out of place. There is only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the subtle, rhythmic creak of the radiator.

I move through the space on autopilot like my body knows the routine even if my head is currently miles away.

And my head is exactly the problem.

Iveline Talvi St. James shouldn’t be the last thing I think about when I close my eyes or the first thing I realize I’m looking for when I open them.

She’s my assistant coach. She’s my boss’s daughter. She’s sharp, controlled, and irritatingly unimpressed by everything I do. That should be more than enough to shut this down entirely.

It’s not.

I think about the way she corrected me yesterday. There wasn’t an edge of arrogance in her voice—just a pure, unadulterated certainty. It was like she wasn’t trying to prove anything to the room, and she wasn’t performing for the cameras.

That’s what really gets under my skin.

She doesn’t ask for respect; she simply takes it as her due. And as someone who prides himself on knowing every inch of the ice and running plays without interference, I hate how much I respect that.

It also doesn’t help that she’s gorgeous.

Not in a magazine model way, but in a “see her on the street once and think about her for the rest of your life” kind of way.