Page 83 of Uncoachable

She tries to wiggle, a small, desperate shift of her weight that nearly sends us both off balance. I stop dead, my boots digging into the rubber mats by the gate.

I look down at her, and for the first time, I don’t see the untouchable coach. I see the gray tint of her skin and the way her eyelids are fluttering as she tries to keep me in focus.

“Look at me,” I command, my voice dropping to a rough edge.

She forces her eyes open, and the sheer vacancy in them hits me like a puck to the sternum. There’s no fire there, just a glazed, shimmering exhaustion.

“Your hands are shaking so hard you can’t even grab my shirt. You need to rest, Iveline. So you can hate me for it tomorrow, but right now, you’re staying exactly where you are.”

She lets out a breath that sounds more like a sob she managed to catch at the last second, and the tension finally drains out of her. She goes heavy in my arms—terrifyingly heavy—as she stops trying to hold herself up.

The entire arena seems to erupt in a silent shock.

It’s not panic I see on the faces of my teammates; it is something closer to fear.

It is as if none of them have ever seen Iveline St. James stop moving before, and they don’t know what to do with a world where she is vulnerable.

Someone swears loudly near the bench.

Someone else asks if she is okay.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carter Hale step forward instinctively, then stop. He watches us, his face tight and unreadable. He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, then closes it just as quickly—like he has a thought but lacks the right words to anchor it.

Usually, the rink is filled with shouting, skates carving the ice, and the rhythmic slam of sticks against the boards. But as I walk past the bench with Iveline in my arms, the world goes mute.

They’ve seen me carry teammates off the ice with broken ankles or separated shoulders dozens of times, but this is different.

This is Iveline.

The woman who doesn’t bend. The woman who scares half of them and out-thinks the other half.

Rick doesn’t try to stop me. He meets my eyes over her head as I reach the gate, and for a split second, there is a passing of the torch. He knows I’m breaking every professional protocol in the book by doing this, and he clearly doesn’t care. He just nods—a grim, silent acknowledgment that I’m the one who has her now.

I’ve never felt more protective of anything in my life, and I’ve never hated the “St. James” name more than I do in this moment. It is that name, that legacy, that made her feel like she had to stay until she literally broke.

Outside the arena, the winter air hits us hard.

She shivers violently, curling closer to my chest without even thinking about it. My grip tightens reflexively. I angle my body without a second thought, blocking the wind with my shoulders, trying to shield her from more than just the cold.

“You don’t have to—,” she murmurs, her voice barely a thread.

“Yes,” I interrupt, my voice grittier than I intended. “I do.”

She huffs a weak, shaky breath against my neck. “You’re annoyingly competent, Moore.”

“Get used to it, Ivy.”

I settle her into the passenger seat of my truck, cranking the heat up as high as it will go. I hand her a bottle of water, and she barely protests. She just gives me her address in a low whisper, her head falling back against the headrest. I’m driving out of the lot before she can change her mind or regain enough strength to demand a taxi.

Her phone buzzes in her lap.

She looks at the screen and lets out a soft groan.

“Scottie,” she mutters.

She hits the answer button, and shouting immediately fills the cab of the truck.

“IVELINE TALVI ST. JAMES, WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME YOU WERE DYING?”