Page 103 of Uncoachable

“Callahan, is there something going on between you and Coach Talvi?”

His grip tightens on my waist, just enough for me to register the change. I draw a sharp breath, my chest feeling tight.

Rick finally barrels in, his arms out, forcing space with brute authority.

“That’s enough,” he snaps at the crowd. “We’re done for the day. Move!”

Security finally arrives, shouting orders and herding the bodies back behind the barricades. The noise doesn’t truly fade until the heavy glass doors of the arena slam shut behind us, sealing out the cold and the vultures.

Silence crashes down on us like a wave.

My pulse roars in my ears, and my skin hums with the leftover adrenaline of the encounter. Callahan’s hand drops from my waist instantly, as if he’s been burned by the contact.

I feel a strange, conflicting mix of emotions—a sudden sense of loss that the closeness has vanished, a deep relief that it didn’t escalate further, and a confusing ache in my chest that I can’t quite name.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, looking at me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“Yes,” I say, because the word is a reflex at this point, even as my fingers tremble when I curl them into my palm to hide the shake.

He nods once, his jaw tight and his eyes scanning me like he’s looking for injuries I would never acknowledge.

Rick drags a hand down his face, looking exhausted. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

“They shoved her,” Callahan says, his voice sharp with protective fury.

Jenna is already on her phone, her thumb flying across the screen. “This is going to be everywhere in three minutes.”

She’s right.

By the time we reach the locker room corridor, my name is already trending.

I make the mistake of looking at my screen, and the headlines are already blooming like toxic weeds in a garden.

ST. JAMES SCANDAL: COACH OR COUPLING?

MOORE’S PROTECTIVE PLAY: MORE THAN JUST TEAMMATES?

There’s already a slow-motion gif circulating of the exact moment his hand hit my waist. In the grainy footage, it looks like a scene from a movie—the stoic hero and the vulnerable woman.

I hate it.

I hate that my months of tactical brilliance, my seventy-page playbook, and my record-breaking win streak have been reduced to a three-second clip of a man keeping me from falling on my face.

But then I look at Callahan.

He’s standing by his locker, staring at his own phone with a look of pure disgust. He isn’t worried about his ‘brand’ or his endorsements. He’s worried about what this does to the professional space I’ve fought so hard to occupy.

“Coach.”

I look up from my tablet, my face a mask of practiced calm.

“You’re viral,” Cash says, his eyes wide. “Like—capital V viral. The internet is losing its collective mind.”

Nico appears behind him, his own phone out. “This is… a lot. People are analyzing the grip strength of his fingers on your blazer, Coach. It’s getting weird.”

Kovács mutters from his stall, “That’s bad. Real bad.”

Leo looks genuinely panicked, his young face pale. “Did you do something wrong? Is everyone in trouble?”