Page 107 of Uncoachable

“The internet didn’t sleep,” Jenna says briskly, her fingers never stopping their rhythm on the keys. “Neither did we. We’ve been running damage control since midnight.”

Rick slides a printed statement across the desk toward me. I scan the words.

…At no point was there inappropriate conduct between staff and players. The organization maintains strict professional boundaries…

I read it once, the clinical language feeling like a slap in the face. Then I push the paper back toward him.

“This protects him more than it protects me.”

Anger flares in my gut—a flash of betrayal, sharp and sudden, prickling under my skin. For a moment, I think of every time I’ve had to fight to be seen on my own merit, and now, just like that, my work and my reputation are secondary to protecting the captain.

Silence settles over the room, thick and uncomfortable.

Rick nods slowly, acknowledging the truth in what I said. “We’ll revise it, Iveline. Jenna, change the wording.”

“And make it clear I wasn’t rescued,” I add, my voice hardening. “I didn’t need saving. I tripped, and a player assisted. That is the extent of the story.”

Jenna is already typing, her face set in a mask of professional focus.

The meeting bleeds time. Every word is weighed for its impact. Every phrase is parsed for potential loopholes and optics. By the end of the hour, my jaw aches from holding the tension in my face.

When I finally step back into the hallway, my phone buzzes again.

It’s my father.

I duck into an empty, darkened corridor and answer the call.

“This is dangerous, Iveline,” he says without any preamble. No greeting, no “how are you.” Just the bottom line.

“Because perception matters more than the truth to you,” I reply evenly, leaning my back against the cold brick wall.

“You need to distance yourself from him immediately,” he says, ignoring me. “Completely. If he’s in a room, you leave it. If he’s on the ice, you speak to him through Rick.”

“No.”

There is a long pause on the other end of the line. Then his voice comes back, sharper and colder.

“You’re being emotional. That is a mistake you cannot afford.”

I feel rage flare in my chest, hot and immediate, and then a hollow numbness creeps in to take its place.

Emotional.

When my father says it, he isn’t just criticizing my choice; he is revoking my clearance. He is telling me that I’ve proven everyone right—that I let my heart interfere with the machine of the organization.

I close my eyes tight.

“I’m being careful, William,” I say, and I hang up before he can respond.

I lean my head against the cool brick, the silence of the arena pressing in on me.

He doesn’t understand that being ‘careful’ is exactly what got me here. I was so careful that I didn’t even realize I was falling until Callahan caught me. And now, the only way to satisfy the man who gave me my name is to become a ghost, to treat the man who saved me like a complete stranger.

***

Practice is horrible.

I don’t look at Callahan. Not even once.