Page 110 of Uncoachable

She hesitates.

It is barely a moment, a tiny hitch in her breathing, but it’s enough. It’s enough to crack something open. It tells me that this isn’t just anger—it’s fear wearing the most expensive armor money can buy.

“Tell me,” I repeat, quieter now, stepping into her space. “Because right now I’m guessing. And my guesses are a lot worse than whatever truth you’re holding onto.”

She turns away from me, pacing the small width of the room once. Her fingers thread through her hair, which usually sits in a tight, punishing bun. Today, it is flowing freely over her shoulders, looking like even her hair is losing its grip on control.

“You touched me,” she says, her back still to me.

“To steady you,” I manage to say. “You were falling.”

“In front of the cameras,” she adds, spinning around to face me. “In front of everyone. In front of the media.”

“I didn’t think about the optics, Ivy. I just saw you—”

“No,” she cuts in, her voice rising. “You didn’t think. You never have to think about the consequences because you’re the golden boy. And I’m the one paying for it. I’m the one whose career is a punchline on the morning news.”

“I would do it again.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I know it’s a mistake.

Her breath catches in a shallow hitch, and for a second, she looks like she’s forgotten how to exhale. She doesn’t look away this time; she looks right at me, her eyes glassing over as that professional mask finally hits the floor and breaks into pieces.

She looks small. She looks human. And for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks like she has absolutely nowhere left to hide.

“You ruined everything I worked for,” she says, her voice trembling.

Guilt hits me first, heavy and sickening. Panic follows right behind it.

My chest tightens and my breath thins out because every instinct is screaming that this is real—that I crossed a line I didn’t fully understand until this very moment.

I saw it as a rescue; she sees it as an execution.

And before I can stop myself, the words slip out. “I don’t know what you want from me anymore.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“That’s the problem,” I say, the heat rising under my skin. “You never do. You never let anyone in, and you never let anyone help. You just stand there in your tower and wonder why it’s so cold.”

She flinches—barely, but enough to make me regret the sharpness of my tongue.

“This isn’t about wanting,” she says quietly, her voice sounding small in the vast, dark room. “It’s about consequences, Callahan. Real ones.”

“Consequences for who?” I step in, the frustration bleeding through my words. “Because last time I checked, I’m taking the heat in the media too. I’m the one being called a distraction to the team.”

“No.” Her voice is sharp and final. “You’re the one who survives it. You’re the franchise player. You’re the captain. You break a rule and people laugh it off as ‘passion.’ I break one and I lose everything I’ve clawed for since I was a child.”

I go still. The words hit somewhere I didn’t know was exposed. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Ivy. I would never try to hurt you.”

“You don’t have to try. You just have to exist.” She takes a shaky breath, forcing it steady with a visible effort. “You walk into a room and everyone bends around you. You’re the center of the gravity here. I’m just trying to stay on my feet.”

“I wouldn’t let you lose anything,” I say, my voice thick. “I’d walk away before I let them take this from you.”

She laughs—a soft, bitter, and devastating sound. “You can’t stop it. You can’t fix it. And you certainly can’t protect me from a world that has been waiting for me to slip up since the day I was hired.”

I take a step toward her. She steps back immediately, hitting the edge of the table.

“Then tell me what to do. Tell me how to act so they leave you alone.”