Page 111 of Uncoachable

“Don’t—” she whispers, her eyes glistening. “Don’t put me in a position where being near you costs me everything I’ve built. I can’t afford that.”

My throat tightens until it hurts. “I’m not asking you to give anything up.”

Her laugh is soft and broken. “I’m tired, Callahan. I’m so tired. And wanting you costs more energy than I have left.”

Silence settles over us—heavy, final, and suffocating. It’s the kind of silence that feels like a heavy vault door closing.

She looks away first, because she has to maintain the mask.

I look at her, because I simply can’t stop myself.

And neither of us says the thing sitting between us like a massive, purple bruise: If this were any other world, I’d choose you in a heartbeat.

“I built this,” she snaps suddenly, her voice shaking now but steady enough to cut like a skate blade. “Every inch of respect. Every ounce of authority. I fought for it in rooms where men laughed at my name. And one moment—one hand on my waist—and suddenly I’m not a coach. I’m a headline. I’m a scandal. I’m a girl who got lucky.”

I step closer, careful now, reaching out but not quite touching her. “I never wanted to be the reason you hurt, Ivy.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re the one holding the knife?” she demands. She refuses to let the tears fall, her eyes burning with a mixture of fury and betrayal.

The words are a physical blow to my chest.

I realize now that heroes are often just people who don’t know how to mind their own business, people who break things while trying to save them. I realize that in trying to keep her from falling, I ignited a wildfire around her reputation.

“I can’t pretend this doesn’t matter,” I say quietly, my voice cracking. “I can’t pretend that I don’t want you.”

“That’s the problem, Callahan. That is exactly the problem.”

“No,” I say, closing the last inch of space between us. My voice is low and steady now. “That’s the only honest thing left in this entire building.”

The air in the video room thickens into something heavy and electric that presses against my lungs until there is nowhere left to breathe.

My pulse is a hammer against my ribs, a rhythmic, demanding thrum that drowns out the logical voice in the back of my head screaming about HR, about the press, and the specific, career-ending clauses in my contract.

I don’t plan it.

Planning requires a composure I lost the second I saw the way her hands were shaking against that tablet.

I don’t think about the cameras tucked into the corners of the ceiling or the fact that my life’s work is currently hanging by a thread. I don’t think about the playoffs, the legacy of this team, or the shadow of her father.

I just look at her—at the way she’s trying so hard to be made of stone while she’s clearly bleeding out right in front of me—and the last of my restraint just… gives.

“To hell with the optics.”

It’s not careful.

It’s not some tentative, poetic exploration.

It is a wreck. It is the sound of professionalism snapping like bone. It is months of stifled words, polite nods in the hallway, and agonizing silence finally shattering against the floor.

When my mouth hits hers, it’s hard and desperate.

I crowd her back, the heels of her boots skidding until the backs of her thighs hit the laminate table with a sharp thwack. I don’t give her an inch. I dive my hand into the hair at the nape of her neck, fisting the dark silk to tilt her head back at an angle that leaves her throat bared and vulnerable.

For a heartbeat, she’s a statue of shock.

Then, the dam breaks.

Ivy lets out a wrecked, needy sound—a small, choked sob that I swallow whole. Her fingers claw into my shoulders, bunching the fabric of my shirt until I feel her nails scoring my skin. She pulls me flush against her, her chest heaving against mine, her nipples peaking into hard points against my shirt.