Page 114 of Uncoachable

My father used to say that silence is a vacuum—it eventually pulls the truth out of people. But this silence isn’t a vacuum; it’s a barricade.

Every time I hear the specific, sharp snap of his tape hitting the ice or the low rumble of his voice giving directions to the defense, my body wants to betray me. My head wants to turn toward the sound. My pulse wants to sync with the steady, powerful rhythm of his skating.

I’ve spent my whole life being the smartest person in the room, but I’ve never felt more like a fool. I am treating the man who understands me best like a ghost, and the haunting is starting to wear me thin.

I blink at my clipboard and realize I’ve been staring at the same power-play diagram for five minutes. The lines are blurring together.

The control I crave has become a cage of my own making.

The kiss replays in my mind anyway, no matter how hard I try to suppress it.

It’s not the act itself that haunts me as much as the after.

I remember the way reality slammed back into place like a heavy vault door locking from the outside. I saw it in his eyes too: the fear, the restraint, and something dangerously close to a raw, aching longing.

I cannot afford that.

Not now. Not ever.

And yet, I feel it.

There is a heat in my chest that won’t dissipate. There is a pull I hate myself for acknowledging.

My fingers clench the plastic edge of the clipboard as though that could somehow ground me in the reality of the game. I feel a mounting frustration at myself for wanting him even as I expend every ounce of my will to push him away.

Cash chirps less than usual, his usual sunny disposition clouded by confusion. Nico keeps glancing between Callahan and me like he’s waiting for an explosion that he knows is coming but can’t see.

Brick’s jaw is set, his expression unreadable as he focuses on his footwork. Leo is hyper-focused, as if channeling all his anxiety into the drills might keep the tension from snapping the entire team in half.

Callahan, meanwhile, isn’t being subtle.

He’s pissed. He isn’t loud pissed, which would be easier to handle. He isn’t being reckless or taking bad penalties.

He is controlled pissed. The worst kind.

His jaw stays locked in a hard line. His shoulders are rigid beneath his gear. His movements are precise to the point of being aggressive.

When he runs the transition drills, it looks like he’s carving lines into the ice by sheer force of will alone. When he speaks, his words are clipped, efficient, and entirely unforgiving.

I feel a flicker of something that might be fear, or guilt, or perhaps just a longing sharp enough to make me flinch despite myself.

He doesn’t look at me either which somehow feels much worse than when he did.

I bark corrections from the boards, my clipboard clenched so tight my knuckles are white. Everything is about systems. Everything is about structure. Everything is safe.

But deep down, I know it’s too safe.

We are playing like people afraid to break something, rather than people playing to win.

“Coach Talvi,” Carter Hale drawls as he skates slowly past the boards, sweat slicking his hair back against his skull. “Did we all get assigned restraining orders this morning, or is this just a new, passive-aggressive communication strategy?”

The sound of skating stops.

Cash mutters, “Oh no,” loud enough for me to hear. Nico’s stick clatters against the ice as he fumbles a puck. Brick exhales a long, slow breath, looking like he’s already bracing for an impact.

I turn slowly to face Hale. He meets my gaze with that familiar, lazy smirk—the one that says he enjoys pressing on fresh bruises just to see who flinches first.

“What did you just say?”