Page 116 of Uncoachable

His footsteps approach slowly until I can feel the heat of him at my back.

“You’re doing it again,” he says, his voice vibrating through the space between us.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do.”

I turn then, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. “We agreed that nothing changed, Callahan.”

His jaw tightens. “That was a lie. We both know it.”

“Necessary ones often are in this business.”

His eyes search my face, scanning for the cracks I know are there. “You think this fixes anything? Treating me like a stranger?”

“I think it prevents damage,” I say, my voice hardening.

“To who?” he asks quietly.

The answer lodges heavy and hot in my chest. I swallow hard, my composure finally beginning to fray at the edges.

“If I mess this up,” I whisper, “they’ll say it’s because I’m a woman. They won’t say I made a mistake or that I had a bad game. They’ll say I couldn’t handle the pressure. They’ll say I’m weak.”

His expression shifts.

“I can’t be the woman who loses her job just because she couldn’t keep her distance,” I add, my voice barely steady.

Silence stretches between us—thick, suffocating, and full of everything we aren’t allowed to say.

“I have work to do,” I say finally, stepping away from him.

He doesn’t try to stop me this time. But I feel the tension coiled tight between us. Behind me, I hear him exhale a long, slow breath.

Avoidance works.

Until it doesn’t.

***

By the time we reach Game 4 of the second round, the avoidance has metastasized.

We are back in Washington, and the arena is a den of wolves. The tension that began seven days ago has followed us, and it is actively strangling our play.

The first period is a massacre.

Callahan is overcompensating, trying to do everything himself because he doesn’t trust the systems I’m calling out. He’s taking massive, bone-crunching runs at the opposing forwards, leaving his offensive position wide open.

They score once.

Then twice.

By the end of the first, it’s 3–0.

The locker room during the intermission is the most volatile space I’ve ever occupied. Even Rick is screaming. The players are staring at the floor.

“Enough!” I snap, and for once, the room actually goes silent. “You are playing like you’ve already lost. You’re playing like the headlines are right. If you want to prove them wrong, you start by playing for the man next to you. Callahan, sit down and listen to me.”

He doesn’t sit. He stands right in front of me, sweat dripping off his nose. “What do you want, Coach? You want me to play soft? You want me to keep my distance?”