Page 119 of Uncoachable

“You’re going to have to explain this,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, toward the arena where the world is watching her empty seat. “The league is going to fine you for that outburst at the refs.”

“Let them,” she says, her jaw tightening. “I will pay every cent if it means I don’t have to watch you break from a distance.”

The lead doctor, Dr. Aris, enters the room. He’s carrying a tablet and has a grim set to his mouth that makes my stomach do a slow, sick roll.

Aris nods at Ivy and turns to the imaging screen.

“Initial X-ray is clear of fractures,” he says. “But the MRI shows a grade-two AC joint sprain. There is serious inflammation and some minor bruising to the bone. No surgery, but we’re looking at significant time.”

Ivy’s head snaps up. “How long?”

The doctor sighs, leaning back against the counter.

“For a normal regular season? Three to four weeks. Maybe five depending on the range of motion. For the playoffs?” He looks at me with a mix of pity and respect. “We can try to get him back in about ten to twelve days if the swelling goes down and he responds to the injections. But he is out for the rest of this series. If the boys can close this out and get you to the Finals, you might have a shot at the opening puck drop.”

The words hit me like a physical weight. Out for the series.

I won’t be on the ice for the most important games of my life—not unless the team can carry the weight of my absence through the mud of the Conference Finals.

I am being benched by my own body at the exact moment the finish line is in sight.

I glance at the old scars on my knee, then at the shoulder that’s been protesting more loudly every year. I’m a patchwork quilt of hockey history, and I’m running out of clean fabric.

“Ten days,” I mutter. “I can do ten days.”

“You can barely lift your arm to your chest, Callahan,” the doctor says gently. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

I look at Ivy.

Relief flashes across her face first—knowing I’m not permanently broken—but then it is replaced by something much heavier.

Her phone, resting on the medical cart, begins to vibrate. The screen lights up, buzzing against the metal with a harsh, rhythmic sound that cuts through the sterile quiet of the room.

She doesn’t pick it up. She doesn’t even move to silence it. She just watches it dance across the stainless steel, the light reflecting in her eyes. It stops for a second, then immediately starts again.

She helps me into the sling. Her movements are clinical again, but her touch lingers. As she secures the strap behind my neck, she leans in.

“You’re stubborn,” she murmurs.

“And you care,” I reply.

That one lands hard.

“I have seventeen missed calls,” she says, her voice a ghost of its usual strength. “The clips of me yelling at the referee are already trending on social media. They’re calling it a ‘lack of professional restraint.’ They’re asking if I’m fit to lead.”

The phone rings again. I reach out with my good hand, taking her wrist. “I’m sorry, Ivy. I didn’t mean to cause this.”

“You didn’t cause it,” she says. “I did. I chose to leave. I chose to show them exactly where my priorities lie.”

She finally picks up the phone. She doesn’t answer it. She just stares at the glowing screen before sliding it into her pocket.

“Ice it and stay still,” she whispers to me and walks out, her head held high even as she walks into the firing squad of her own making.

I sit on the table, the cold of the ice pack finally numbing the pain in my shoulder, but doing nothing for the ache in my chest.

I’m going to heal. My bones will knit, the ligaments will tighten, and I’ll be back on the ice in a matter of weeks. But as I watch the door swing shut behind her, I realize that for Iveline, the damage might be permanent.

She walked away from the bench for me, and in the world of professional hockey, that’s a sin they don’t easily forgive.