Page 121 of Uncoachable

It worked—until it didn’t.

It worked until Callahan Moore forced his way into my periphery.

Now, I realize that what I’ve been calling discipline might just be avoidance dressed up as strength. I wasn’t protecting myself from pain; I was protecting myself from connection. I was hiding from the kind of bond that changes you, the kind that leaves a mark even if it ends.

Especially if it ends.

Standing here now, outside the locker room door before our first practice without our captain, that old compass is useless. When I look at this team, I don’t see assets or jersey numbers. I see people. And if being “emotional” is the cost of protecting one of them, I find that I’m willing to pay it.

I push the door open.

A few players straighten their backs instinctively. One of the rookies quickly sets his phone face down on the bench. Brick lifts his head first, his expression unreadable. Leo turns fully toward me. Cash’s usual grin is gone, replaced with a focused intensity.

Callahan’s stall is empty. The absence of him is a physical weight in the room. Every eye finds me, waiting for the apology, the explanation, or the breakdown.

“I know what’s being said in the news,” I begin, my voice carrying cleanly to every corner. “And I know some of you are wondering if the rumors are true.”

No one looks away.

“I lost my composure,” I continue. “You all saw it. The league saw it. It was a breach of protocol and a lapse in professional distance to leave that bench before the game was done.”

I pause, meeting Brick’s eyes, then Leo’s. “But here is what matters: I show up. I work. I earn my place every single day. I am here to win a Cup. And if anyone in this room thinks my personal feelings interfere with my ability to lead this team to a victory—say it now.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty.

It is absolute.

Brick nods once, a solid gesture of alignment. Leo’s shoulders square, his chin lifting in a show of defiance against the outside noise. Cash crosses his arms, his stance widening like he’s anchoring himself to the floor.

No one speaks.

“Alright,” I say, regaining my edge. “Gear up. Ice in ten. We have a series to finish.”

The room exhales as one. Movement resumes, smoother than before. Normalcy is restored, but it’s a new kind of normal—one where the walls have shifted.

I step back, my clipboard tucked under my arm, watching them prepare. My mind begins to click into place—lines, power-play adjustments, and defensive drills.

“Talvi.”

I look up.

Carter Hale stands by the equipment racks.

“Hale.” I keep my tone neutral, braced for a jab.

“Not here,” he says, his voice low. “Too many ears.”

He turns and walks toward the hallway. I hesitate for only a breath, then follow him.

We stop near the trainers’ office, where the lights are dimmer and the air is colder. He exhales once, a slow, measured breath. For a long moment, we just stand there, suspended in a silence that feels heavier than any argument we’ve had this season.

“You’re hard on us,” he says at last.

“But,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck and keeping his gaze fixed on the floor, “you’re fair. Probably the fairest coach I’ve ever had.”

The words hit me harder than any jab he’s thrown at me.

“I misjudged you,” he continues. “I thought you weren’t real. I thought you were just a name and a legacy. I thought you’d crack when it got loud. When it got ugly.”