Page 123 of Uncoachable

Callahan: You were unreal out there. I don’t think you realize how good you are.

I close my eyes, letting the words settle into the hollows of my chest.

The phone buzzes again.

Callahan: Proud of you. More than you know.

The air in my lungs hitches, a sudden, sharp catch. Before I can even begin to process the weight of that, another notification slides across the glass.

Claire: I know tonight meant a lot. Your dad… he’s proud too. Even if he’s terrible at saying it. I’m proud of you as well. You coach with so much heart.

The words hit with a different kind of gravity—steady and careful, the way she always is when he isn’t.

Seeing her name on the screen is like finding a familiar landmark in a storm. In the two years since she married my father, Claire has become the only person who knows how to navigate the frozen terrain he leaves behind.

She is the bridge he refuses to build, the stepmother acting as the quiet translator for a language he only speaks in shadows.

I let out a long, shuddering exhale, watching the frantic celebration of my teammates blur into a haze of motion. The noise of the room fades into a dull hum, and for the first time all year, the iron bands around my ribs don’t just loosen; they simply fall away.

I don’t look for my father’s name in the call log. I don’t need the ghost of a man who isn’t here when I have the reality of the people who are.

I tuck the phone into my pocket and let the storm of the room swallow me whole, finally moving toward the light instead of the shadows.

33

Callahan

6:58 PM

Cash: I’m at the gala already. There’s a chocolate fountain. I’m scared.

Me: Why are you scared?

Cash: Because I WILL touch it and they WILL kick me out.

* * *

This is damage control.

At least that’s what they called it in the group text from the front office.

We have three days before the Cup series begins, and the brass decided that a charity gala was the best way to distract the hungry media.

The city lights glitter through the towering windows of the ballroom. They fracture across polished marble and gold trim, splintered reflections caught in crystal chandeliers and mirrored columns. The room hums with money and influence: low laughter, practiced charm, and the soft swell of a live orchestra threading elegance through the air.

I’ve survived worse rooms than this. I’ve survived locker rooms after heartbreaking losses and press scrums after season-ending suspensions. But this one makes my chest tighten anyway.

Because she’s here.

And after everything that happened on the ice—after the headlines and the slow-motion replays and the way the world tried to turn her concern into a scandal—pretending this is just another professional obligation feels like a lie I’m not equipped to sell.

I see the way the older men—the donors, the former executives, and the silent partners—watch her. They look for a crack in her composure or a sign that she’s overwhelmed by the opulence.

They don’t realize she was born in rooms like this.

She isn’t here to be approved of by them. She’s here to endure, to dominate quietly, and to leave without giving them a single piece of herself they didn’t earn.

And God help anyone who mistakes her composure for weakness.