Page 132 of Uncoachable

Last night happened.

Iveline happened.

A grin edges onto my face before I can stop it, stretching muscles that are sore from more than just hockey. I roll over, reaching for the space beside me, but the sheets are cool. She left early, likely to beat the sun to the rink.

Then the first ping comes.

It is followed immediately by another. And another.

My phone vibrates against the nightstand with a frantic, rhythmic persistence that kills the afterglow instantly. I reach for it, squinting against the brightness of the screen.

Cash.

When isn’t it him?

8:14 AM

Cash: CALLIE.

Cash: Open Twitter. NOW.

Cash: Tell me you’re awake. Tell me you have a lawyer.

I groan, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and sitting up.

The room still smells faintly like her—that clean, sharp, restrained scent that unraveled so beautifully in my hands last night. I grab the phone, my thumb already feeling heavy with a sense of impending dread.

The flood hits me the moment I unlock the screen. Screenshots from sports blogs, mentions from accounts I’ve blocked, and news alerts stacked so tightly they blur into one another.

And then I see it.

It’s one photo. One frozen moment ripped from the context of a private conversation and fed to the hungry masses. It shows us leaving the gala, caught in the yellow glow of a streetlamp.

Her head is tipped toward mine, caught mid-laugh, her hand resting near my chest. My arm is angled near her waist; I’m not touching her, but the proximity is enough for the world to do the math.

The implication does the work that a hundred words couldn’t.

My stomach drops.

Not because I’m ashamed of what happened. I’d do it all again ten times over. It’s because I know exactly what they’ll do to her.

In this world, I’m the hero who fell for the coach.

She’s the woman who compromised the mission.

Scrolling through the feed feels like dragging my knuckles across broken glass. I land on the first major article, and my jaw locks so hard it hurts.

“New coach or a distraction? St. James’ Influence on the Boston Reign—And Callahan’s Private Life.”

The comments are even worse. Thousands of them from people who have never laced up a pair of skates, all of them loud, confident, and cruel in the way only strangers with anonymity can be when they think they’ve found a crack in someone’s armor.

The phone buzzes again.

I drop it on the bed, my breath coming in shallow bursts as the adrenaline starts to climb. The panic flares sharp and immediate.

I know Iveline.

I know her patterns of behavior when things get loud. She survives by making herself small, by retreating into the work until the storm passes.