Page 133 of Uncoachable

But what if last night was too much? What if the exposure of that photo makes her decide that I’m a liability she can no longer afford?

The thought of her slipping away, even emotionally, makes my stomach turn. I’m terrified of losing the connection we just built before I even get a chance to hold onto it in the light of day.

I move through the morning on autopilot, shoving the fear down into the pit of my stomach where I keep my pre-game nerves. As I grab my keys and head for the door, a message from Brick flashes on my dash.

Brick: Team chat. Now.

I skim the chat at a long stoplight.

It is chaos, but it is a focused, protective kind of chaos.

Cash is in full guard-dog mode, swearing at anonymous accounts. Nico is stressing and defending Iveline’s coaching record to anyone who will listen. Brick is hovering, silent but clearly furious on her behalf.

And then there is Carter Hale. He has been her loudest critic all season, but his message is in all caps and carries no restraint.

Carter: IF ANYONE TOUCHES HER OR MAKES A COMMENT IN THE MEDIA SCRUM, I WILL END THEM.

I find myself laughing despite the weight in my chest.

Seeing the team close ranks without a second of debate is something I didn’t know I needed. They aren’t questioning the photo. They aren’t asking me for the details. They’ve decided that she belongs to us, and that means she is protected.

Whatever the media thinks they are doing, they have massively miscalculated the loyalty of this locker room.

***

By the time I pull into the rink parking lot, the atmosphere feels charged. There are news vans at the gates, cameras tilted toward every tinted window that passes. I floor it past them, my grip tight on the steering wheel.

When I finally step into the arena, the familiar chill of the ice greets me, but the air in the tunnel is heavy.

I find them near the bench.

Cash is posted at Ivy’s side like a sentry, his arms crossed over his chest. Nico is pacing tight circles nearby. Leo is pretending to stretch, but his eyes are fixed on the tunnel entrance. Hale is a few steps back, his jaw clenched and his eyes sharp, scanning the doors as if he’s waiting for a physical threat to materialize.

Something in my chest loosens at the sight, then tightens again when I finally meet her eyes. I see the exhaustion etched fine beneath her carefully maintained control.

“Callahan,” she says as I approach. Her voice is measured and contained—the voice of the assistant coach, not the woman from yesterday.

“Iveline.” I stop in front of her, keeping my voice low so the others can’t hear the raw edge in it. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says. That faint Finnish cadence slips through her words—a sure sign that the stress is bleeding through her polish. “It is… manageable.”

“They’re coming for you, Ivy,” I say quietly, stepping into her space, ignoring the way Hale shifts to give us a sliver of privacy. “That isn’t manageable. That is a targeted hit on your career.”

She exhales, her gaze sliding past me for half a second.

And there is the instinct I recognize so well. The retreat. I can almost hear the sound of her armor locking back into place, the metal plates sliding together to hide the vulnerable girl underneath.

“Callahan,” she says evenly, her eyes returning to mine with a glassy sort of focus. “It is noise. I’ve spent my entire life around the St. James name. I can handle noise.”

My chest tightens, because I’ve seen this film before. I know how she compartmentalizes. She survives by making herself emotionally invisible while standing her ground professionally. It’s a survival tactic, but it’s also a wall.

And suddenly, the fear from this morning is back, sharper than before.

She’s running.

She isn’t leaving the building, but she’s running from me.

“I’m not letting them turn you into a headline,” I say. “You aren’t a distraction. You’re the reason this team is in the finals. You’re the reason I’m even standing here.”