Page 134 of Uncoachable

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” she says softly.

“I know,” I say, refusing to back down. “But I get to decide whether I stand with you. And I’m standing right here.”

Cash, unable to help himself and completely lacking a filter, blurts out, “Coach, please don’t emotionally repress right now. We all saw the photo. We’re all on your side. Just… don’t go back into the freezer.”

Nico groans, and Leo mutters something about Cash’s terrible timing, but the tension breaks. Iveline huffs a breath that might have been a laugh if she had the energy for it. That tiny crack in her facade is all I need to feel steady again.

“Ivy,” I say, my voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that usually only comes out when we’re alone. “I was terrified. I was scared that you’d decide I’m not worth the professional suicide. But I need you to know… last night wasn’t just a lapse in judgment or a moment of weakness. It meant everything to me. It changed the air in my lungs, and if you leave now, you’re taking that with you. If you walk away now, I won’t know how to put myself back together.”

Her breath hitches.

“I’m still here, Cal,” she says, her voice losing that sharp, coaching edge and smoothing out into something raw and private. “I didn’t run. I came to work. I stood in front of this team and I faced them. I’m not pretending last night didn’t happen, and I’m sure as hell not regretting it.”

Relief hits me so hard it almost feels like a physical blow, a sudden rush of oxygen back into my lungs. I want to reach out and touch her, to wrap my hand around the back of her neck and pull her into my space until the cameras and the ice and the noise all disappear, but I force my feet to stay planted.

“And,” she adds, her eyes darting toward the circle of players before dropping her voice to a whisper that vibrates right through my chest, “I’m not pretending it didn’t matter. It mattered enough that I can still feel you every time I move. I’m not letting that go just because some tabloid caught a glimpse of the truth.”

The world seems to recalibrate around that one sentence. The noise from the media vans and the vitriol on Twitter suddenly feels like distant static.

Hale steps closer, breaking us out of the tension we were in.

“Anyone who thinks they get a say in her character or her place on this bench can take it up with me,” he says, his voice flat and terrifyingly calm. “I’ve got plenty of penalty minutes left in my season, and I’m looking for an excuse to use them.”

Cash nods, his usual manic energy sharpening into something protective and jagged. “And me. I’ll burn my media credentials and start a podcast just to scream about how full of shit they are if I have to. They want a show? I’ll give them one they can’t air.”

Iveline actually smiles then—a real, fleeting thing that crinkles the corners of her eyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen her look at the team and not see a tactical puzzle to solve, but a family to lean on.

***

Later—after the grueling practice, after the media scrum has been handled by Jenna’s aggressive PR phalanx, and after the rink has finally emptied—we stand side by side near the boards.

The ice is a vast, quiet mirror, the Zamboni having finished its final pass. We are close enough that the heat from our bodies bleeds through our layers, our shoulders nearly brushing, but neither of us pulls away.

There are no cameras here. No scripts. Just the hum of the cooling system and the smell of frozen water and old leather.

“You’re afraid,” she says, her gaze fixed on the retired jerseys hanging high in the rafters, their colors muted in the dim arena lights.

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a jagged stone. “Yeah.”

“Of me leaving.”

“Yes.”

She nods once, a slow, deliberate movement that seems to cost her something.

“I’ve spent my entire life exiting rooms before things could break. I watched my father after my mother died. I saw what staying did to him—how it turned him into a monument to a grief that never ended. I thought that if I never stayed, I’d never have to feel that kind of hollowed-out silence. I thought surviving was the same thing as living.”

She finally turns to look at me, and the mask is gone. Her expression is so open it’s almost painful to witness.

“But I’m tired, Cal. I’m so exhausted from pretending that my heart isn’t beating. I’ve spent years mistaking fear for discipline, convincing myself that being a statue was the only way to stay unbroken, but it just left me hollow. And the truth is, the thought of walking away from you feels like torture. It feels like a loss so total that no win on the ice could ever make me whole again. I’ve reached the point where I would rather burn with you than be safe and empty without you.”

My chest aches with a pressure that has nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the fact that I would let this entire city burn if it meant she could keep that look in her eyes.

“Then let it burn,” I rasp, stepping into her space until the tips of our skates clink together. “I don’t need this to be easy, Ivy. I know the name you carry, and I know how ugly this league can get. I don’t need a guarantee. I just need the truth.”

She meets my gaze, her blue eyes steady and dark with a new kind of resolve. “I’m staying. And I want to try this with you properly. No more hiding in darkened video rooms or pretending this is just a ‘situation’ we’re managing to appease the board. I want the world to know I’m standing with you.”

The word “try” feels like the bravest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s a death sentence for her privacy and a target on her back, and she’s handing it to me like a gift.