Page 135 of Uncoachable

“I’m yours,” I murmur, the words finally feeling like they belong to the air between us. “I think I’ve been yours since the first time you yelled at me for my positioning. If you’ll have me… I’m all in. Scandal, shoulder injury, and all. I’ll take the hits, Ivy. I’ll take every single one of them if it means I get to go home to you.”

Her smirk returns, but it’s softer now, threaded with a vulnerability that makes my heart feel like it’s being squeezed by a fist. “Good. Because I’m done pretending I don’t want you. I want all of it.”

I tilt my head down, my mouth grazing the shell of her ear as I let out a low whisper. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. You’re the only play I’m interested in making anymore.”

I feel her relax—a true, physical surrendering of the tension that has lived in her shoulders since she first stepped foot in Boston.

This is what trust feels like. It’s not just about making the right play on the ice; it’s about being willing to stay when the play goes to hell and the crowd starts to boo.

“We’re done hiding,” I murmur against her skin.

“Done,” she echoes, her breath hitching.

Her exhale settles against my neck, warm and steady. My own heartbeat slows, catching the rhythm of hers in the quiet, heavy intimacy of the empty rink.

I know what’s coming.

I know there will be league inquiries and ethics meetings. I know Rick will be a nightmare, and I know the cold, calculating fury of William St. James is waiting for us on the horizon.

I’ve spent my entire career chasing a feeling I couldn’t name, moving from city to city and game to game, but looking at her now, I realize I wasn’t running toward a trophy.

I was running toward this.

We aren’t just some scandalous headline for the press to chew on.

We’re a revolution.

And as the first game of the Finals looms over us like a mountain, the crushing weight I usually feel in my chest is gone. There is no pressure, only the sudden, blinding lightness of the truth.

We are done hiding.

And God help anyone who tries to stand in our way.

36

Ivy

Last night was electric—there is no other word for it.

Every whispered “I’m yours” felt like a reclamation of my own heart. It felt as if we’d both been holding our breaths since the first day of training camp and could finally, mercifully, exhale.

In the quiet dark of Callahan’s room, the world felt small, manageable, and soft.

Then my phone buzzed against the nightstand, shattering the peace of the dawn with the mechanical violence of a heart monitor flatlining.

My father didn’t say hello or ask how I’m feeling. He didn’t acknowledge that we are seventy-two hours away from the biggest game of our collective lives. He just wrote three words that feel like a summons to an execution: My office. Now.

I dress in the gray light of five a.m., my movements robotic and cold. I look at Cal, still asleep, his face stripped of the “Captain” mask, looking younger and more vulnerable than the world ever allows him to be.

I want to crawl back in, to hide in the heat of his skin and pretend my last name doesn’t come with a leash.

Instead, I slip out.

When I get to the arena, the walk to the executive wing feels like a march to the gallows. The carpeted halls are silent, the smell of stale coffee and expensive leather growing stronger as I approach the heavy oak doors of the GM’s office.

William is already standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the empty seats of the arena. He doesn’t turn when I enter. He stays in that rigid, military posture he adopts when he’s about to deliver a verdict.

“Iveline,” he begins, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through glass. “This… this is unacceptable. The optics are disastrous.”