Page 137 of Uncoachable

“Then let me be a distraction,” I whisper. “I’d rather be a distraction with a soul than a coach with an empty house.”

William sinks into his leather chair, the fight suddenly leaking out of him.

He looks older than I’ve ever seen him.

His eyes drift to the silver-framed photo of my mother on the corner of his desk.

“She used to tell me I was too rigid,” he murmurs, more to the photograph than to me. “She told me that if I kept trying to freeze time, I’d eventually break. I thought she was wrong. I thought structure was the only thing that kept the sky from falling after she left.”

“The sky already fell, Dad,” I say, my voice softening.

The heavy oak doors suddenly fly open, the sound echoing through the quiet executive wing and making us both jump. I spin around, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Callahan is there. He’s in a simple black hoodie, his eyes dark and fixed entirely on me, scanning my face for signs of damage. But he isn’t alone.

The Reign are behind him.

Cash, Hale, Nico, defensemen, and rookies file in, their presence instantly making the expansive office feel cramped and small.

“What is the meaning of this?” William snaps, though he doesn’t rise from his chair. The executive mask is back, but it’s slipping at the edges.

Cash steps forward first, his jaw set but his eyes dancing with that familiar, reckless fire.

He doesn’t look at the GM; he looks at me. “Sorry for the intrusion, Coach. We were just heading to the training room and realized the locker room felt a little… structurally unsound. We figured the foundation was up here.”

He turns his gaze to William, his voice dropping into a tone that is far too polite to be friendly.

“Morning, sir. Just a heads-up: if anyone tries to force our coach out, I’ve already drafted a tweet. It’s got a lot of emojis and a very detailed account of how you tried to ruin the best season we’ve ever had. It’s currently in my ‘Drafts’ folder. My thumb is twitching, sir. It’s a real nervous tic.”

“She isn’t going anywhere,” Hale adds. He stands behind me, his arms crossed over his chest, his shadow overlapping mine. “We don’t take the ice without her. You want her resignation? You’ll have to take the whole roster’s.”

I look at them, stunned. The air in the room shifts from the stale cold of an executive meeting to the suffocating heat of a huddle.

Callahan finally moves, sliding to my side.

In a room defined by my father’s rigid rules and clinical boundaries, Cal breaks them all: he reaches out and takes my hand, interlacing our fingers in a grip so solid it feels like he’s anchoring me to the earth. The heat radiating off him is enough to finally steady the trembling in my joints.

He leans in, his height shielding me from William’s piercing gaze, and presses a slow, lingering kiss to my forehead.

“We’ve got you, Ivy,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in my chest.

He stays right there, his thumb tracing circles over my knuckles as he looks William dead in the eye—the Captain meeting the General Manager.

“This isn’t a negotiation, William,” Cal says, his voice a low, steady rumble. “This is the team. And the team has made its choice.”

William looks at the wall of men in his office. He looks at the defiance in Cash’s eyes, the solidity of Hale, and the way Callahan is anchored to my side as if he were part of the floor.

For the first time, I see my father truly realize that he no longer owns this room.

He built the arena, but we built the soul inside it.

“Leave us,” William says quietly, gesturing to the players. “All of you. Get to the rink. I need a moment with my daughter.”

The players linger, looking at me for confirmation. I give them a small, shaky nod.

Cal hesitates the longest, his eyes searching mine one last time before he leads the way out, the doors clicking shut with a finality that echoes through the room.

The silence that returns is different. It’s heavy with the weight of things that can’t be unsaid.