Page 138 of Uncoachable

“They’re loyal,” William says, his voice rough. He doesn’t look at me. He’s staring at the empty space where the team was standing. “I never could get them to move like that for me. Not even when I was paying them triple what they’re worth.”

“You can’t buy a heartbeat, Dad,” I say.

He finally looks up, and now the GM mask is gone completely.

There is just a man who is very, very tired.

“Iveline… I’m sorry. I don’t know how to be the man your mother loved without the job to hide behind. I see now that I’ve spent fifteen years trying to manage you instead of knowing you.”

It’s not a perfect apology. It doesn’t erase the years of cold dinners and colder silences. It’s clumsy and jagged, but it’s the most honest thing he’s ever said to me.

William sighs, a long, rattling sound. “I’ll handle the press. I’ll make sure the narrative stays on the hockey. Just… win the damn Cup. Do it your way. I clearly don’t know how to do it mine anymore.”

I nod, the lump in my throat making it hard to speak.

I turn and walk toward the door, my boots clicking on the hardwood. I don’t look back as I leave the office, but I feel the weight of his gaze on my shoulders until the doors close behind me.

The arena is still dim, the only light coming from the glowing emergency exits.

Callahan is leaning against the concrete wall near the locker room entrance, his head tilted back, eyes closed.

When he hears the sharp, uneven click of my boots against the floor, he’s alert in an instant.

He doesn’t ask how it went. He doesn’t ask if I still have a job. He just looks at me, his gaze heavy with a protective sort of yearning that makes my chest ache.

I stop just inches away, close enough to smell the familiar scent of wood smoke that clings to him even in the sterile environment of the arena.

“He’s staying out of the way,” I whisper, the words coming out more like a broken exhale than a sentence.

Cal lets out a long, visible breath of relief, his shoulders finally losing that rigid, combat-ready tension. He reaches out, his hand hovering for a fraction of a second before he slides it into my hair, his fingers tangling in the strands at the nape of my neck.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a grit that wasn’t there before. “Because Cash wasn’t joking about that tweet. He was already arguing with Nico about which hashtags would do the most damage.”

I let out a small, wet laugh, and as the adrenaline of the last hour finally ebbs away, it leaves a hollow, stinging vulnerability in its wake.

My forehead comes to rest against the center of his chest, and I can hear his heart beating—a steady, rhythmic thrum against my ear.

It is the same heart my father accused me of manipulating, yet here it is, sounding like a sanctuary.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement near the equipment trunks.

The boys are there—Cash, Hale, and Nico—pretending to be deeply fascinated by a stack of practice jerseys and a roll of sock tape. They’re hovering, clearly trying to give us space while simultaneously making it very obvious that they aren’t going anywhere.

Cash is holding a hockey stick upside down, his eyes darting toward us every three seconds, while Hale stands there, staring intensely at a blank wall as if it held the secrets to the universe.

They’re a terrible, wonderful audience.

I look up at Cal, and a single, traitorous tear finally slips free, tracking a hot path down my cheek. Before it can even reach my jaw, Cal’s thumb is there. He brushes it away with a tenderness that feels like a physical ache, his hand cupping the side of my face as if I were something fragile he’s finally been allowed to hold.

“Cal,” I say, my voice barely a thread of sound, raw with everything I’m holding back.

“I know, honey,” he whispers, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with an admiration that makes my knees weak.

From the shadows, I hear Cash whisper-yell, “Is it over? Can we go to the rink now or are we still doing the romantic thing? Because my glucose levels are plummeting, I need an ice cream.”

I laugh as I wipe the rest of the dampness from my eyes.

“Let’s go to work,” I say, straightening my blazer and finding that spine of ice again—the one that belongs to me, not my father.