Page 139 of Uncoachable

He smiles. “After you, Coach.”

I turn toward the ice, walking past the team as they erupt into poorly suppressed grins and shoulder bumps.

For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like a St. James legacy.

I feel like a woman who is loved, and that is more than enough to win a championship.

37

Ivy

The apartment is dark.

The blinds are half-closed, allowing thin, slanted lines of city light to slice across the furniture like cold prison bars. Shadows crawl across the walls and the floor, seeping into every quiet corner I try to claim for myself. They feel alive, as if they’re waiting for the exact moment I finally crack.

The tears burn hot trails down my cheeks, dripping onto my knees and soaking into the fabric of my leggings. My shoulders begin to shake with the force of everything I’ve been suppressing.

The weight of the last few weeks—the invasive paparazzi, the cruel rumors, the pressure of the team’s expectations, and the suffocating shadow of my father—crashes down on me all at once. It feels like being crushed from the inside out by my own ribs.

I try to muffle the sound, burying my face deeper into my hands because I don’t want Callahan to wake up and see me like this.

But he stirs anyway.

The mattress creaks softly as he sits up, and a moment later, I hear the floorboards groan under his weight. His voice reaches me, low and rough with sleep, carrying a gentleness that hurts more than a reprimand.

“You’re still looking at it.”

I flinch, realizing I still have my phone clutched in my hand. The screen is glowing with the same headlines I saw after the press conference—the ones Jenna’s team tried to bury.

I swipe at my face uselessly, trying to hide the dampness on my skin.

“I… I have to,” I whisper, my voice cracking and small. “I have to know what they’re saying, Cal. I have to know what the world thinks of me.”

He moves closer, his steps slow and careful.

He lets his presence press gently against mine, grounding me without demanding I fix myself.

He sinks onto the floor beside me, not caring about the cold or the hardness of the wood. Gently, he pries the phone from my white-knuckled grip and sets it face down on the floor. The light vanishes, leaving us in the dark of the room.

“Look at me, Ivy,” he murmurs.

I shake my head, burying my face in my knees. “I’m a mess. I’m not… I’m not supposed to be this.”

“You’re supposed to be human,” he says, and the sheer kindness in his voice makes a fresh wave of sobs break over me.

He reaches out, his large hands cupping my face. He tilts my head up, forcing me to meet his gaze. Even in the shadows, his eyes are filled with a heartbreaking level of devotion.

Slowly, he leans in. He doesn’t kiss my lips; instead, he presses his mouth to my cheeks, one by one, literally kissing the tears away.

It’s so tender it feels like he’s trying to stitch my soul back together with nothing but his touch.

“You spend so much time worrying about what the world thinks,” he whispers, his forehead resting against mine. “But the world doesn’t see you when the cameras are off. They don’t see the woman who stays up until dawn perfecting a power play just so her boys don’t get hurt on the ice. They don’t see the heart you try so hard to hide.”

He pulls me into him, my face tucked into the crook of his neck, his arms wrapping around me like a fortress.

“Ivy,” he says, his voice vibrating through my bones. “If you ever lost everything—the job, the name, the arena—you’d still be the most incredible person I’ve ever known. I’d follow you into the dark if that’s where you wanted to go. I don’t need the coach. I need you. And God, I’m so sorry you ever felt like you had to be anything else for me.”

He holds me tighter as I finally let it all go, my fingers clutching the back of his t-shirt.