Page 14 of Uncoachable

Callahan passes me without a glance, his skates cutting deep, angry grooves into the ice.

That’s fine.

I’m not here to be liked; I’m here to win.

I change into my boots and pull my cap on as Rick stops beside me.

He looks at the ice, then at me. “I’ve seen three coaches try to get Kovács to tuck in like that. You did it in twenty minutes. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks, Rick.”

After he heads for the offices, I move toward the exit, my gaze drifting to the framed photos in the hallway. It’s a gallery of ghosts and legends.

I stop in front of the picture of my father from his first year as General Manager. He looks younger there, his hair more brown than white, but he has the same unreadable expression.

I force myself to keep walking.

The hallway is quiet, and my boots echo against the concrete. The adrenaline that carried me through the last two hours begins to fade, leaving a quiet, hollow ache in its wake.

I tell myself I did well, yet my chest feels tight. It is the same feeling I used to get in Europe—the sense that competence is a temporary visa that could be revoked at any moment.

You are only as good as your last drill.

I push through the exit doors and the cold Boston air hits me hard, shocking the humidity of the rink out of my clothes.

I am halfway to my car in the darkening lot when I hear a voice behind me.

“Coach.”

I turn to see Callahan standing a few feet away.

He’s still in his workout gear, a team sweatshirt thrown on, hair pushed back like he ran a hand through it on his way out. There’s no sign he even bothered with the shower.

Up close, he looks even more like trouble.

He has the same intense energy he had years ago when he was yelling at me in the rain, blaming me for a car accident that was as much the weather’s fault as mine.

“You run a hard practice,” he says, his expression guarded.

I wait, pursing my lips to the side.

“I don’t dump the puck for fun,” he adds. “It works. It’s how we’ve stayed in the hunt.”

“For you,” I say. “Sometimes. But ‘sometimes’ doesn’t win championships, Moore. It wins highlights.”

His jaw tightens. “You embarrassed me out there.”

“No. You embarrassed yourself. I just didn’t stop you.”

He exhales, a cloud of white breath in the freezing air, and for a fraction of a heartbeat, I catch something vulnerable behind his eyes. It’s the look of a man who realizes the world is changing faster than he can skate.

“You didn’t have to come at me like that.”

“I did. Because if I let the captain slide, I lose the rookies before they even lace up. You know that.”

I turn to leave, but he speaks again. “I’m not done.”

I stop and look up at him, realizing just how much height he has on me. “You should be. It’s been a long day.”