Page 140 of Uncoachable

I let his heartbeat become my rhythm, finally finding the peace that has eluded me for a lifetime.

***

I wake up to the steady, rhythmic thrum of Callahan’s heart beneath my ear.

His arm is a heavy, warm anchor across my waist, his fingers splayed against my hip as if he’d spent the entire night holding me down so I wouldn’t drift away in the dark.

I shift, my skin dragging softly against the cotton of his t-shirt, and his grip tightens instinctively.

“Don’t,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. “Stay.”

“I have things to do, Cal,” I whisper, though I’m already melting back into the mattress.

“The only thing you have to do is exist,” he mutters, pulling the duvet higher around us until we’re encased in a cocoon of heat and the scent of him. “Preferably next to me.”

But the silence of the apartment is shattered by a sharp, rhythmic pounding on the front door. I jolt, my heart leaping, but Cal just groans into my shoulder.

“Ignore it. If we don’t move, they’ll think we’re dead.”

The knocking continues, followed by the muffled, unmistakable sound of Cash’s voice echoing through the wood. “I know you’re in there, Callie! I can smell the brooding from the hallway!”

Cal sighs. He tosses the covers back, the cold air hitting my skin as he stalks toward the living room in nothing but gray sweatpants. I wrap a heavy wool cardigan around myself and follow him, squinting against the brightness of the hallway.

Cal swings the door open, and Cash practically falls inside, holding a tray like a proud raccoon who has discovered something precious in the trash.

“Morning, sunshine!” Cash beams, dodging Cal’s reaching hand to set the tray on the counter with a flourish. “I’ve got matzo ball soup, three types of electrolytes, and a very detailed plan for a movie marathon.”

“Cash, it’s barely eight,” I say, leaning against the door frame.

“Exactly. Prime soup hour,” he says, already popping the lid off a container.

The door, which he hadn’t bothered to latch, swings open again.

Scottie and Dean march in, looking less like guests and more like a tactical unit. Scottie is lugging two massive bags of groceries, while Dean is draped in what looks like five different weighted blankets.

“Out of the way, O’Connell,” Scottie says, nudging Cash with her elbow as she heads straight for the kitchen.

She stops in front of me, her fierce eyes softening for just a fraction of a second as she takes in my messy hair and tired eyes. She doesn’t say anything sentimental—that isn’t her way—but she reaches out and gives my arm a firm, grounding squeeze.

“We’re making pancakes. Real ones. Not the cardboard Callahan probably keeps in the pantry.”

Dean approaches me with the solemnity of a monk, shaking out a thick, plush blanket.

“This one is the high-density fleece,” he says quietly, draping it over my shoulders with careful precision. “Optimal for low-stress environments.”

I look over at Cal, who is leaning against the kitchen island, watching them with a faint, knowing smirk. He doesn’t say a word, but the way he catches my eye tells me everything.

He did this.

He knew I needed my people before I even realized I had people. He knew that the only way to drown out the noise of the world was to fill my home with the people who actually belong in it.

The next hour is a blur of domestic chaos.

The kitchen becomes a battlefield. Cash tries to flip a pancake with an unnecessary behind-the-back move, sending a glob of batter flying onto the ceiling.

“Calculated!” he shouts, pointing at the dripping mess. “I definitely meant to do that!”

Scottie swats him with a spatula, her auburn ponytail whipping as she spins around. “You’re a menace to society, O’Connell.”