Page 142 of Uncoachable

Nico is tossing a beer to Brick, who catches it one-handed without even looking. Cash is already in the kitchen, judging the quality of Scottie’s batter. But the atmosphere shifts instantly when a sharp, melodic ping erupts from my laptop on the coffee table.

Cal reaches for it, his expression sharpening into the Captain’s mask.

“Ivy,” he says, his voice losing its playfulness and turning hard as ice. “Look.”

I lean over, my breath catching. It’s an encrypted email from the league’s medical review board. My eyes skip over the legal disclaimers until they hit the bolded text at the bottom.

Subject: Clearance Status—Moore, C. Result: PASSED. Status: Active.

“You’re cleared,” I breathe, the words coming out as a shocked, jagged exhale. “Cal, you passed.”

The room goes silent for exactly one heartbeat before it absolutely erupts.

Kovács lets out a warrior’s bellow, nearly taking out a floor lamp as he pumps his fists. Nico and Cash start a rhythmic pounding on the walls that probably has the neighbors calling the police.

But Callahan doesn’t move. He doesn’t cheer. He just looks at me, a fierce, hungry light igniting in his eyes.

“Game three,” he rasps, his hand tightening on mine until the grip is almost bruising. “I’m back.”

“You’re back,” I agree.

As the boys start a celebratory wrestling match in the middle of the rug, Noah wanders over, looking uncharacteristically soft.

“Iveline?” he says quietly. “Statistically, the team’s morale increases by 40% when the Captain is on the ice. But… for what it’s worth, my personal observation is that the team’s heart rate only stabilizes when you are behind the bench. You’re the constant variable. We’ve got this if you’re with us.”

I swallow hard, the kindness of it hitting me square in the chest. I nod, unable to find the words.

Jenna sinks onto the arm of the couch, nudging my knee with the toe of her heel.

“For the record,” she whispers, “I only pushed you because I wanted you to be happy. Not just because I wanted to be right. Though, being right feels nice.”

I look around the room—at the flour on the floor, the empty pastry boxes, and the loud, loyal group of misfits who have turned Callahan’s apartment into a bunker.

I am Iveline Talvi St. James, and for the first time, the name doesn’t feel like a weight.

I lean back into Cal’s warmth, letting the roar of my circus drown out the rest of the world.

The final game is coming, and the spotlight will be blinding, but I’m not afraid of it anymore.

I’m ready.

38

Cal

The aftermath of the team’s chaotic visit lingers in the air—the faint, roasted scent of coffee, the smell of something burnt, and a hint of flour that still clings stubbornly to the granite counter despite how hard Dean scrubbed at it.

There is a stray sock on the lamp and a half-finished mug of tea abandoned on the windowsill. Cash’s jacket is draped over a chair as if it lost a fight with gravity.

It looks like a mess, but to me, it looks like evidence.

It’s proof of a loyalty that doesn’t care about optics or headlines.

It’s comfort disguised as chaos.

I’m stretched out on the deep cushions of the couch, and Ivy’s back is pressed firmly against my chest. Her legs are tucked between mine, her heels resting against my shins, and she fits there as if she were built for this exact space.

She exhales, a long and soft sound that vibrates against my chest.