Page 147 of Uncoachable

Callahan shifts beside me, his arm draped across the space where I’d been pressed against him only moments ago. In the soft, unfiltered morning light, the sharp lines of his face are relaxed.

It hits me squarely in the ribs, not with a sharp pain, but with a warm, steady ache that makes it hard to breathe for a different reason.

This is real.

For so long, I operated under the assumption that love was a transaction. It was something you earned through a flawless performance or lost the moment you showed a single crack of failure.

My father’s love always felt conditional, something measured in wins and losses. The media’s attention felt like a trap waiting to spring. But Callahan’s love isn’t a test. It is a constant. It is the solid, dependable ice beneath my skates.

I used to think that choosing him would mean losing the hard-earned identity I’d built as a professional, but in this quiet room, I realize he’s the only person who has ever truly seen me.

That realization gives me the permission I’ve been denying myself for years—the permission to imagine a life that is actually mine.

I slide out of bed carefully, moving like a shadow so I don’t wake him. My bare feet pad softly across the floor as I walk into the living room.

I sit on the couch, tracing the patterns of sunlight on the cushions with my fingers. My hands tremble, not from the lingering tremors of fear, but from a sudden, blinding clarity.

I finally know what I want.

Not what the league expects of a woman in my position. Not what my father wants for the family brand. Not what the press will praise or tear apart depending on the weather.

I know what I want.

And for the first time, I let myself name it.

I want something that is mine from the dirt up. Something I build with my own hands, my own failures, and my own triumphs. I want to create something that actually matters beyond the final score of a hockey game.

My thumb hovers over my phone, and I find myself scrolling through the camera roll. Photos from the Kids’ Open Day fill the screen—wide, expectant eyes, gap-toothed laughter, and the pure, unadulterated joy echoing across the cold rink.

That day changed something fundamental in me. For those few hours, I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t proving my worth to a boardroom. I was just present.

I was alive.

I want that again. I want to create that feeling for others.

I see the vision forming in my mind: a foundation. Not a branch of my father’s empire, but the start of my own.

I want to build a bridge between the disciplined ice of Finland and the raw ambition of American hockey. A place where I am the one who decides who gets a chance, regardless of their last name or their connections.

My phone buzzes, a sudden vibration that pulls me back to the present. It is a flurry of messages from Cash, Dean, Scottie, and even Brick.

It is chaos and love in digital form.

They are my people. They are the family I chose when the one I was born into felt too small.

Then my eyes land on my father’s contact name.

My stomach tightens instinctively, a remnant of the old fear. But the clarity I found in the sunlight doesn’t waver.

I take a deep breath and dial the number.

“Hello?” His voice is cautious, sounding older and more tired than I remember from our confrontation in the arena.

“Hi, Dad,” I say softly, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart. “Can we talk? For a moment?”

“Of course, Iveline. Is everything okay? Is the press—?”

“Everything is fine,” I begin, cutting him off before he can spiral into optics. “I’ve been thinking. About my career. About the team, and about… everything. And I’ve realized that I need to build something of my own. My way. Without the St. James safety net.”