Page 150 of Uncoachable

We’re one win away from a sweep, one win away from history, one win away from everything I’ve bled for since I was a kid. The pressure should crush me, but all I can think about is her voice this morning.

“Yes, Callahan. I’m staying. And yes—we’re going to win.”

I look toward the bench, my gaze cutting through the chaotic sea of purple jerseys, trainers, and equipment staff.

She’s there.

Iveline stands with her hair pulled back so tight it looks painful, her jaw set in that familiar, beautiful line of stubborn determination.

She catches me looking, her sharp, intelligent eyes locking onto mine across the ice, and she gives the smallest, almost imperceptible nod.

We’re doing this. Not just the team, but us.

We’re winning this.

The First Period

The puck drops and the entire world narrows down to a hundred-by-two-hundred-foot sheet of white ice. The periphery blurs into a frantic smear of black and gold. Skates cut deep into the surface with a sharp, rhythmic rasp.

I take the first shift hard, my forecheck aggressive, my stick active, and my eyes scanning for every opening. My legs are already burning, but the fire feels good.

It feels like being alive.

The other team is fast and desperate, playing with the jagged hunger of a predator that hasn’t eaten in weeks.

Good. So are we.

Brick lays a hit along the boards that rattles the glass and sends a physical shock wave through the front row. Nico steals a puck clean in the neutral zone, moving with the quiet, deadly grace of a pickpocket. Leo fires a heavy shot from the point that rings off the post so loudly the sound echoes through my very bones.

I skate past the bench during a line change, my chest heaving as I try to suck in enough frigid air to keep my lungs from bursting. The sweat is stinging my eyes, but as I glide by, Ivy leans forward just enough for me to hear her over the deafening roar.

“Good pace, Cal,” she says, her voice steady, devoid of the panic that usually fills a Finals bench. “Stay on them. Their transition is sluggish.”

Her voice steadies me more than the oxygen ever could. It’s the anchor I need in the middle of this hurricane.

The Second Period

Kovács handles a messy rebound in the crease, slamming the puck home so hard the net itself seems to recoil in shock.

The arena detonates.

I swear I feel the roof lift an inch off its foundations as twenty thousand people scream at the top of their lungs.

I look toward the bench as the team celebrates. Ivy is smiling. It’s a fierce, bright, and incredibly proud expression that makes her look younger.

Looking at her makes my legs feel ten pounds lighter.

But the other team is elite for a reason. They answer back quickly. A missed assignment leads to a breakaway, a snap shot that finds the top corner with surgical precision.

Tie game.

My heart slams against my ribs, my jaw tight enough to crack a tooth as the frustration boils up. I skate back to the bench, head down, ready to snap.

Ivy meets my eyes before I can spiral into that dark, familiar frustration.

“Breathe,” she says simply.

So I do.