Page 17 of Uncoachable

Sweat runs down my spine, cooling too fast now that I have stopped moving. My thighs burn and my lungs ache, but my pride is in much worse shape.

That is the part I cannot shake: why I went after her.

I hadn’t planned it. I hadn’t even been thinking about her.

I had come out of the training room earlier today, hands still damp and head empty, running on pure muscle memory, and there she was—alone in the hallway, studying the framed photos as if she were reading history rather than just admiring it.

Then she went outside, and it didn’t register that I was walking toward her until I heard my own voice cut through the quiet.

She turned as if she had expected me.

She looked as though she already knew I was going to be a problem.

My heart was doing a frantic, uneven beat. I am the captain of this team, the face of the franchise, and I shouldn’t have been stuttering in front of an assistant coach.

How was I supposed to know the woman I lost it on during the worst night of my career would resurface as our coach?

What were the odds?

Apparently, not zero.

Four years ago, just before the biggest game of my life, she crashed into my car. It was the first game of the playoffs, the very first night I stepped onto the ice as captain.

It wasn’t even a dramatic crash. There were no explosions or blood, just enough metal on metal to snap my focus clean in half.

I was already wound too tight and already late, carrying the weight of a franchise that had not seen the Cup in too long. I had spent the whole drive visualizing my first shift and imagining the roar of the crowd.

Then came the jolt.

I remember looking at her car, a sensible silver sedan that looked tiny compared to my vehicle. I remember the fury that rose up in my throat, hot and choking.

I didn’t see a person in that car; I saw an excuse for why I might fail.

Looking back, that is the part that makes my stomach turn. I didn’t check to see if she was hurt. I yelled and said things I shouldn’t have. I don’t remember the exact words, only the edge in my voice and the way my hands shook.

And then I ran. I let my driver handle it, took another car, and told myself it didn’t matter.

We lost that night.

Somehow, in my head, that moment fused with everything that went wrong after. The missed assignment, the bad bounce, and the empty feeling in my chest when the season ended too early—I blamed her because it was easier than blaming myself.

The crash still lives in me, not just as anger, but as proof I could falter. That is what I keep hearing every time I step on the ice: the fear that I will not be enough.

“Earth to Callahan.”

Cash drops onto the bench beside me, all elbows and noise, acting as if personal space is merely a suggestion. I don’t look at him, but I can feel the grin.

“You okay?”

“I swear to God,” I mutter, closing my eyes, “if you say one more word about destiny, I am done.”

“She’s the GM’s kid,” he cuts in, his voice quieter now and serious enough to make me open my eyes. “That is wild, Callie.”

Across the room, Marcus Bennett spins a puck on his stick, acting casual though he is clearly listening.

“Explains a lot,” Marcus adds.

I sit up straighter. “What exactly does it explain?”