Page 50 of Uncoachable

Leo: Should we… say good morning?

Brick: Only if you’ve made peace with God, kid.

* * *

Two months have passed since that night on the team bus in D.C.

Two months since Callahan came too close under a guttering streetlamp. Two months since I reminded myself, with painful clarity, why I don’t allow distractions to breach my perimeter.

When I woke up the next morning in that hotel room, the heat of his shoulder still lingered against mine. The memory made me flush with a mix of irritation and shame—not at him, but at my own momentary weakness.

Callahan didn’t cross a line, and I certainly didn’t invite him to, but if my father found out how easily I allowed him to see behind the mask, it would be the end of the autonomy I’ve fought so hard to build.

I kept my distance on the flight back. I avoided eye contact during the morning film sessions and stayed strictly clinical during our practices.

The team noticed the shift in temperature; they always do.

They stopped cracking jokes when I walked into the room, and even Cash started focusing on his edges instead of his punchlines.

The weeks that followed blurred into a relentless grind of travel, practices, and back-to-back games. We’ve clawed our way to nineteen wins already, a pace that leaves little room for anything except work and sleep.

Whatever strange, charged thing existed between Callahan and me that night never had the space to become anything more. We haven’t really talked since—not beyond clipped strategy notes, lineup adjustments, or the occasional low-voiced “good game.”

It’s easier to pretend we’re both too busy to acknowledge it. Easier to bury it under film sessions, injury reports, and the constant pressure of keeping this team sharp.

So we orbit each other instead—close enough to feel the pull, far enough to pretend it’s not there.

Now, it is late December and we are staring down the barrel of game twenty-seven.

Pre-game practice is a controlled chaos of skidding steel, clashing sticks, and pucks thudding against the plexiglass. I let the weight of the clipboard feel like an extension of my arm as I pace the boards.

“Focus,” I call out, my voice echoing off the rafters. “If I see one more blind pass to the slot, we’re skating suicides until the ice melts.”

Cash grins, executing a perfect tight turn and spraying a fan of snow against the boards near my feet. “I did that one correctly, didn’t I, Coach Talvi? Pure, unadulterated talent.”

The name doesn’t catch me off guard anymore; most of the players are calling me Coach Talvi now. And even if I’ll never admit it aloud, the shift warms something behind my ribs; it feels earned.

Callahan is the only one who stays reserved, sticking to a professional, careful “Coach” that sounds like a shield.

I look at Cash. “You’re surprisingly competent today, Cash. Try to keep it up for more than ten minutes.”

I skate back toward the center, scanning the roster.

Nico is juggling a puck on the blade of his stick like he’s auditioning for a circus act. Brick is watching him with quiet, heavy judgment. Leo is trying to look confident, but the way he grips his stick tells me the nervous energy is still vibrating through him.

Midway through the drills, the heavy doors at the end of the tunnel swing open. A voice cuts through the thrum of the arena, booming and joyous.

“Ivy! I’ve arrived! Please tell me you missed me or I’m going to have a breakdown right here on the concrete!”

I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat. A genuine smile spreads across my face before I can suppress it.

Two people step onto the ice—the two people who have been my absolute lifeline through the grueling years in Europe.

My favorite redhead, Scottie, comes skipping onto the ice in thick-soled boots, nearly slipping but laughing through the stumble. She is a whirlwind of cashmere, earmuffs, and a coat that probably cost more than a mid-sized sedan.

Following her is Dean, calm and silent as always, his eyes surveying the arena with the practiced caution of a perimeter guard.

“Ivy, my baby!” Scottie yells, waving her arms.