Page 63 of Uncoachable

Me: Why are you fighting now?

Scottie: He said I can’t threaten to sue someone for “bad vibes.” I told him to watch me.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, picturing the scene.

Dean is likely sitting across from her with a calm, unimpressed expression while she paces his office, making wild legal demands.

Me: Please don’t get arrested today. I don’t have the bail money on me.

Scottie: No promises. Also… are you okay?

I look at the screen, the smile fading into something more contemplative.

Scottie has this unnerving talent for sensing when my equilibrium slips, even through a screen; I don’t have to say a word before she picks up on the shift.

Scottie and Dean are my “normal.”

They knew me when I was just a girl with a whistle and a desperate dream of making her father proud. They don’t see the “St. James” brand; they just see Iveline.

I think about Dean—how he watches over us with that silent, fierce loyalty. It is a protection born of choice, not duty. For a terrifying second, I wonder if that is what Callahan was doing in the bus that night, or in the hallway today.

Was he protecting the coach, or was he protecting me?

My father’s face flashes in my mind.

I know how he operates. He doesn’t fix problems; he replaces them. If he sees me becoming a “distraction” or if he sees his star captain losing his competitive edge because of me, he won’t hesitate for a second. He’ll trade Callahan to a basement-dweller team in the West, or he’ll fire me before I can pack my whistle.

The stakes aren’t just my heart; it is my entire career.

I stare at the phone screen, my thumb hovering, my mind abruptly empty. I push off the desk and walk to the window that overlooks the rink.

Everything looks so orderly from a distance.

My phone buzzes again.

Scottie: If you don’t answer, I’m coming to the rink. With snacks. And threats of physical violence.

Me: It’s nothing, Scottie. Just a long day.

Scottie: Mhmm. Translation: “I felt something and I hate it.” Been there, Ivy. I hate it every single time.

The truth lands like a physical blow.

My chest tightens, heat pools under my skin, and a wave of nausea curls low in my stomach. I turn away from the window and lean back against the wall, sliding down slowly until I am sitting on the floor with my knees bent.

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, breathing through the panic.

Get it together, Iveline. You’re a professional. You don’t unravel just because a man said he was sorry for being a jerk.

But even as I repeat the mantra, I can feel the walls I built around my heart shuddering. Small cracks are forming, tiny fissures are letting the memory of his voice and the weight of his gaze slip in, and it makes me dizzy.

I push myself off the floor eventually.

I straighten my clothes, smooth my hair, and force my breathing into something that passes for normal.

The armor goes back on.

The walls, the ice, the control.