Page 78 of Uncoachable

“True,” he says cheerfully, unlocking his car. “But I’m a correct idiot. Anyone with eyes could see the way you look at her, Callahan.”

He slides into the driver’s seat and peels out of the lot, still grinning. I’m left standing there in the biting cold, the truth pressing down on me hard and heavy.

I climb into my car and slam the door harder than I need to. I sit there gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles ache.

I crossed a line tonight, and the worst part—the part that scares me more than anything—is that I don’t regret it.

I put the car in gear and pull out of the lot.

The arena shrinks in my rear-view mirror, but the feeling doesn’t fade. And whatever this is between us, it’s not going away.

Not after the way she said my name.

Not after I realized I am already falling, and there isn’t any ice thick enough to catch me.

***

10:56 PM

Cash: You know this is actually very hard for me.

Me: …What is?

Cash: Watching you fall in love before I do. I thought we were in this together. Two idiots. Alone. Forever.

Me: Finnian.

Cash: No, no, it’s fine. I’ll just… download a dating app or something.

21

Iveline Talvi

The alarm has been screaming on my bedside table long enough that the sound feels fused to the inside of my skull by the time I actually register it.

When I finally crack my eyes open, the ceiling wobbles—just slightly, just enough to make my stomach pitch in a way that is deeply unpleasant.

I lie there longer than I ever allow myself to, staring at the faint, jagged crack in the white paint above my bed. I count my breaths, waiting for the room to steady itself, but it never happens.

I try to remember the last time I took a sick day, but I can’t.

In my house growing up, a fever wasn’t a reason to stop; it was just another variable to be managed with ibuprofen and silence.

My father didn’t believe in “rest.”

He believed in grit.

I remember being twelve years old, skating through a lung infection that made every breath taste like copper, because the St. James name didn’t allow for empty spots on the roster.

You showed up, you performed, and you didn’t complain.

When I finally push myself upright, the floor tilts. It’s not a violent shift, not enough to drop me to the carpet, but it is enough to make my body feel lagging and detached from my intentions.

I press my fingers into my temples and close my eyes, a single thought echoing in the fog: Great. Just great.

Still, I swing my legs over the side of the bed.

Because that is what I do.