Page 81 of Uncoachable

Halfway through a transition drill, Noah is rambling behind me—something about shot suppression rates—but his voice blurs into background noise.

It feels like I’m underwater.

The blue line is suddenly much closer than it should be.

My skate catches on a rut in the ice. It is a stupid, amateur mistake that I would be annoyed at a rookie for.

I don’t fall immediately.

I stumble, my arms windmilling for a second as I try to find my center.

But that is enough.

The world tips violently this time. My knee buckles, my vision smears into a mess of white and black, and suddenly, the ice is unforgiving.

One second I am upright, the next the horizon is slanted at a forty-five-degree angle and my equilibrium is shouting a warning I can’t process.

I wait for the impact—the cold shock of the ice against my palms—but it never comes.

Instead, I am caught.

Callahan’s arm is like a steel bar wrapped across my waist.

He hauls me back from the edge of the abyss with a strength that is startling. Even through the layers of our gear, I can feel the raw, vibrating energy of a man who just finished a full-speed sprint.

For a terrifying second, I want to lean into him. I want to let him take the entire weight of my body so I don’t have to carry it anymore.

His hand is large and splayed across my ribs. I can feel his fingers digging in just enough to keep me upright and balanced. The air between us is thick with the secret we shared in the hallway, and having him touch me like this in front of thirty people feels like a loud shout in a silent library.

“I’ve got you,” he says, his voice low and urgent. “Easy, Ivy. Just breathe.”

I blink, trying to clear the black spots from my vision.

“I’m good,” I say automatically, though my body sways the moment he loosens his grip.

“You’re not,” he replies, his voice hard. “Stand still.”

The rink has gone quiet.

“Coach?” Cash calls out. “You okay?”

I straighten up too fast, and a wave of nausea rolls through me.

“I said I’m good. Back to the drill!” I snap, the sound echoing harshly.

Callahan doesn’t let go of my waist. “You’re burning up,” he says, his eyes searching mine.

“I can stand on my own, Callahan.”

“You’re shaking.”

And that is when I see Carter Hale.

He’s standing by the far boards, his helmet off, watching us. He isn’t looking smug or hostile. He looks… concerned.

It unsettles me more than his usual disdain ever has.

He’s always been the one I expected to lead the mutiny against me. But as he looks at me now, I don’t see the sneer. I see the same look my mother used to give me when I stayed out in the snow too long.