Page 82 of Uncoachable

It is worse than hostility.

Hostility is something I can fight. Hostility gives me an edge to sharpen myself against.

But pity? Concern? It makes me feel small. It reminds me that I’m a woman in a room full of men who have been taught to protect, and right now, I’m giving them every reason to do it.

I hate it. I hate that I’m proving them right—that I’m the one who needs the arm around the waist.

I pull away from Callahan, reclaiming my space out of pure, panicked reflex.

“I’m staying,” I say, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “Practice isn’t over.”

Callahan exhales sharply, his frustration palpable. “Ivy—”

“Don’t.”

His restraint unsettles me more than anger would. He’s choosing to control himself for my sake. I know he wants to argue. He wants to pick me up and carry me off the ice. But he doesn’t.

His eyes never leave mine, though.

Neither do Carter’s.

Rick doesn’t argue when I skate back to the boards. He just says, his voice even and calm, “Authority doesn’t disappear just because you sit down, Iveline.”

The words hit me harder than the stumble did.

Then he continues. “We’ll reassess in five minutes. Take a seat.”

I nod, though my head is pounding so hard I can barely see.

The sweat on my skin chills too quickly, making me shiver. The sounds of the rink begin to distort, and the edges of my vision are blurring into gray.

I’ve spent my entire life mastering the art of endurance. But this feels different. There are no places to hide on the ice. There are no walls and no excuses. It’s just me, unraveling in front of everyone I’m supposed to lead. And buried beneath my stubbornness and my denial, I know the truth.

If I sit down now, I won’t be able to get back up.

22

Callahan Eli

She lasts another ten minutes.

That is it.

Ten minutes of pure, bloody-minded will before her body finally decides to stop cooperating with her brain. She doesn’t collapse in a heap; she just sways—just enough that I’m already moving toward her before she even realizes she is losing her balance.

“Iveline,” I say, my voice steady and low as I reach her side. “We’re done. Right now.”

“No,” she mutters, her eyes glazed and unfocused. “We’re not. There’s still the transition drill. We need to see the defensive rotation on the left wing.”

“Yes,” I counter, my grip firm on her elbow as I steady her. “We are.”

I scoop her up before she can even think to protest. I slide one arm under her knees and the other braced across her back.

“No, Callahan—put me down,” she rasps, her hands coming up to shove weakly at my shoulders. It’s a pathetic effort, her fingers fluttering against the heavy fabric of my jersey. “I can… I can walk. Don’t you dare.”

I don’t even flinch. If anything, I pull her tighter, making sure she’s locked against me. “You can’t even see straight, Ivy. Stop fighting.”

“The team,” she insists, though her head drops onto my shoulder the second the words leave her mouth. “They’re watching. This is… unprofessional. Let me go.”