Page 90 of Uncoachable

He slams a hand on the desk, the sound echoing like a gunshot. “I am not failing my daughter!”

“She’s terrified of disappointing you,” I say, my voice steady. “And the worst part is, you don’t even see it. You see the stats. You see the scouting reports. You don’t see the girl who apologized to me last night.”

That stops him. He freezes, his hand still resting on the wood. “She apologized?”

“She was delirious with a fever, and she was apologizing for ‘disrupting the flow’ of the team. She was worried about the game schedule while she couldn’t even stand up.”

His fingers tighten around the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening before he realizes it and lets go, the release slow, reluctant.

William’s shoulders finally sag.

He turns away from me, looking back out at the city. His reflection in the glass looks older. Smaller.

The titan of the NHL is gone, and there’s just a father left.

“I thought giving her space was a sign of respect,” he says, his voice so quiet I can barely hear him. “I thought if I stepped in, it would look like I didn’t trust her.”

“It is respect,” I reply. “Until it becomes abandonment. She doesn’t need a boss right now, William. She needs a father who tells her to rest.”

He shakes his head. “She won’t listen to me. If I tell her to stay home, she’ll think I’m benching her.”

“I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m here. I’m telling you so you can be ready when she tries to come back too soon.”

The silence stretches out, but it’s different now. The air has been cleared.

“You care about her,” William says, turning back to face me.

“Yes.” No hesitation. No doubt.

“And this isn’t just professional concern for a coach.”

“No. It’s not.”

He exhales a long, unsteady breath. “Then this is dangerous, Callahan. For both of you. The optics, the league rules—it’s a minefield.”

“Maybe,” I say, reaching for the door handle. “But I’d rather deal with a minefield than another funeral.”

He rubs his temple, looking exhausted. “I don’t want to lose her.”

“You won’t,” I say, opening the door. “Not if you let her be human.”

His voice cracks on the “thank you” he barely manages to get out. I don’t stay to hear the rest. I leave before either of us can say anything else that might break the fragile truce we’ve just built.

Out in the corridor, the noise of the rink rushes back in—the life, the chaos, the sounds of a team getting ready for a game. I lean against the cold cinder block wall for a moment, breathing through the burn in my chest.

Iveline Talvi St. James doesn’t need a savior.

She’s the strongest person I’ve ever met.

But she deserves someone willing to stand between her and the weight she never asked to carry. She deserves someone who sees her when she isn’t “The General Manager’s Daughter.”

And for better or worse, that’s me.

The elevator ride down to the locker room is the longest sixty seconds of my life. I watch my reflection in the mirrored doors. My hair is a mess, my eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, and I’m still wearing my warm-up suit.

I should feel panicked. I just told the most powerful man in the organization that he’s a failing father. I should probably be calling my agent to see if there are any openings in the European leagues. But as I step out into the cold night air toward the parking lot, I feel lighter than I have in weeks.

The secret is out.