Page 91 of Uncoachable

I care about her.

It’s not just a crush or a workplace distraction anymore.

It’s a fundamental shift in my gravity.

I look at my phone. There are no texts from Dean yet, which I take as a good sign. No news is good news when it comes to a fever.

I climb into my car and sit there for a minute, the engine idling, the heater blowing cold air before it finally warms up. I think about the way she looked asleep on that bed—the way her hand twitched in the blanket, looking for something to hold onto.

I told William I’d be the one to stand between her and the weight. Now I just have to figure out how the hell to tell her that without making her run in the opposite direction.

24

Iveline

I’m not even through the heavy glass doors of the loading entrance when the hushed, frantic echoes of the tunnel reach me.

“Do we… I don’t know, do we mention the sick thing?”

“No, you moron. Act like she just went on a long lunch. Don’t be weird.”

“I’m not being weird. You’re literally standing in a defensive stance.”

“Shut up, is that—OH MY GOD, don’t move!”

I round the corner of the concrete pillars, and the three rookies scatter like pigeons caught in a gust of wind.

One becomes deeply fascinated by the inspection tag on a fire extinguisher; another nearly trips over his own equipment bag, his face going scarlet as he suddenly finds the floor incredibly interesting.

The hallway clears in a frantic blur of nylon and nervous energy, leaving only the fading squeak of rubber soles and a sudden, heavy silence.

After missing practice for two weeks—due to Rick’s insistence that “fine” and “ready” are not the same—I almost forget how good it feels to walk back into the arena. It’s the only place where the noise in my head usually goes quiet, replaced by the rhythmic thwack of pucks against the boards and the long, shearing drag of blades.

I keep walking, my heels clicking sharply against the concrete, though I feel anything but sharp.

The last fourteen days exist only in jagged, humid fragments.

I remember the weight of the wool blanket, the aggressive hum of the radiator, and Scottie appearing at my door like a weary soldier delivering a structural disaster in a Tupperware container.

Apparently, Cash had attempted to “construct” a lasagna in my honor. The noodles were less of a meal and more of a geologic hazard, layered with a density that defied physics, while the cheese appeared to have been applied with an industrial caulking gun.

He’d reportedly panicked at the sight of his own creation, calling Scottie to facilitate the hand-off so he wouldn’t have to face my tactical critique of his kitchen skills.

Scottie showed up looking suspiciously pleased with herself, which made me think Cash’s emergency call had been less about fear of my judgment and more about finding an excuse to talk to her.

But I remember the taste—salty, messy, and perfect. It was the first thing my stomach didn’t immediately reject.

I still have the note he’d tucked underneath the lid, scrawled in his frantic, messy handwriting: Eat this or I’m telling Callie you’re refusing medical advice.

It did more for my health than any antibiotic ever could.

But mostly, I remember the call my father made last week.

He hadn’t asked about the trade deadline or my tactical reports; he hadn’t asked if I’d finished the breakdown of the power play. He had only asked if I was eating.

It was the shortest conversation we’ve had in years, and by far the most significant.

As I pass the training room, I wonder if anyone will look at me differently now. If they’ll soften their voices or hesitate before handing me responsibility, searching my face for signs of fragility instead of the data they need.