Page 92 of Uncoachable

Doubt lingers longer than respect ever does.

I’ve spent years perfecting the art of being the most capable person in the room. In ten minutes of physical weakness, I had handed everyone a reason to second-guess me.

I reach the bench just as morning skate is winding down.

Rick is standing by the boards, his whistle still in between his lips. He looks at me and nods, a slow, deliberate movement that says welcome back without the sentimentality he knows I’d hate.

Then I see Callahan.

He’s the last one off the ice, gliding toward the gate with a powerful, effortless stride that makes my chest tighten.

He looks different today.

Or maybe I’m the one who’s different.

“Coach,” he says, pulling up at the boards. He doesn’t hop over. He just stands there, his gloved hands resting on the wood, looking at me with an intensity that makes the bustling arena feel cavernous and empty.

“Moore,” I reply, leaning my hip against the bench railing. “I heard you’ve been running my drills. Rick says the power play is looking… adequate.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Adequate? I’ll have you know I’ve added a certain flair to the rotation. A bit of ‘annoying competence,’ as someone once called it.”

The memory of my fever-induced rambling flashes through my mind, making my cheeks warm. “Don’t let it go to your head. I was delirious. I probably would have called a fire hydrant competent if it was holding a water bottle.”

“Is that right?”

He steps off the ice, the metal of his skates clinking on the rubber mat. He moves into my space, not enough to be unprofessional, but enough that I can smell the cold and the sweat and that faint scent of laundry detergent that haunted my apartment for a week.

He leans in closer, dropping his voice so the passing equipment managers can’t hear. “Because I remember you saying something about my shoulders being nice, too. Was that the fever, or the tactical expert in you making an observation?”

I choke on a breath, my heart doing a jagged little dance against my ribs. “The tactical expert thinks you’re a distraction, Moore. And the fever is gone, so don’t expect any more observations like that.”

“Good to know,” he murmurs, his expression softening into something dangerously sincere.

He doesn’t mention the way I called him “Cal.” He doesn’t mention the way I clung to his neck in the hallway. He’s giving me the gift of my dignity back, but the way he’s looking at me tells me he hasn’t forgotten a second of it.

“You’re really okay, Ivy? You’re not just pulling a ‘St. James’ and faking it?”

“I’m really okay,” I say, and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m lying to be strong.

“Good,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Because it’s Game 81. It’s going to be a bloodbath, and I need my coach focused.”

***

By 7:00 PM, the arena is vibrating.

I stand in the tunnel as the lights dim for the intros, the bass from the speakers thumping in the soles of my shoes. I feel the weight of a dozen eyes on me as I take my place on the bench. I can see the players glancing my way, then quickly looking away when I catch them.

I ignore them. I open my tablet, my fingers flying across the screen as I pull up the Monarchs’ neutral zone transition stats.

I am a machine. I am data. I am fine.

The first period is brutal.

The Monarchs play a heavy, physical game, and they’re targeting our defensemen every time they touch the puck.

I see Callahan take a hit against the boards, the sound of the glass rattling like a thunderclap. My heart stops for a beat, but then he’s back up, skating hard, his face set in that grim, focused mask I’ve come to rely on.

During the first intermission, the locker room is a cacophony of heavy breathing and the smell of smelling salts. I’m standing by the whiteboard, scribbling adjustments to the breakout when I feel a presence at my shoulder.