Page 99 of Uncoachable

She stares at me, her breath hitching. I can see the gears turning.

“You went to the General Manager to talk about… me?”

“I went to a father to talk about his daughter,” I correct her. I take a step closer, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of her perfume over the April air. “I told you, Ivy. I’m not going to watch you burn yourself out. If that means I have to take a few hits from the front office, I’ll take them. I’ve had worse.”

She looks down at her boots, her voice becoming very small. “Why would you do that?”

“Because someone has to,” I say. I reach out, my hand hovering near her arm for a heartbeat before I let it drop. “And because I wanted to. You’re always looking out for the system, for the team, for the win. I’m looking out for you.”

She looks up at me then, her eyes searching mine.

There’s a world of things we aren’t saying—about the apartment, about the way I feel when she’s near the bench, about the fact that I’m the captain and she’s the coach and the world is waiting for us to trip up.

“Thank you, Cal,” she whispers.

The name hits me like a clean check to the chest. It’s the first time she’s said it while fully conscious, and it’s a thousand times better than the fever haze version.

I want to kiss her right there, under the streetlights, but the door of the restaurant opens again and a group of loud tourists spills out, breaking the spell.

“Go home, Ivy,” I say, forcing a smile. “Get some sleep. We’ve got the flight to Philly tomorrow.”

She nods, pulling her coat tight. “Goodnight, Callahan.”

“Goodnight,” I mutter, watching her walk away.

***

Forty-two hours later, the silence of the sidewalk is a distant memory, replaced by the deafening, bone-shaking roar of the Silverline Trust Arena.

This is game one of the first round. The playoffs. This is where the pretenders start to bleed.

I’m sitting in my locker room stall, methodically relacing my left skate.

I look around the room.

Cash is bouncing his leg, his eyes wide and glazed with pre-game jitters. Leo is staring at a spot on the floor, probably visualizing his first shift. Carter is the only one who looks calm, but his jaw is set so hard I’m surprised his teeth aren’t cracking.

I stand up, the heavy weight of the ‘C’ on my chest feeling like it’s made of lead tonight.

I’ve been a captain for four years, but the playoffs never get easier. They just get heavier.

“Listen up!” I bark, and the room goes silent instantly. Even the trainers in the back stop moving.

I walk to the center of the room, my eyes scanning every face.

I don’t give “Rudy” speeches. I don’t believe in them. These guys don’t need a movie moment; they need a reminder of who the fuck they are.

“We know what this is,” I say, my voice steady and low. “The Wolves are going to come out like they’re shot from a cannon. They’re going to try to hit us into the boards, they’re going to try to get under our skin, and they’re going to wait for us to break. That’s their game.”

I pause, leaning forward.

“But they don’t know our game. They think we’re the same team that folded last year. They’re wrong. We have a system that works, we have the best coaching staff in the league, and we have each other. If they hit you, you stay on your feet. If they talk, you ignore them. You play the whistle, you play the structure, and you trust the man next to you.”

I look at Nico. “Play fast.”

I look at Carter. “Play smart.”

Finally, my eyes drift to the door where Iveline is standing with Rick. She’s wearing a sharp, dark suit, her hair pulled back, looking every bit the strategist. She catches my eye and gives me a single, sharp nod.