Page 131 of Uncoachable

I laugh. “That’s none of it, then.”

“Then I guess I like the smell.”

We talk for hours about things that have nothing to do with hockey. We talk about childhoods, irrational fears, bad decisions, and secrets we’ve never said out loud to another soul.

We trade stories of our scars—his from a stray skate blade in Toronto, mine from a car door in Helsinki when I was seven. We laugh at the absurdity of Cash’s pre-game rituals and the way Rick always eats the same brand of mints when he’s nervous.

Somewhere between the confessions and the quiet, the walls we built for survival start to feel unnecessary.

They feel heavy and outdated, like armor we’ve finally outgrown.

He sits on the floor, his hair messy and his shirt half-buttoned, looking more real than I’ve ever seen him. I curl beside him with a blanket around my shoulders, feeling more like myself than I have in years.

He exhales, the kind of breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest all day.

“I didn’t pass the clearance,” he says, his voice low, almost embarrassed. “The trainers said I’m close, but not close enough. Still too much swelling. They want me out for the first two games.”

“I know,” I say quietly. “The report came to me right after they filed it.”

His eyes flick to mine, sharp and wounded. “So I just… watch? I sit in a suit while the Cup starts without me?”

“You recover,” I correct gently. “You give yourself a chance to be ready for Game 3. Maybe Game 4. If you push now, you risk the whole series. You risk next season.”

He lets out a humorless breath. “Feels like hell.”

“I know,” I say again, softer this time. “But you’re still the captain. Even from the bench.”

For a while, neither of us speaks.

I shift slightly, my knee brushing his.

His eyes flick down, then back up to mine, and something in his expression softens—not weakness, but surrender. The kind that only happens when the adrenaline drains and the truth has nowhere left to hide.

“You’re quiet.”

“Thinking,” I admit, tracing the hard line of his forearm. “About how I’m supposed to stand behind that bench tomorrow and give you orders when I know exactly what you sound like when you lose your mind.”

He lets out a short, dark huff of a laugh and tilts my chin up with his thumb, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“You’ll do it because you’re the best at what you do. Out there, you’re the boss. In here?” He leans down, his lips ghosting over mine. “In here, you don’t have to carry the world. I’ve got you.”

He nudges my knee again, softer this time, as if he’s checking to make sure I’m still really here.

I am.

Fully.

Finally.

And I know, in the quiet weight of this moment, that nothing can undo what we’ve built here. Not the ice, not the upcoming games, and not the expectations of the rest of the world.

We have each other, and that is enough to face whatever comes when the sun rises.

35

Cal

Sunlight hits my eyes and, for the first time in weeks, I don’t wake up with my jaw clenched.