Page 1 of Uncoachable

1

Iveline Talvi St. James

10:47 AM

Scottie: You at the rink yet or did you already piss someone off?

Me: Both. I walked in and three men flinched.

Scottie: God, I love your work.

Me: It’s inefficient.

Scottie: So are most men.

I lock my phone and slide it into my bag, resisting the urge to smile.

Only Scottie can find the humor in me being surrounded by a wall of fragile male egos.

She’s the only woman I know who’s more relentless than I am, though she prefers to do it in four-inch heels with a martini in hand.

The air inside the arena is always five degrees cooler than the rest of the world—a crisp, recycled chill that smells of floor wax, overpriced popcorn, and ambition.

Most people find it sterile. I find it grounding.

Coming back to the States was supposed to be a victory lap, but as I navigate the familiar labyrinth of the back hallways, it feels more like stepping back into a cage I spent a decade breaking out of.

In Europe, I was “The Ice Queen.”

It started as a headline in a Swedish tabloid after I’d dismantled a veteran coach’s defensive strategy without so much as a crack in my composure, and it spread through the leagues like a frost.

The media loved the trope—the cold, calculated woman who preferred analytics to small talk and results to ego. They meant it as a critique of my lack of “warmth,” but I wore it like a shield.

Here, however, the press hasn’t caught up yet; to the men in this building, I am still just “The Daughter.”

I have to make sure they forget the second one by noon.

I turn the final corner toward the coaches’ wing and nearly collide with a body planted directly in my path.

It’s Mark Delaney, the associate head coach. He is a walking liability in a cheap suit, fueled by a cocktail of entitlement and thinning hair.

He steps into my way like he’s been waiting for the chance to intercept me, lifting a hand, palm out, stopping me as if I were trespassing.

“Hold up.”

I stop, because letting him touch me isn’t an option. His eyes drag over me, slow and assessing, trying to find a box to put me in.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks.

“I’m heading to the coaches’ office,” I say, stepping to the side.

He mirrors the movement, blocking me again.

I blink once. Twice.

He’s actually doing this.

“And why exactly are you headed there?” His eyes narrow. “PR? Player wellness? One of those new analytics interns?”