Page 101 of Uncoachable

I don’t think. I just move.

I dive for the puck, my stick connecting with the rubber just a millisecond before the goalie can cover it. I feel the impact, hear the clatter of sticks, and then—the most beautiful sound in the world. The horn.

3-2.

The boys swarm me, a mountain of heavy jerseys and shouting. I’m buried at the bottom of the pile, grinning like an idiot despite the fact that I can’t breathe.

We hold on for the final three minutes, playing a defensive shell that would make a turtle proud. When the final buzzer sounds, the cheers in the Silverline Trust Arena are the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.

We walk back into the locker room, the air filled with the kind of high that only comes from a playoff win. Everyone is shouting, hugging, and dumping water on each other.

I find Iveline in the middle of the chaos. She’s standing by the coaches’ door, looking at the celebration with a small, quiet smile.

I walk over to her, my jersey soaked in sweat, my face probably covered in ice shavings and blood from a small cut on my chin. I don’t care who is watching. I don’t care about the cameras or the ‘C’ on my chest.

I stop right in front of her.

“The chip and chase worked,” I say, my breath coming in short, jagged bursts.

“I know,” she says, her eyes shining with something that looks a lot like pride. “I told you it would.”

I lean in, just enough so only she can hear me over the noise of the room. “You’re the smartest person in this building, Ivy. I hope you know that.”

She holds my gaze, steady and unflinching, like she’s finally letting me see the part she keeps locked away.

“And you’re the best captain I’ve ever coached,” she whispers back.

I want to stay there, in that tiny pocket of peace, but Rick claps me on the shoulder, pulling me away for the post-game interviews.

We’ve got a long way to go. This series is far from over, and the road to the Cup is paved with a lot more bruises and late-night film sessions. But as I look back and see Iveline talking to Marcus, pointing at a play on her clipboard even in the middle of a celebration, I know we’re going to be okay.

Because we aren’t just a team anymore. We’re something better.

And I’m not letting go of that for anything.

* * *

Cash changed the name to “MOM’S FAVORITE DISAPPOINTMENTS”

Cash: Does anyone know if the Silverline Trust Arena sells “Iveline St. James Is My Mom” shirts or should I just make them?

Brick: I’m sleeping in the ice bath. If anyone touches me, I’m filing a formal grievance with the NHL.

Me: One down. Rest up.

27

Iveline

The echo of last night’s win is still in my bones—the final horn of Game Five, the bench erupting, the quiet, exhausted smiles that only come after you take a series 4–1.

The guys earned a moment of peace, but the playoffs don’t believe in mercy. Less than twelve hours later, we’re here, walking into Media Day like the blood hasn’t even dried on Round One yet.

It is a scent that is sharper than game day and somehow far less honest. There is no ice here to numb the senses, and there is no adrenaline to mask the nerves. There are only cameras and questions honed to fine points by people who are pretending they aren’t looking for blood while they are absolutely looking for blood.

I smooth the cuff of my blazer as we approach the arena entrance, the motion small and grounding. My heels click against the concrete in a steady rhythm that I can still control.

It is early, far too cold for this time of year, and the sky hangs low and gray over Boston. It is that washed-out overcast that makes the city feel suspended, as if the city itself is holding its breath, waiting for the first mistake of the playoffs.