Page 105 of Uncoachable

Jenna exhales a long, weary breath. “They never do. But we stick to the story.”

“I’ll handle the questions at the podium,” I say, my voice echoing in the sudden silence.

Callahan looks up sharply, his eyes meeting mine. “No.”

“This is my job, Callahan.”

“So is protecting the team,” he fires back, his voice low and dangerous. “And right now, you’re part of the team. I’m not letting you go out there alone so they can pick you apart.”

Something heavy and significant settles between us—it’s instinct, it’s guilt, and it’s the shared understanding that neither of us chose this moment, but both of us will be defined by it anyway.

“We’ll manage it together,” Jenna cuts in, his tone final. “Iveline, you do the tactical briefing. Callahan, you handle the ‘incident’ questions. Don’t give them an inch.”

I glance at Jenna, her words acting as a final anchor.

My phone buzzes again. I sneak a look.

Scottie: I JUST SAW THE VIDEO. WHO DO I FIGHT? GIVE ME NAMES.

Dean: Just name the outlet, Iveline. I’ll handle the rest.

Despite the cameras, despite the headlines forming in real time, and despite the way control just slipped through my fingers, I find myself smiling.

For the first time in a long while, I understand that being seen doesn’t always mean being diminished. Being protected doesn’t have to mean being weak.

The game has changed. The rules are gone. And for the first time in my life, I’m not looking for an exit.

I’m staying right here.

28

Iveline

6:23 AM

Jenna: Good morning, sunshine.

Jenna: I made muffins. They’re terrible, but they exist.

Jenna: Come steal one before the interns eat them and die.

* * *

I’m half propped against my pillows, laptop balanced on my thighs, the room dim except for the screen burning into my eyes.

There are think pieces written by people who have never set foot inside a professional locker room, people who have never stood behind a bench during a double-overtime game, and people who have never had to earn authority one grueling inch at a time.

They stitch together a narrative they like better than the truth because it’s easier to sell. It’s cleaner. It’s more entertaining than the reality of a woman simply doing her job.

Power imbalance. Inappropriate. Predictable.

That one word—inappropriate—feels like a physical stain on my skin.

It is the word they use to dismiss every hour I’ve spent in the dark watching grainy film until my eyes burned. It suggests that my presence in this organization isn’t a result of my intellect or my work ethic, but a result of a massive lapse in judgment.

I look at my reflection in the dark, glass screen of my phone.

I see the woman who memorized the rule books of three different professional leagues by the age of twelve. I see the woman who can recite the Corsi ratings for every defenseman in the Eastern Conference from memory.