Page 106 of Uncoachable

But the internet doesn’t see her.

They see a “situation.” They see a headline that fits into a neat little box labeled Professional Failure.

The injustice of it makes my blood run cold.

I’ve spent my entire life being the most professional person in the room, and all it took was one stumble and a pair of steady hands to turn me into a cautionary tale.

My chest tightens until breathing feels optional, like something indulgent I haven’t earned. Like air is a luxury I don’t deserve today.

I spent eight years clawing for an ounce of credibility in this sport. Eight years of being sharper, quieter, and better than everyone else. I arrived first and left last. I never gave anyone a single excuse to doubt me. And it only took eight minutes of shaky cell phone footage to unravel all of it.

I force myself to breathe. One. Two. Three.

I remember the first time control saved me.

I was at my first coaching clinic years ago. Everyone was looking at me, waiting for me to fail. I stayed quiet. I mapped the room, anticipated their reactions, and redirected the conflict before it could break into an argument. Every choice and every movement was measured. Control was my shield.

And it worked.

That day, I walked out unscathed and respected—not because anyone liked me, but because I refused to be shaken.

Control is my armor. It is my tether to safety.

And now, I can feel it slipping through my fingers in real time.

***

The morning after feels like panic.

It’s in the emails stacked in my inbox before I’ve even managed to brush my teeth. The subject lines pile up like threats on a screen. My phone vibrates nonstop on the counter while the coffee machine sputters uselessly, refusing to cooperate.

There’s a low, electric hum under my skin—a constant, vibrating awareness that something fundamental has shifted, and there’s no undoing it. There is no clean reset button for this. There is no way to rewind the clock to the moment before the cameras surged forward.

I don’t open the articles. I don’t need to read them to know what they say. I’ve been in the hockey world long enough to recognize the shape of a scandal.

When I arrive at the arena, everything feels too alert.

Conversations dip into whispers when I pass by—it’s not dramatic or openly hostile, but it’s enough to notice. People straighten their backs unconsciously. Some glance up and then look away quickly, their faces a mix of sympathy and morbid curiosity as they try to reconcile my actual face with the headlines they consumed over breakfast.

I give them nothing.

I put my coach face on and ensure the armor is sealed tight.

Sam O’Rourke is the first person to speak to me like nothing is wrong.

“Morning,” he says, rolling a heavy crate of pucks down the hallway toward the ice.

“You want the blue line drills set up first, or should we—” He stops. He looks at me, really looks at me. “…You good, Iveline?”

“Yes.”

He nods, though he looks entirely unconvinced. “People are being weird today. Just ignore them.”

I keep moving before my throat can tighten, before gratitude can turn into something fragile that might break.

Rick’s office is already occupied when I get there.

Jenna and one of her interns are sitting with their laptops open. Their screens are glowing with graphs, pulled quotes, and sentiment analysis scrolling too fast for me to follow.