Page 12 of Uncoachable

On skates, I don’t have to be bigger than them; I just have to be more precise.

I notice the way the light catches the sweat on Callahan’s neck. He isn’t looking at me, but I can feel his focus. He is waiting for me to slip up, waiting for a drill that doesn’t make sense or a whistle that comes a second too late.

I won’t give him the satisfaction.

I have spent eight years perfecting my “coach” voice, a tone that sits right in the middle of the register, resonant enough to cut through the roar of a crowd without ever sounding like a screech.

My father drilled that into me early: if you need to yell, you have already lost the room.

“Neutral zone transition drill,” I continue evenly. “Controlled entries only; no dumping unless you’re forced.”

A few heads tilt and someone smirks.

Skepticism ripples through the line in quiet, practiced ways from men who have been rewarded their entire careers for doing the same thing the same way.

No one says anything, but I can read it in their posture and the way a few grips tighten on their sticks. They think I’m bringing European “softness” to their hard-nosed game.

The first rep is exactly what I expect.

It’s bad hockey; dump-ins with no pressure, shortcuts through lanes that closed five years ago, and lazy changes that bleed momentum. It is the kind of play that looks fine on paper but dies under real speed.

I don’t stop them.

I let it fail.

It is a gamble, letting them mess up, as most coaches would blow the whistle the second the first pass went wide. But men like these—men who are paid millions to believe they are infallible—don’t learn from being told.

I watch as Kovács fumbles a transition, the puck skittering away like a live thing. He swears, a sharp bark that echoes in the rafters, and looks around for someone to blame.

His eyes land on me, searching for a critique he can argue with, but I give him nothing. I just stand there with my arms crossed over my clipboard, my expression as flat as the ice.

Failure is a better teacher than I am, and right now, the silence of the rink is screaming at them. They know they are playing like a JV team in a state tournament. They are waiting for the lecture, the punishment, or the bag skate.

When I finally speak, I don’t give them the anger they are braced for. I give them a reset.

“Again,” I say after the second rep.

A few exaggerated exhales follow, and someone rolls their shoulders as if I am the inconvenience here. Still, they line up.

On the third rep, Callahan does exactly what I knew he would. He cuts wide, dumps the puck deep as if muscle memory has completely taken over, and then coasts back with that loose, infuriating posture.

He thinks he has proven something, and he has, just not what he intended. He’s proving he’s stubborn, even when it costs him the play.

I lift my whistle. The rink stills.

“Moore,” I say calmly.

He turns slowly, irritation already etched into his face, and rolls his eyes as if this is beneath him.

“That’s not the drill.”

“I’ve played this way for a decade,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m not changing it just because you said so.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Marcus Bennett’s reaction—a faint shake of his head. It is disappointment rather than surprise, and that matters more than any laughter could.

I push off the boards and skate toward Callahan, stopping just close enough that he has to look down at me. His jaw is locked tight, mirroring the way mine felt in the boardroom earlier.

“That’s a fascinating strategy,” I say, my brows lifting. “Really. It’s almost impressive how much effort you put into being completely wrong.”