Page 13 of Uncoachable

Laughter breaks out.

Finn O’Connell—the goalie they call Cash—slaps a gloved hand against his chest like he’s been physically wounded.

I close the distance another inch, letting the silence hang until it feels heavy.

“Where I come from, we have a word for people who talk this much without really saying anything. We call them distractions.” I tilt my head, searching his eyes for even a flicker of the man who yelled at me in the rain.

“Please stop distracting me.”

The laughter dies instantly, replaced by scoffs and a sharp inhale. Callahan’s nostrils flare, a dark flush creeping up his neck. “You done?”

I purse my lips, considering him. “No. But you are.”

I skate back toward the boards and call for them to start again.

The difference is immediate. The entries are cleaner, the spacing is tighter, and the chaos smooths into purpose.

I watch as a defenseman, Miller, fumbles a transition near the blue line.

He stops, doubled over with his hands on his knees, his breath coming in ragged, noisy gulps that echo in the cavernous rink. He starts grumbling to the man next to him, shaking his head at the ice as if the frozen surface is personally responsible for his lack of conditioning.

The complaining is a virus: if I let it sit, it’ll infect the whole session.

“You done complaining,” I ask him mildly, “or should I schedule time for it?”

Miller snaps his head up, swallows hard, and immediately finds his feet.

This time the laughter is different—looser and warmer.

Then Kovács mutters something as I correct his form.

I stop. “What was that?”

He’s been testing me since the first drill, seeing how far he can lean before something snaps.

“You’re being mean to get our respect,” he sneers. “Doesn’t work like that.”

He’s likely used to being untouchable, but I won’t let him bristle at authority just because it’s mine.

“I’m not being mean. I’m being efficient. If I wanted to be mean, you’d be crying in the break room—and I’d bill you for the tissues.”

A ripple of sound moves through the group.

Finn laughs outright. “Damn, Ivy. Burn.”

I meet his eyes. “My name has seven letters. Use them all.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, saluting with his blocker.

I clap once, sharp and decisive. “Now, are we moving, or are you waiting for the ice to melt?”

They move.

They listen.

The rest of practice feels demanding and focused, and by the end, sweat darkens their jerseys. No one is laughing now, not because they’re angry, but because they are exhausted and they know the system worked.

When Rick blows the final whistle, I skate to the boards with my lungs burning and my pulse steady. I am soaked through and tired, but a heavy satisfaction settles in my chest.