Page 136 of Uncoachable

I stand my ground, my hands clasped tightly behind my back to hide their trembling. “I understand it looks complicated, William. But the work I’ve put in hasn’t changed. The record speaks for itself.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he snaps, finally turning around. His jaw is tight, and his eyes lock onto mine with a cold, piercing intensity. “The record is a footnote when the lead story is my assistant coach caught in a streetlamp glow with the franchise player. Do you have any idea what this looks like? To the league? To—”

“To me?” I cut in. “Or are you just worried about how it looks to you?”

The words hang between us, heavy and sharp.

He hesitates, a flicker of wounded pride crossing his face. “Both. It reflects on the organization. It calls into question every tactical decision, every line change, every minute of ice time you’ve given him.”

“I did my job, William,” I say. “I coached this team when everyone said I couldn’t. And now there’s noise. There will always be noise when a woman is in this position. I can’t control the tabloids, and I won’t apologize for finally having a life that doesn’t involve staring at game film until three in the morning.”

He shakes his head, his hands clenching into fists on top of his desk. “It’s a breach of professional conduct. It’s a scandal that calls into question your authority. They think you’re playing games, Iveline. Manipulating the Captain. Using your position to get what you want.”

“Playing games?” I take a step into his space, the air thick with decades of unspoken resentment. “Is that what you think? That I’ve spent fifteen hours a day in a windowless film room and analyzed ten thousand minutes of tape just to ‘manipulate’ a player? You think I’m that small?”

“Yes!” His voice cracks with fury, echoing off the high ceilings as he finally loses his grip. “Exactly that!’’ William’s hands fly up in a sharp, jagged motion, a physical punctuation mark to his frustration before he turns his back on me to pace the small strip of carpet behind his desk. ‘‘It doesn’t matter what I think or what you’ve done! They think you’re a distraction, Iveline! And in this league, perception is the only truth that sticks!”

I stare at him, feeling a hollow ache in my stomach.

Weeks ago, when I was sick, he called me for the first time in years just to ask if I’d eaten dinner. For a fleeting moment, I thought he’d finally become the version of himself my mother loved—the man who was kind, who saw me as more than a legacy. But the second the “optics” shifted, he traded that man in for the GM.

He went back to the only language he knows: power and perception.

“You’re doing it again,” I say, my voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and fury. “You’re looking at me and seeing a liability. You’re not even listening because you’re too busy calculating the cost of damage control.”

“I’m trying to save your career,” he spits. “If you can’t see that, you’re more blinded by this situation than I feared.”

“Save it?” I let out a sharp, hollow laugh. “You’re not saving my career, William. You’re saving your ego. You’re saving the St. James name from having a pulse. God forbid one of us actually feels something that isn’t related to a league standing.”

I step closer, my shadow falling over his desk.

“Mom would be so disappointed in you right now. She didn’t love the GM. She loved the man who knew that some things are worth the mess. You’ve spent so much time trying to honor her memory by being perfect that you’ve forgotten how to be the person she actually cared about.”

He flinches as if I’ve physically struck him. His face pales, the anger draining out to leave something gray and hollow behind.

For a second, the GM vanishes, and I see the widower—the man who is terrified that if he stops controlling the world, it will take everything else away from him too.

“I’m trying to keep you safe, Iveline,” he says, his voice suddenly thick and strained. “The world out there… they’ll tear you apart for this. They won’t care about your talent. They’ll just see the girl who broke the rules.”

“I was never safe, William,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I was just lonely. And I’d rather be torn apart for something real than stay safe and empty in this office with you.”

I swallow hard, my hands trembling. “I can’t keep doing this if you’re going to punish me for being effective. For doing the job I was hired to do. If you think I can’t handle this—if you think my presence here is a liability—then I’ll resign.”

The words leave my mouth like a physical weight falling.

William freezes. “You wouldn’t walk away from the Finals.”

“I’m serious,” I say, my voice quiet and deadly calm. “I cannot stay in a situation where I’m constantly undermined. If you can’t separate your pride from the reality of my success, then I can’t work for you.”

“You will not quit!” he snaps, slamming his hand on the desk. “Not over this! Not over me!”

The silence following his outburst is suffocating.

William looks at me, his chest heaving, his hand still pressed flat against the desk. He looks like he’s trying to hold the entire room together by sheer force of will, but the cracks are widening.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t look at it, but the heat of it against my leg is the only thing keeping me upright.

“I won’t let you throw it away,” William says, his voice losing its thunder and settling into something far more dangerous: a desperate, quiet plea. “Iveline, please. You have worked too hard. I have watched you bleed for this game. Do you really want the headline of your career to be about a romance instead of a Cup? Because once you leave this office, that’s all you’ll be to them. Not a St. James. Not a coach. Just a distraction.”