Page 156 of Uncoachable

She never listened to them.

I still remember standing on this plot of land the first time we saw it. It was a ruin of cracked asphalt and flickering fluorescent lights, the building sagging under decades of neglect and forgotten dreams.

Everyone called it a mistake.

They called it a money pit, a sentimental gamble that would chew her up and spit her out without a second thought.

They underestimated her, just like they always did.

She bought the old east side community rink anyway, using the money she’d saved and the grit she’d inherited. She tore it down to its very bones and rebuilt it slowly, deliberately, with a focus that was terrifying to behold.

She softened what needed softness and reinforced what needed strength.

She turned rust and regret into something that breathes.

Into something alive.

Now, chaos reigns inside those walls.

Kids streak across the ice in oversized gear, their helmets slipping low over wide, excited eyes and their sticks clattering against the surface much louder than necessary. Some of them skate too fast, fueled by pure adrenaline, while others barely move at all, clinging to the boards with white-knuckled determination.

Parents line the perimeter with steaming coffee cups and crossed fingers, a sense of nervous pride written into every tight smile and encouraging shout. Laughter bounces off the high ceiling, uncontrolled and genuine, echoing in a space where silence once lived for years.

Iveline isn’t “Coach Talvi” here.

She’s just Ivy.

A red scarf hangs loose around her neck, and her dark hair is pulled back in a hurried ponytail that is already slipping free.

She crouches on the ice, laughing softly as she untangles a small boy from a pair of skates that are very clearly two sizes too ambitious for his feet. She listens to him talk about his favorite player as if he is the only person in the world who matters.

She’s glowing.

It’s not the controlled, manicured confidence she used to carry into locker rooms and board meetings.

This is different. It’s deeper.

It’s the kind of certainty you earn only after you have the courage to walk away from everything the world told you that you were supposed to want.

She moves through the rink like it belongs to her—not because she holds the deed, but because she understands the soul of the place. She directs drills with an easy grace, calming nerves with a simple touch to a shoulder.

She teaches without ever making anyone feel small.

I lean against the boards and I feel something finally settle in the center of my chest.

After I retired, I spent months wondering if I would miss the game—the roar of the crowd, the weight of the captaincy, the sheer violence of a high-stakes play. My body still remembers the physical toll, the way the ice felt after a hard hit, but it doesn’t ache for it anymore.

“Stop staring like a lovesick idiot, Callie. You’re scaring the parents.”

Cash appears at my side, already grinning, already loud, and already holding a whistle for reasons that absolutely no one in this building understands or trusts. He’s wearing a bright yellow tracksuit that should be illegal in most states, but on him, it just feels right.

“You’re interrupting a masterpiece in motion,” I mutter, looking back at Ivy. “This is art. It’s community-based athletic expression. You wouldn’t understand.”

Cash snorts, leaning his elbows on the boards next to mine. “You? Talking about art? That’s rich. Someone has to maintain order around here, and clearly, you’ve gone soft in your old age.”

Before I can fire back a retort, Ivy looks up. Our eyes meet across the hundred feet of white ice. Her mouth curves into that familiar, knowing smirk—the one that says she sees exactly what I’m doing and has already filed it away for a later conversation.

She flashes her left hand, catching the light for just a second. The gold catches the overhead glow. My chest tightens, a familiar, wonderful pressure.