Page 19 of Uncoachable

She is the assistant coach and the GM’s daughter. I have no business noticing how her voice steadies a room.

My gut clenches, a warning I refuse to name.

I rinse off and tell myself the same lie I have been repeating since she walked in.

She won’t last.

And if she does?

That is a problem I am not ready to face yet.

6

Iveline Talvi St. James

I hear the notification before I see the message, and I’m already annoyed.

It’s still dark out, the city feels suspended; half asleep and half holding its breath before the morning rush begins.

I’m late.

I like my mornings quiet and predictable. I prefer two hours at the rink before anyone else arrives, coffee in hand, getting systems down on paper before they ever exist on the ice.

But I slept through my alarm, and that simply doesn’t happen to me—so now I’m pissed.

I stop at a red light and pick up my phone from the passenger seat, the screen glowing a harsh white against the interior of my car.

Unknown: You’re not here.

I blink at the screen, my brain still foggy from the sudden wake-up.

Me: Who is this?

A pause follows. It’s long enough to feel intentional, like the person on the other end is measuring my reaction.

Unknown: …Right.

Unknown: Sorry. It’s Noah. Analytics.

Me: Why are you texting me before 7?

Noah: Because you’re not here.

Me: I’m not scheduled until 8.

Noah: Yes, but yesterday you arrived at 6:21. Statistically, I expected a similar pattern.

I close my eyes briefly and exhale through my nose. It is too early for statistics.

Me: Is there a reason you’re texting me, or are you just monitoring my existence?

Noah: Both.

Me: Noah.

Noah: I have the updated transition data you asked for. And the heat maps. And the shot pressure overlays. And the clip of Leo doing the thing wrong.

I snort despite myself, the image of Leo Park fumbling his footwork flashing through my mind.