Page 21 of Uncoachable

In the hyper-masculine, “rub dirt on it” world of professional hockey, Noah is a man governed entirely by data points and sleep cycles. He’s the only person in this building who doesn’t look at me and see a “St. James.” He looks at me and sees a variable in an equation he’s trying to solve.

It’s strangely refreshing.

I see him standing by the reception desk, looking exactly like a guy who spends sixteen hours a day in a windowless room. He has a cardboard carrier with two coffees and a single, slightly bruised banana resting on top of his laptop case.

“You’re late,” he says as I approach. He doesn’t say it with judgment, just as a statement of fact, like he’s noting the outdoor temperature.

“I know, Noah,” I reply, reaching for the coffee.

It’s hot, exactly how I like it, and black. No sugar. No cream. Just the way he probably figured out by watching the lack of stir sticks in my trash can yesterday.

“Here,” he says, handing me the banana. “Eat it. Potassium prevents the muscle tremors you had during the second period of the scrimmage.”

I stare at the fruit. “I didn’t have tremors.”

“Your left hand was shaking while you were holding the clipboard at 2:44 PM. Eat the banana, Iveline.”

I take it, feeling that heat creep up my neck again. I’ve spent my whole life perfecting a mask of being perfectly “fine,” and a guy with a spreadsheet just cracked it in a single morning.

We walk toward the elevators in silence, the only sound the squeak of our shoes on the polished floor.

“The data on Callahan is interesting,” Noah says as the doors slide shut. “He’s resisting the new entry pattern. His heart rate spikes whenever you blow the whistle during his reps.”

“He doesn’t like being told he’s a distraction,” I mutter, taking a sip of the coffee.

“Statistically, he is one,” Noah counters. “But his output is still in the top five percent of the league. So… he’s an efficient distraction.”

The elevator dings, and we step out into the hallway.

The arena feels like a cathedral of secrets this early, and I’m about to walk back into the confession booth. As Noah heads toward his monitors and his sanctuary of screens, I keep walking toward the coaches’ offices.

The moment I step further into the building, I feel the shift. The pause. Eyes linger a fraction too long. Conversations dip, then resume at a much quieter volume.

Rick falls into step beside me, a coffee of his own already in hand. “They’re talking,” he says mildly, staring straight ahead.

I snort. “I assumed as much.”

“About your dad.”

Of course.

It’s always about him.

“I don’t care,” I say automatically, my voice a practiced shield.

Rick stops walking. So do I.

For a second, he isn’t the head coach of a multi-million dollar franchise. He’s the man I drank terrible wine with, who watched me diagram systems on greasy napkins and never once asked whose daughter I was.

The memory hits me like a puck to the ribs—Prague, three years ago.

We were in a dimly lit cellar bar with vaulted ceilings and the thick smell of toasted hops. I had been three glasses of Pinot Noir deep, furiously sketching a neutral zone trap on a damp cocktail napkin while Rick watched with the intensity of a man watching a bomb being defused.

“You’re wasted in that league, Iveline,” he’d told me then, pointing at the napkin.

“I’m fine where I am,” I’d countered. “Nobody here knows my father. I’m just ‘the American coach with the temper’.”

“You’re the coach with the best transition defense in Europe,” he’d corrected. “Come to Boston. Work for me. Not for him. For the love of the game.”