Page 25 of Uncoachable

Miguel: She seems tense.

Noah: She corrected my data terminology yesterday.

Sam: Should we get her drunk?

Iveline: You know I’m in this chat, right?

Miguel: …

Rick: Go inside. Corner booth. Don’t drink without me.

Sam: RICK IS DRINKING?

***

The Blue Line smells like fried food and a heavy dose of victory nostalgia, the kind of place that hasn’t bothered to update its identity since the Boston Reign won the Cup in 2011.

It’s the kind of place where the floor is perpetually tacky, and the lighting is designed to hide the fact that the upholstery was last replaced during the Bush administration.

The bar is loud in the way hockey bars always are—too much bass, too much beer, and not nearly enough light. Jerseys hang like tapestries on the wood-paneled walls, and old playoff games loop on muted televisions, flickering like ghosts of seasons past.

I don’t plan on staying long.

My internal itinerary is set: one drink, show my face, be polite, and leave before anyone can say something stupid.

I see a group of guys in the corner wearing Moore jerseys, their faces flushed with pre-season optimism. They don’t see me. To them, I’m just another woman in a bar, and for the first time in forty-eight hours, that anonymity feels like a warm blanket.

It’s a relief not to be “the daughter” or “the coach” for the thirty seconds it takes to walk from the door to the back of the room.

I spot the “Adults” in a corner booth that looks like it’s seen more than its fair share of post-game loss autopsies.

The first thing I notice is Jenna, and damn, she’s stunning.

She’s wearing a tight, dark blue dress and heels that are far too high for a random Tuesday work night.

For half a second, I reassess my own choices: black dress pants, a red blouse, and heels that are sensible enough to escape in if things go south.

I look professional and intentional, but Jenna doesn’t look like she’s trying to fit in.

She looks like she owns the room.

Then I look around at the men—jeans, button-downs, and relaxed, slouchy postures. I realize then that Jenna isn’t overdressed. She’s just unapologetic. She knows exactly how much space she takes up, and doesn’t mind if it makes people stare.

As the evening continues, the conversation flows through a mix of trade rumors and league gossip. Jenna and Miguel eventually find their way to the small, crowded dance floor, their movements surprisingly fluid for people who spend most of their lives in cold rinks.

The music fades out and Jenna jogs back to our booth, her face glowing with a mix of exertion and laughter. She slides onto the stool next to me like we’ve always done this, like we’ve always been on the same side of the glass.

“You survived,” she reminds me, her eyes bright. “That deserves a drink, Iveline. A real one.”

“I was thinking water,” I say, tapping my glass.

I meant it when I told myself one drink.

One very sober, very forgettable drink.

“You can have water tomorrow.”

Before I can argue, Miguel appears, seemingly summoned by the word drink. He’s already holding three beers, his grin wide and infectious. Sam follows close behind, carrying a tray of shots that look like a chemistry experiment gone wrong—vividly green and bubbling slightly.