Page 28 of Uncoachable

The silence that follows is the most satisfying thing I’ve felt since I landed in the States. Even the guys at the next table have gone quiet, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

Delaney looks like he’s just seen a cat speak Latin. His mouth is slightly open, his hand frozen on his empty glass.

Jenna’s grin is instant and wide. Sam whistles low, a sound of pure appreciation.

Rick is watching me over the rim of his glass.

He doesn’t look shocked. He looks like a man who just saw a rookie score a hat-trick in their first career game. He’s proud, and for the first time, I don’t care if that pride feels unprofessional. I’ll take it.

Miguel, who has been hovering nearby waiting for another round, laughs. “Wow. I didn’t understand a single word of that, but it was still hot. Terrifying, but hot.”

I glare at him, and he immediately lifts his hands in surrender.

“Respectfully! Totally respectfully.”

I feel a strange, electric buzz in my fingertips.

For a moment, I’m not just the GM’s daughter or the “new hire” being tested. I’m a woman who just claimed her territory in a language they can’t even touch.

Noah leans in, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “What language was that? The phonetic structure was fascinating.”

“Finnish. My mom’s from there,” I say, my voice returning to its normal, steady clip.

Delaney bristles, trying to recover some of his lost dignity. “You insulting me in another language now? That’s real mature.”

I lift my head slightly, a tilt of amusement mixed with pure exhaustion. The cold satisfaction hums under my skin.

“Only if you earned it, Mark. Did you?”

Jenna chokes on her drink, coughing into her napkin while trying to hide a massive smile.

Delaney mutters something about “total disrespect” and drains the dregs of his whiskey. Miguel signals the bartender for the check, and Sam steers Delaney away from the booth with practiced ease, whispering something about getting some air.

When Sam and Miguel return, they’re alone. The table exhales as one, the tension vanishing with Delaney’s departure.

“And there he goes,” Jenna sighs, leaning back and dramatically fanning herself with a cocktail napkin. “The man, the myth, the De-Lamey.”

I blink. “De-Lamey?”

“It’s the unofficial staff title,” Miguel explains. “Started about three seasons ago when he tried to argue that puck-tracking chips were a ‘government conspiracy.’ Now, everyone calls him that behind his back. Well, everyone except Rick.”

Rick doesn’t look up from his drink, but the corner of his mouth twitches in a way that is definitely not a frown.

“I don’t officially acknowledge nicknames,” Rick says into his glass. “But if the shoe fits, I can’t exactly stop it from being worn.”

“It’s not just a name, it’s a lifestyle,” Sam adds, turning back to me with a sharp, knowing look. “Don’t let him get under your skin, Iveline. He’s been De-Lamey since long before you got here. You’re just the first person who’s had the guts to tell him off in a language he couldn’t understand.”

Jenna turns to me, her eyes bright with a new kind of respect. “Iveline, you are officially my favorite person in this entire organization.”

I laugh and clink my glass against hers. “You’re not so terrible yourself, Jenna.”

She leans in, her voice conspiratorial. “Next round’s tequila. No arguments.”

Rick shakes his head, though he’s smiling. “That’s a terrible idea. We have a 7 AM practice.”

“We’re doing it anyway,” Jenna insists.

Miguel raises his glass high. “To new friends and better systems!”