Page 34 of Uncoachable

There is a specific kind of silence that happens in a hockey rink when a General Manager walks into the room. It’s a total suspension of physics.

The humidity seems to drop, the hum of the overhead lights grows louder, and suddenly, twenty-five of the most confident, highly paid men in the world look like schoolboys caught throwing spitballs in the back of a classroom.

Every player’s eyes snap to the boards, then back to me, like they’re watching a car crash in slow motion.

I stand frozen on the ice, my whistle still warm in my hand. I can feel the heat of my outburst still coloring my cheeks, a sharp contrast to the biting cold of the arena.

My father’s presence is a physical weight.

He’s standing by the tunnel entrance, watching me with the slow, inevitable momentum of a glacier.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Callahan Moore.

He’s standing by the far goalpost, his chest heaving under his jersey, his eyes darting between me and the man at the boards.

For a fleeting second, I see something in his face that looks like genuine concern—or maybe it’s just the grim anticipation for the explosion he thinks is coming.

William St. James doesn’t say a word.

He never does when he’s assessing damage.

Rick is the first to recover. He’s been around my father long enough to know how to navigate the weather.

“Alright,” he says briskly, clapping his gloved hands once. The sound cracks through the silence like a gunshot. “Reset. Back to stations. Let’s see that transition again, and this time, do it like you want to keep your spots.”

Sticks hit the ice faster than ever before. Skates start moving, the rhythm of practice resuming with a frantic energy.

I push off, my blades biting into the ice as I skate toward the bench.

My heart is pounding—not with fear, but with something much sharper.

Defiance, maybe. Or perhaps just pure exhaustion.

Probably both.

My father watches in total silence as the drill resumes.

His gaze doesn’t soften as I get closer, but it doesn’t harden either. It’s the same look he gives high-powered agents during contract negotiations when he’s already decided the outcome before they’ve even opened their mouths.

I hate how much that steadiness grounds me. No matter how much I want to pull away from his shadow, there’s a part of me that still leans into the gravity of his composure.

He waits until the flow of the practice settles into a predictable groove before he gestures toward the tunnel.

“Walk with me,” he says.

I pause for a fraction of a second, bracing myself instinctively. A knot of dread curls in my stomach, mingling with a strange, persistent curiosity.

I don’t think I’ve ever met a person who’d describe William St. James as kind or soft. To the world, he’s a shark in a tailored suit. But the world has never met my father—not the GM, not the hockey know-it-all, but Will.

He’s the man who stood beside me during Mom’s funeral when the world felt like it was ending. He’s the man who learned to braid my hair because he knew I’d get frustrated when it tangled under my helmet.

I remember the day he taught me how to do it myself.

I was seven years old, crying because the other girls had pretty ribbons and my hair was always a mess. He sat me down on an old equipment trunk in the garage, his massive, calloused hands—hands that had fought in more than a hundred NHL games—trembling slightly as he worked through the knots.

“Precision, Iveline,” he had whispered back then. “It’s all about the tension. Too loose and it falls apart. Too tight and it breaks. Just like a power play.”

He’s been braiding my life together since the moment my mother died, trying to be the soft place to land while simultaneously forging me into something that couldn’t be crushed.