Page 35 of Uncoachable

Now, as I step off the ice and onto the rubber matting of the tunnel, I search for a trace of that man in the set of his jaw.

He’s wearing his “General Manager” mask, the one that makes his eyes look like chips of flint, but I can see the way he holds his left shoulder—the one that still aches when the Boston rain starts to fall.

That’s my dad.

The rest of this? This is just the business.

I reach down and pull my blade guards out of my pocket, snapping them onto my skates with a series of sharp clicks.

I follow him into the hallway, away from the prying eyes of the players. The whispers will come later. The assumptions are already sharpening like knives in someone else’s pocket.

I force myself to match his stride, refusing to look like a scolded child.

We reach the “dead zone” of the hallway, a quiet stretch between the rink and the executive offices where the shadows are longest.

My father stops and turns, his silhouette framed against the bright lights.

“You were clear,” he says.

I blink, the adrenaline of the fight on the ice still humming in my ears. “Clear?”

“In your expectations. In your reasoning.” He glances at me briefly, his eyes scanning my face. “You didn’t raise your voice, Iveline. You kept the room.”

That’s it.

No lecture. No disappointment. His approval catches me completely off guard. I hadn’t expected any acknowledgment—let alone something so quietly given.

“I wanted to yell,” I admit, leaning my back against the cold concrete wall.

“I know,” he says. “I spent twenty years wanting to scream at guys like Hale. It doesn’t help. What you did? That helped.”

I cross my arms over my chest, still ready to defend myself if the tone shifts. “He questioned my legitimacy in front of the entire team, Dad. He called me a charity hire.”

“Yes, he did.”

“And you’re not going to tell me I handled it wrong? That I should have been more… diplomatic?”

He studies me then, searching for the girl he raised in the woman standing before him. “Did he challenge the system again after you spoke?”

“No.”

“Did anyone else find their voice to back him up?”

“No.”

“Then you handled it,” he says simply. “In this league, results are the only apology anyone accepts. You got the result.”

A wave of relief threatens to spill over, but I shove it down deep.

I can’t afford to be vulnerable, not even with him. Not here.

“You also used the word misogyny,” he adds, his voice leveling out.

“I did.”

“In public. In front of twenty-five players and the head coach.”

“Yes.”