Page 6 of Uncoachable

I don’t just see the people; I see the hierarchy.

My father sits at the head of the table, his silence the room’s gravity. To his right, Rick Anderson offers a brief nod.

The rest of the circle is a wall of scrutiny.

Viktor Lundqvist and Sam O’Rourke, the veteran coaches, watch me with stony skepticism, while Mark Delaney leans back, his expression still sour from our encounter in the hall. Jenna Walsh, the PR director, provides the only sympathetic smile.

Miguel Santos, Rob Keenan, and Noah Klein form a cluster of performance and data experts, their eyes darting between their tablets and my father.

And at the far end, Dr. Sarah Liu, the oldest in the room, watching with the patient, slightly tired expression of a woman who’s seen this story play out too many times.

I find an empty chair, positioned perfectly to be scrutinized from all sides. I sit, crossing my legs with the kind of slow, deliberate precision that denies them the satisfaction of a flinch.

In a room full of predators, I know better than to act like prey.

I set my tablet down with a soft thud and meet O’Rourke’s gaze. He doesn’t look away, and neither do I.

This is the first test: who blinks first?

The room stays quiet until Rick stands.

“This is Iveline Talvi St. James,” he says evenly. “Our new assistant coach in player development and systems.”

Every head turns.

“She’ll oversee player development, systems implementation, and video review. She reports directly to me.” He pauses deliberately, his gaze sweeping the table.

“She’s coached professionally for eight years in Europe. She’s rebuilt veteran players, managed full retools, and her systems are already in place.”

A scoff comes from my far left.

I don’t need to look to know it’s Delaney.

“If you have questions about her role,” Rick continues calmly, “bring them to me. If you have issues with her decisions on the ice, take them to her.”

He sits. “We’re not easing her in. Practice starts today.”

Mark Delaney laces his fingers behind his head, his mouth tilted in something that wants to pass for a smile.

“Europe’s a different game,” he says mildly. “Softer. You’ll see.”

A few men shift in their seats, though no one intervenes.

I meet his gaze and hold it.

“Hockey is hockey,” I say evenly. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

“Well,” Rob Keenan cuts in, shrugging. “Systems are complicated. Might take you a while to adjust.”

I nod once. “I’ve been adjusting for eight years. Thanks for the concern.”

Another pause.

Then Noah Klein leans forward. “I’ve reviewed your work in the Swedish league. Your neutral zone trap variation was smart.”

The room stills.

Noah gives me a small nod, a faint acknowledgment that carries more weight than any formal introduction. My stomach tightens at the thought of being seen—not for my last name, but for the work.