Page 61 of Uncoachable

“I blamed you,” I say, my voice hoarse. “And I shouldn’t have. I had no right.”

Silence stretches between us in the tunnel.

“I was wrong,” I continue. “I never apologized for it, and I should’ve. I’d had a terrible day before that crash, and I don’t even remember why anymore. I was just angry at the world, and I took it all out on you because you were there. I’m… I’m so sorry, Ivy.”

For four years, I’ve carried that anger as a shield. It was easier to be mad at the “rich girl in the fancy car” than it was to admit I was being an absolute asshole to a stranger.

Seeing her now I realize how much I must have scared her back then. I was a towering, sweating, screaming mess of a man, and she was just a girl trying to get home.

I had turned her into a villain just so I could be the victim.

I look down at her hand on my shoulder. Her skin is pale against the dark purple fabric of my practice jersey, and her touch is the first thing that’s made me feel warm all day.

“I thought about that day every time it rained,” I admit, my voice cracking slightly. “Every time I got into a car or got ready for a game. I told myself you were the problem. But it was me. It was always me.”

I wonder if I’ve said too much, or if I’ve said it far too late. Iveline’s eyes dart between mine, her hand still holding onto my shoulder, anchoring me.

“Thank you,” she says finally. “For saying it now.”

“I should’ve done it sooner.”

“Maybe,” she agrees. Then, softer, “But you still did it, so thank you.”

Something eases in my chest.

The grief isn’t gone, but it feels lighter, as if she’s taken a part of the weight for herself.

“I’m glad you came in today,” she says, as if she knows I almost stayed in bed.

“So am I.”

She gives me a small, genuine smile—the kind that reaches her eyes and stays there. She doesn’t pull her hand away immediately. For a few heartbeats, we just exist in the quiet of the tunnel.

We are two people shaped by the ones we’ve lost.

She knows the weight of an empty chair at the dinner table. She knows how a specific date on the calendar can feel like a minefield.

As I eventually turn to walk toward the locker room, I don’t feel that hollow silence anymore. I feel the ghost of her touch on my shoulder.

For the first time in eight years, this anniversary doesn’t feel like a death sentence.

It feels like a beginning.

16

Iveline Talvi

I slip inside my office and close the door with a quiet, decisive click.

The office smells like stale coffee, old paper, and the faint ozone scent of the rink’s cooling system. Usually, this room is my sanctuary. It is the place where I turn chaos into tidy columns of data and transform messy plays into elegant, winning strategies. But today, the air feels thick, as if I am trying to breathe through layers of heavy wool.

I look down at my hands.

They’re shaking—a slight tremor, barely visible to the naked eye, but it is enough to make me feel like a total stranger in my own skin.

I have survived European leagues where fans threw lighters and coins at me from the stands. I have survived boardrooms full of older men who looked at me like I was a frustrating glitch in the hockey software.

I have always prided myself on being the sturdiest person in any room.