Page 64 of Uncoachable

I rebuild them piece by careful piece.

But no matter what I tell myself, I don’t leave the office until the sun has long since set. I stay at my desk until the shadows stretch across the room and the rink lights flicker on, casting silver lines on the empty ice below.

The arena is haunted at night.

The empty seats look like thousands of people waiting for a show that has already ended. I watch the Zamboni driver finish his last lap, the surface of the ice gleaming like a mirror under the half-lights.

I imagine Callahan down there, skating alone in the dark.

I wonder if his head is as loud as mine. I wonder if he’s regretting the apology, or if he’s already moved on to the next game, the next goal, the next person.

Part of me wants to go down there.

I want to find him in the locker room and ask him why he’s doing this to me. I want to demand that he goes back to being the arrogant, irritating captain I know how to handle.

But I stay in the office.

I stay because as long as there is a door between us, I can pretend I am still the one in charge.

I pack my bag with slow, deliberate movements. I turn off the lights, leaving the room to the shadows. And as I walk to my car, the cold night air hits me, and for the first time, I don’t feel the Sisu my mother always talked about.

I don’t feel resilient or strong.

I just feel lonely.

17

Iveline Talvi

The lights in the film room are dim, and the glow from the projector paints the walls in flickering, electric ice. I sit at the head of the table with my clipboard in hand, resisting the steady urge to straighten every chair and adjust every pen.

It’s barely ten in the morning—the kind of hour where the rink still smells faintly of disinfectant and last night’s ice cut. We don’t have the luxury of easing into the day; game sixty-eight is tonight, and if we pull it off, it’ll be our forty-first win of the season.

The schedule has been merciless—a blur of airports and film sessions and bruises that never quite heal—and the weight of it sits in the room like a second oxygen supply. No one says it out loud, but everyone feels it: we’re deep in the grind now, the part of the season where discipline matters more than adrenaline.

Usually, the entire roster is packed into these tiered seats. But today is different. This isn’t a full team meeting; it is a specialized session for the leadership core and the special teams unit. The rest of the guys are either in the weight room finishing their sets or already in the showers.

It is just me and three of the most influential voices in the locker room—a session I called specifically for the defensive veterans and the goalie to tighten up the penalty kill.

Since Callahan is the primary engine of our offensive power play, he is currently down the hall with the rest of the forwards, which somehow makes this smaller setting feel ten times more intimate.

Cash is on the far side of the room, leaning back with his hands behind his head. A grin is already forming on his face as he looks for an opening to disrupt the flow. Nico sits cross-legged on the floor, balancing his laptop precariously on his knees, and Marcus sits in the middle with his posture upright and calm.

“Okay, first period. Let’s go over the breakdown. Systems first—heroics second.”

Cash snorts instantly. “Heroics second? Are you sure about that, Coach? Because I think my last glove save deserves an entire series on a streaming platform. Six episodes, minimum.”

Nico bursts out laughing, his laptop sliding an inch toward the floor. “Cash’s glove save? Legendary. It was totally worthy of slow-motion, heart-thumping background violins. You should’ve seen the sheer grace of it—oh wait, you did. Replay, replay!”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t suppress the small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “We aren’t filming an action movie, Nico. Focus on the defensive rotation.”

He sits up just enough to wag a finger at me in the dim light. “I am focused, Ivy. The action, the heroics, the dramatic flair… that is the very definition of focus. Cinematic focus.”

Marcus clears his throat. “Or we could, you know, focus on what actually works. Like the positioning that allowed us to strip the puck twice in the neutral zone without losing our momentum.”

Cash groans and flops back into his chair. “Marcus! Killjoy of the century. Chill out, man. Let Iveline appreciate the art of the game for once.”

Nico nudges my notebook with his foot from his spot on the floor. “Coach Talvi, your handwriting is terrifying. Are those tactical diagrams or some form of high-end modern art?”