Page 65 of Uncoachable

“Those are my notes. They make perfect sense to me, and they will make sense to you once you pay attention instead of providing a play-by-play commentary.”

“Ouch. That was harsh but fair.”

He leans back again, smirking at Cash. “Though, I feel like someone has to say it—Cash? You do realize you’re lucky she’s teaching us and isn’t judging us for being completely ridiculous all the time?”

Cash gasps, clutching his chest in a show of pretend offense. “I am a work of art, Nico. A living legend. She can’t judge a legend. It’s against the bylaws.”

I can’t help the laugh that finally slips out. Even Marcus cracks a small, genuine grin.

For a fleeting moment, I catch myself thinking that maybe this isn’t so bad. Maybe being here with them isn’t just a grueling job or a way to prove my father wrong.

We move through the clips—neutral zone turnovers, defensive rotations, and power play setups. Cash and Nico keep up a steady stream of commentary between my technical observations.

At one point, Cash leans over the table, whispering loud enough for the entire room to hear. “You know, Ivy, you could totally do the commentary for the next highlight reel. You’ve got the whole stoic yet terrifying thing down to a science.”

The nickname catches me off guard again. Warmth flickers through me before I can shut it down.

Hearing it come out of Cash’s mouth should irritate me. It should feel like a breach of professional conduct that I need to shut down immediately. But instead, it feels like a hand reaching out to pull me into the circle.

“And here he goes—watch him slice through the defense like a warm knife through butter!” Nico narrates as I point to a specific play on the screen.

I shake my head. “Focus on your positioning, Nico. You were wide open on the left wing.”

He ignores me entirely and continues his one-man drama show.

Cash chimes in, “And don’t forget—Marcus is still undefeated in the stare-down of the century competition. He’s terrifying when he’s serious.”

“I’m serious because it matters. The way we move together and the trust we build is what actually wins games. Everything else is just noise.”

I glance at him; Marcus is the anchor of this room. While Cash and Nico provide the spark and the energy, Marcus provides the structure.

I watch the way he listens—not just to the tactical plays, but to the tone of the room. He is the bridge between me and the rest of the players. He was the one who translated my “Ice Queen” directives into “Coach” orders when I first arrived and everyone was still skeptical.

He catches me looking and gives me a small, respectful nod.

“You’re doing a good job, Iveline,” he says quietly, pitching his voice so the others can’t hear. “Most people would have folded under the ‘St. James’ shadow by now. You didn’t. You made your own.”

I swallow hard, a sudden lump forming in my throat. “Thanks, Marcus. That… that really means a lot.”

“Don’t get mushy on us now,” he grins, the serious mask slipping for a split second. “Cash will try to hug you, and then we’ll never get out of here.”

Cash leans back dramatically, sighing at the ceiling. “Alright, alright, enough with the seriousness. We need at least one more highlight reel debate. I call it ‘The Great Puck Argument of 2026.’”

I groan, but the sound is filled with humor.

Nico grabs a stack of index cards from the table. “Coach Talvi, you’re going to do a mock press conference with these ridiculous questions. It’s educational.”

“Educational?” I raise an eyebrow, skeptical.

“Yes! It’s a simulation. You have to learn how to handle total absurdity without losing your composure.”

I groan again but sit at the front of the table, clutching my clipboard. Cash’s “reporter” voice is deep and booming.

“Coach Talvi,” he begins, leaning forward with an imaginary microphone. “If the team were a type of pasta, what type would they be and why?”

I stare at him blankly for a few seconds. Marcus sighs quietly in the background, and Nico snickers uncontrollably into his hand.

“It depends,” I answer finally, a smirk spreading across my face. “I’d say Cash is lasagna—there are messy layers involved, but it is surprisingly effective. Nico is probably spaghetti. Flexible, a little slippery, but usually the life of the party. And Marcus…” I pause for a second, looking at the veteran. “Marcus is penne. Solid. Reliable. He doesn’t bend under pressure.”