Page 71 of Uncoachable

Me: He tripped.

Cash: On respect?

19

Iveline Talvi

The rink looks entirely different when it is full of children.

There is a softness to the light in here today, as if the harsh fluorescent glare has been dimmed by the sheer volume of high-pitched giggles.

My hands, which are usually curled into defensive fists or gripping a whistle until my knuckles turn white, feel strangely light.

I find myself watching the parents in the stands. They aren’t scouts with clipboards or critics with anonymous Twitter accounts waiting for a mistake. They are just parents watching their entire world spin around on two thin strips of steel.

“Okay!” I call out, clapping once. “Rule number one—if you fall, you get back up.”

A few kids nod solemnly, absorbing this like it is gospel. They look at me with wide, trusting eyes that make me feel more like a teacher than an NHL coach.

“Rule number two,” I continue, leaning down slightly. “If you don’t fall at least once, it means you aren’t trying hard enough.”

Gasps ripple through the small group. One boy looks genuinely horrified by the suggestion. Another boy immediately drops to his knees on purpose, placing his palms flat on the ice as if he is proving a point.

I blink, taken aback by the literal interpretation. Then, I laugh—sharp, surprised, and loud enough to echo against the rafters. The sound startles me as much as it does them.

“That one doesn’t count,” I tell the boy, pointing at him with a grin. “Nice try, though.”

The kid beams at me as if he has just won the Stanley Cup.

Around the rink, the players are scattered in small, carefully assigned groups. I watch them for a moment, seeing sides of these men that never come out during a game.

Nico is crouched low, his tongue sticking out in concentration as he re-tightens a little girl’s skate. He is murmuring encouragement to her with infinite patience, and I think to myself that the internet would never believe this version of Nico exists.

Cash is letting a kid take shots on him. When a slow-moving puck squeaks past his goalie pad, he throws himself backward dramatically, arms flailing in the air.

“Oh no!” he groans, his voice echoing through the arena. “I have been defeated by the greatest sniper in the city!”

The kid screams in triumph, raising his stick high.

At center ice, Brick stands rigid with his arms crossed, looming like a stone statue—until a tiny child grabs his glove with both hands and looks up at him as if he has discovered a real-life superhero. Brick freezes, his eyes wide. Then, slowly, his mouth twitches. It is barely there, but it is a smile.

When I first heard about this community outreach day, I was convinced I was going to hate it. I knew I was going to hate the loss of control and the unpredictable chaos of thirty children on skates.

But then I stepped on the ice.

Now, looking at the team, I know this was the right decision.

The schedule hasn’t given us much breathing room. Seventy-four games down, forty-nine wins on the board, and April barely underway. It’s not a break so much as a thin gap in the calendar—the kind of lull that feels like the eye of a storm rather than a moment of rest.

Everywhere you look—broadcasts, articles, even the league’s own social feeds—people are calling us a Cup contender now. The pressure sits on our shoulders like extra padding beneath the gear.

I glide between the groups, my instincts taking over. I adjust helmets, tug on loose chin straps, and kneel down to eye level with kids who look overwhelmed by the size of the arena. I keep my voice soft and steady.

“It’s okay,” I murmur to a little girl who is clutching her stick like it is the only thing keeping her from sinking into the earth. “I promise the ice isn’t mad at you.”

She stares at me for a second, then giggles. Her shoulders relax and her grip loosens.

This is easy.