Page 8 of Uncoachable

Jenna pauses beside me.

“They’ll get used to you,” she says. “Or they won’t. Either way, do your job. Don’t wait for their approval.”

Noah lingers next. “If you ever want to talk systems, I’m around.”

I nod as he shuffles out.

Only Rick and my father remain.

My father gathers his papers. For a heartbeat, his expression softens as he looks toward me. Then it’s gone.

“You did good,” he says. “You should go meet the team.”

He leaves without another word. No “welcome home,” no “I’m proud of you.” Just the next directive.

Rick exhales once the door shuts. “I’m glad you’re here, Iveline. Let’s go meet the guys.”

As I collect my notes, I see two reporters lingering by the doorway. My chest tightens. The memory of last season’s twisted headlines flashes through my mind.

Rick follows my gaze. “Media’s restless.”

“About what?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. My last name is always the story.

I can already see the headline:

St. James Hire: Deserved or Daddy’s decision?

They won’t mention my championships in Europe or my master’s degree. They’ll use the photo of me at age five, holding my father’s hand on the ice.

They’ll turn my entire career into a heartwarming story about a father and daughter, effectively erasing every ounce of sweat I put into the game.

I feel the urge to walk out the back exit and disappear back to a league where they can’t pronounce my name.

Instead, I grip my tablet until the edges dig into my palms.

I’ve spent my life being a “St. James.” It’s time they learned what that actually means.

We walk past the reporters. I hold my breath, waiting for the flashbulbs.

Nothing.

Either I’m less interesting than they hoped—or they’re waiting.

I straighten my shoulders and follow Rick toward the locker rooms.

Meeting the players doesn’t make me nervous; it rarely does. But if they’re anything like Callahan Moore, I’ll be babysitting a room full of overgrown boys.

Great.

3

Callahan Eli Moore

“You’re a little sassy today, Callie.”

Cash’s voice carries easily through the locker room, cutting through the low hum of pre-practice energy with that practiced, effortless volume he’s perfected over a decade in the league.