Page 9 of Uncoachable

I don’t look up from my bench. My focus is narrowed entirely on the roll of black friction tape in my hand, the adhesive tacky against my thumb.

“Says the guy who hasn’t shut up since 2009,” I mutter.

We’ve been a package deal since high school—two kids from the same neighborhood who survived the cut-throat world of AAA hockey by looking out for each other.

Back then, he was just Finnian, the only goalie crazy enough to let me take slap shots at his head for four hours after the team buses had gone home.

The “Cash” nickname was a fluke from our senior year; he’d shown up to a game with a wad of crumpled bills he’d won off a bad bet and announced to the scouts that he was the only thing “guaranteed” in the building.

He played the game of his life that night, and the name stuck like resin. He leaned into it, transforming from the scrawny kid I used to share five-dollar pizzas with into the loud, swaggering personality the league loves to market.

To the fans, he is Cash—the guy who shuts down breakaways and never shuts his mouth.

But to me, he’s still the same Finn who has covered my back for twenty years, the one person who can read my silence better than any playbook.

He wears the persona like a mask, but I’m the only one who knows exactly when it’s slipping.

“Confidence,” Cash corrects me with a grin, leaning back against his stall. “Also, I’m always right, which means I’m legally allowed to talk as much as I want. It’s in the bylaws.”

A couple of the guys laugh as a rogue sock flies through the air in his direction. It misses him by a mile, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

The locker room is a chaotic symphony of rituals: music turned up just a hair too loud, defensemen arguing over the playlist, and rookies pacing like we’re already late.

Through it all, Finn keeps running his mouth, providing the steady white noise that keeps us grounded.

It’s a necessary routine; a quiet locker room means a shit practice.

I return my attention to my stick, watching the tape overlap in perfect, quarter-inch increments. If the tape isn’t flawless, the puck feels like a live grenade on my blade.

It’s a ritual born of superstition and sustained by the pressure of the C stitched to my chest.

Around me, the younger guys are buzzing, still in that blissful phase of being happy just to have a locker with their name on it. They don’t have the weight of the captaincy or the looming shadow of a rebuild on their minds.

I catch my reflection in the polished steel of my skate blade and realize I look older than thirty-one. There are new lines around my eyes that weren’t there two seasons ago—the inevitable tax of playing for William St. James.

He doesn’t just want wins; he wants a brand of perfection that feels like a moving target I can’t quite hit anymore.

“Boys,” Cash announces dramatically, flopping back onto the bench and spreading his arms wide. “This is preseason. This is when coaches are at their meanest, like grizzly bears coming out of hibernation with a grudge against humanity.”

“Did you hear?” one of the wingers asks while yanking his laces tight. “We’ve got a new assistant joining today.”

“Another one?” a defenseman groans from the corner. “Didn’t we just burn through the last guy?”

“European,” someone else adds, pitching his voice lower. “Top-tier pedigree, apparently. Worked in the Swedish Elite League, or whatever they call it now.”

My brain betrays me instantly.

I think of the woman I caught a glimpse of in the hallway earlier this morning.

Cash perks up, his eyes gleaming with interest. “Oh, that explains the new gear. Get ready for fancy drills and enough cones to block off a highway.”

I finally glance up, feeling a wave of exhaustion hit me before I’ve even touched the ice. “Are you done?”

“Just getting started.” Finn squints at me, his playful expression shifting into something more clinical. “You’re more bitchy than usual, Callie. You’ve got that look like you’re ready to check a mascot through the glass.”

I don’t answer because he’s right. I’ve been wired and irritable since I walked into the room, a strange, restless energy scraping under my skin.

I know exactly whose fault it is, even if I don’t want to admit it.