Page 93 of Uncoachable

“The left wing lock is leaking,” Callahan says, his voice raspy.

“I know,” I say, not looking up from the board. “They’re cheating toward the middle because they know we’re trying to stretch the play. We need to stop the long passes and go back to short, quick cycles.”

“Tell them,” he says.

I look at him then. “Rick is already—”

“No,” Callahan interrupts, his eyes flashing. “Rick is talking to the goalies. You saw the leak. You fix it. Tell them, Coach.”

I feel the room go quiet.

This is the moment where I either reclaim my spot or let the doubt win.

I step forward, my voice cutting through the noise. “Listen up! We’re playing right into their hands with the stretch passes. From now on, I want the puck moving in five-foot increments. Short, sharp, and ugly. We tire them out in their own zone, or we don’t win this game. Move!”

The players scramble, the energy in the room shifting instantly. I feel a surge of something—not pride, but a quiet, steady confidence. I look back at Callahan, and he gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod.

The second period is a war of attrition.

We’re down 1-0 after a fluke bounce, but the short cycles are working. The New York Monarchs are starting to slow down.

I’m leaning over the boards, screaming instructions, my voice holding steady.

I don’t feel fragile.

I feel like the only person in the building who knows exactly what to do.

With five minutes left in the game, we’re tied 1-1.

Callahan is on the ice for a defensive zone face-off. He wins it, ties up the opposing center, and kicks the puck to the boards. He’s moving with a desperate, beautiful kind of grit.

I see the opening before he does.

“Callahan! The gap!” I yell.

He hears me. He sees the defenseman pinching too far. He chips the puck past him and takes off. It’s a footrace down the wing.

He’s tired—I can see the hitch in his stride—but he finds another gear. He cuts toward the net, the goalie sliding with him, and at the last possible second, he tucks the puck between the goalie’s pads.

The arena explodes.

2-1.

When the final buzzer sounds, the relief is so thick I can taste it.

We’ve done it.

Home ice is ours.

The players are piling onto the ice, and I find myself leaning against the bench, my legs finally feeling the weight of the day.

Later as I’m walking back toward the locker room when I see my father standing by the coaches’ office. He looks at me for a long time, his expression unreadable.

“Good call on the cycles,” he says.

“Thank you,” I reply, my voice neutral.

“You’re… you’re looking better, Iveline.” He hesitates, his hand going to his tie. It’s the most awkward I’ve ever seen him. “Don’t stay too late tonight. The reports can wait until morning.”