Page 95 of Uncoachable

“We’re not breaking tradition,” Rick says, clapping his hands together with a finality that suggests arguing will only make things worse for everyone involved. “End-of-season dinner. Players and staff. No excuses, no exceptions.”

Today’s win sealed it—Game 82, wrapped in a bow. The season is officially over, the standings are locked, and we’re playoff-bound. Everyone knew we were going to the playoffs weeks ago, but something about seeing the little “x” next to our name in the conference makes it real in a way the math never does.

The guys walked into the rink this morning looking like men who survived a war and are stupidly excited to walk into another one.

“I still have film to—”

“It’ll be there tomorrow,” Jenna cuts in, already collecting her things and throwing a pointed look my way.

A few hours later, I’m standing just inside the doorway of a low-lit restaurant not far from the rink. My coat is still on, and my bag is slung over one shoulder as if I might flee if given even a second of an opening.

The place is loud—voices overlap in a chaotic symphony, chairs scrape against wood, and laughter echoes off the exposed brick walls.

On the ice, these men are defined by their jerseys and their numbers, but tonight they’ve been replaced by soft sweaters and heavy jackets.

This place is a far cry from the sterile, fluorescent-lit world of the rink where I spend my life. Here, the shadows are deep amber and the atmosphere is thick with the scent of charred steak.

It feels heavy, rich, and intensely human.

I find myself tracking the small details of my team in a way I usually reserve for scouting reports or game-tape analysis.

I notice the way Brick always lets someone else finish their sentence before he starts his own, a quiet politeness that contradicts his aggressive style of play. I see the way Nico’s hands never stop moving, even when he’s eating, tapping out a rhythm on the table.

I’ve spent months looking at these men as data points—as shooting percentages, skating velocities, and defensive lapses—but tonight, they are just men. They are brothers who have bled for the same goal, and for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m standing behind a glass watching them through a lens.

I hover near the entrance longer than is strictly necessary until Rick spots me from across the room. He lifts a hand in greeting, waving me over like my presence was never in question, like I’ve always had a seat reserved at this table.

“You made it,” he says, sounding genuinely pleased as I approach.

He pulls out a chair beside him without asking. I take it, shrugging out of my coat and folding it carefully over the back of the seat.

The conversation flows easily once I’m seated.

Nico is halfway through a story that involves a missed flight and a very questionable airport bar when Cash interrupts to make the story sound even worse on purpose. Leo listens to every word like it might be vital information later, and Marcus just laughs quietly, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. Brick sits back with a drink in his hand, observing the room like a detached anthropologist watching a strange tribe, but there is a small, rare softness in his eyes.

Plates arrive in a steady stream. Glasses are refilled without anyone asking for permission. Someone orders dessert far too early in the meal, and no one objects.

Rick stands partway through the meal, his glass raised. The room groans and cheers automatically, conditioned by years of these traditions.

“Alright,” he says, waiting them out with a practiced patience. “Before this gets any louder and the manager kicks us out.”

He lets the silence settle, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant clinking of silverware from the other tables.

“We’ve had a strong stretch,” he continues, his voice dropping into that “coach” register that commands attention. “It hasn’t been flashy, and it certainly hasn’t been perfect. But it has been disciplined. And that isn’t an accident.”

My shoulders tense before I can stop them.

Rick’s gaze finds me immediately, and he doesn’t look away.

“I took a risk bringing Iveline on,” he says plainly, his honesty cutting through the room. “Some of you thought it. Some of you said it. Some of you were polite enough to just wait and see if she’d sink or swim.”

My chest tightens.

A spike of fear and tension rises unbidden, a stark reminder that being truly seen by others is a dangerous thing. But gratitude swells right along with it, fleeting and sharp, like a lungful of cold winter air.

Usually, when people talk about my father in public, I brace myself for the punchline. I wait for the subtle implication that I’m a charity case or a clever political move.

But Rick isn’t looking at my father’s empty seat.