Page 96 of Uncoachable

He’s looking at me.

He’s talking about the late night film sessions and the way I restructured the penalty kill until it became a weapon for us instead of a liability.

I look down at my hands.

They’re steady, but my heart is beating in a frantic, uneven rhythm.

It is one thing to earn respect through fear or the raw weight of authority; it is something else entirely to have it given to you in front of the people who matter most.

I realize then that Rick isn’t just praising my work. He is validating my existence outside of the St. James name. He is telling every man in this room that I’m here because I’m better at this job than anyone else, not because of who my father is.

“But hockey isn’t about comfort,” he goes on, his expression turning serious again. “It’s about growth. And what she’s brought to this team—on the ice, in the room, and behind the scenes—has made you better hockey players. It has made you better men. Period.”

I swallow hard, trying to keep my composure.

“So,” Rick finishes, lifting his glass high. “To Coach Talvi.”

There’s a beat of silence that feels like an eternity.

Then the room erupts.

Chairs scrape loudly against the floor as they stand. Glasses are lifted high into the air. Someone whistles sharply. Cash, never one to miss a moment for drama, shouts, “Speech!” like he’s been waiting his whole life for this specific opportunity to put me on the spot.

Heat floods my face, and I can feel the tips of my ears burning. I stand up before I can talk myself out of it, my heart hammering.

“I’m not giving a speech,” I say immediately, my voice projecting through the noise.

There is a chorus of mock groans from the players.

“But,” I add, lifting a single finger to quiet them. “I will say this.”

The room stills instantly.

“I don’t believe in miracle fixes,” I say. “I don’t believe in saviors, and I certainly don’t believe in shortcuts.”

I take a breath, letting my gaze linger on the veterans and the rookies alike.

“But I believe in work,” I continue. “And I believe in people who show up. Every single day. Especially when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when the world is telling them they don’t belong.”

I hesitate for a fraction of a second, then finish softly, “So thank you. For trusting me. And for doing the work.”

I sit down quickly, my pulse racing as if I’ve just finished a sprint. The applause this time is quieter, but it feels more significant—deserved.

Cash wipes his eyes dramatically, claiming it’s “just allergies.” Nico clinks his glass against mine with a grin that’s all teeth and sincerity.

The conversation resumes around me, but something fundamental has shifted in the air. The feeling settles into my chest and into my bones—a steady, unfamiliar warmth. The thought I’ve been resisting for months finally surfaces, and this time, it is undeniable.

I belong here.

Not because of the name on my birth certificate. Not because of the lines on my résumé.

I belong here because I deserve to be at this table, and I earned the right to stay.

***

Later, after most of the group has drifted toward the dessert menu or the bar, I find myself leaning against the polished wood of the counter, nursing a drink I haven’t yet finished.

Carter Hale drifts closer to me. “Good speech.”