2. Iveline Talvi St. James
Iveline Talvi St. James
Dean: Whatever today brings, I know you will handle it better than most people could.
* * *
The room is cold.
It’s a space designed specifically to make people feel small. The table is a slab of dark, polished mahogany that reflects the fluorescent lights like a frozen lake. Every chair is a heavy, black leather—the kind that creaks when you shift, announcing your discomfort to the room.
I don’t just see the people; I see the hierarchy.
My father sits at the head of the table, his silence the room’s gravity. To his right, Rick Anderson offers a brief nod.
The rest of the circle is a wall of scrutiny.
Viktor Lundqvist and Sam O’Rourke, the veteran coaches, watch me with stony skepticism, while Mark Delaney leans back, his expression still sour from our encounter in the hall. Jenna Walsh, the PR director, provides the only sympathetic smile.
Miguel Santos, Rob Keenan, and Noah Klein form a cluster of performance and data experts, their eyes darting between their tablets and my father.
And at the far end, Dr. Sarah Liu, the oldest in the room, watching with the patient, slightly tired expression of a woman who’s seen this story play out too many times.
I find an empty chair, positioned perfectly to be scrutinized from all sides. I sit, crossing my legs with the kind of slow, deliberate precision that denies them the satisfaction of a flinch.
In a room full of predators, I know better than to act like prey.
I set my tablet down with a soft thud and meet O’Rourke’s gaze. He doesn’t look away, and neither do I.
This is the first test: who blinks first?
The room stays quiet until Rick stands.
“This is Iveline Talvi St. James,” he says evenly. “Our new assistant coach in player development and systems.”
Every head turns.
“She’ll oversee player development, systems implementation, and video review. She reports directly to me.” He pauses deliberately, his gaze sweeping the table.
“She’s coached professionally for eight years in Europe. She’s rebuilt veteran players, managed full retools, and her systems are already in place.”
A scoff comes from my far left.
I don’t need to look to know it’s Delaney.
“If you have questions about her role,” Rick continues calmly, “bring them to me. If you have issues with her decisions on the ice, take them to her.”
He sits. “We’re not easing her in. Practice starts today.”
Mark Delaney laces his fingers behind his head, his mouth tilted in something that wants to pass for a smile.
“Europe’s a different game,” he says mildly. “Softer. You’ll see.”
A few men shift in their seats, though no one intervenes.
I meet his gaze and hold it.
“Hockey is hockey,” I say evenly. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”
“Well,” Rob Keenan cuts in, shrugging. “Systems are complicated. Might take you a while to adjust.”
I nod once. “I’ve been adjusting for eight years. Thanks for the concern.”
Another pause.
Then Noah Klein leans forward. “I’ve reviewed your work in the Swedish league. Your neutral zone trap variation was smart.”
The room stills.
Noah gives me a small nod, a faint acknowledgment that carries more weight than any formal introduction. My stomach tightens at the thought of being seen—not for my last name, but for the work.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.
My father clears his throat.
The room shifts as every eye turns toward him. For the briefest moment, I catch a subtle shift in his expression, a pause in his breath, like he’s holding something back.
My mind flickers to a childhood memory—him reading to me late at night, a rare softness in his tone that I wasn’t allowed to depend on.
For a second, the smell of the expensive cologne is replaced by old library paste and wood smoke. I can almost feel the weight of a heavy hardcover book on my lap.
He used to read me biographies of leaders, his voice a steady rumble that made the world feel like something that could be conquered with the right strategy.
“Always look them in the eye, Ivy,” he’d told me when I was six, after a boy at school had pushed me. “Never let them see you blink.”
The warmth of the memory is immediately cooled by the reality of the man sitting six feet away. He hasn’t called me “Ivy” in ten years. Now, I’m just another line item on the payroll.
“She’s qualified,” he says flatly. “That’s why she’s here.”
No one responds. They wouldn’t dare.
William St. James occupies authority the way gravity occupies space. Gray suit, red tie, silver hair—the kind of man people hold elevator doors for out of instinct rather than kindness.
The meeting moves on—preseason benchmarks, roster evaluations. I stay concise and precise. Some men ignore me; some talk over me.
Then, Rob Keenan takes my observation about the defensive gap in the left circle, rephrases it in “locker room” terms, and suddenly the table is nodding as if he’s discovered fire.
A familiar, hot prickle starts at the base of my neck. I look at my father, wanting a flash of recognition, a sign that he sees the theft. But his face is a mask of professional indifference.
Don’t show them when it hurts.
I take a sip of lukewarm water to steady my pulse.
If I snap, I’m emotional; If I stay silent, I’m weak.
I find the middle ground.
“Exactly, Rob,” I say, cutting through the murmurs. “I’m glad you agree with the data I sent over this morning. Since you’ve already highlighted the gap, let’s look at the slide I prepared on how we actually close it.”
I don’t wait. I tap my tablet, and the screen flickers to life. I take my credit back with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.
Jenna exhales quietly through her nose, the kind of micro-reaction only another woman would notice.
Her fingers drum once against her notebook—a silent applause, or maybe a silent “men are idiots.”
Hard to tell. Maybe both.
Later, when I present a systems adjustment, Delaney scoffs. “That won’t work with our roster.”
“Players won’t listen to a new coach, especially one that’s…” another coach begins.
I look directly at Rick. “The data supports the adjustment. It increases controlled entries by eight percent.”
Silence.
Rick nods once. “We’ll test it in practice.”
The meeting adjourns. Chairs scrape back and men file out, most avoid eye contact, a few offer tight, forced smiles.
My jaw aches; holding my tongue against the blatant sexism never gets easier.
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.