4. Iveline Talvi St. James
Iveline Talvi St. James
“Line up.”
I wait until every man is breathing hard before I say it. I can feel the vibration of their skates through the soles of my own, a low, rhythmic thrum of expensive steel on fresh ice.
It is a sound I have lived in since I was four years old.
To most people, a hockey rink is a chaotic blur of noise, but to me, it is a language.
I can hear who is skating on tired edges, and I can hear exactly who is cheating on their crossovers.
I look down the line.
They are giants in their pads, hulking silhouettes that block out the light. Standing among them, I am only a fraction of their size, but the ice is the great equalizer.
On skates, I don’t have to be bigger than them; I just have to be more precise.
I notice the way the light catches the sweat on Callahan’s neck. He isn’t looking at me, but I can feel his focus. He is waiting for me to slip up, waiting for a drill that doesn’t make sense or a whistle that comes a second too late.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I have spent eight years perfecting my “coach” voice, a tone that sits right in the middle of the register, resonant enough to cut through the roar of a crowd without ever sounding like a screech.
My father drilled that into me early: if you need to yell, you have already lost the room.
“Neutral zone transition drill,” I continue evenly. “Controlled entries only; no dumping unless you’re forced.”
A few heads tilt and someone smirks.
Skepticism ripples through the line in quiet, practiced ways from men who have been rewarded their entire careers for doing the same thing the same way.
No one says anything, but I can read it in their posture and the way a few grips tighten on their sticks. They think I’m bringing European “softness” to their hard-nosed game.
The first rep is exactly what I expect.
It’s bad hockey; dump-ins with no pressure, shortcuts through lanes that closed five years ago, and lazy changes that bleed momentum. It is the kind of play that looks fine on paper but dies under real speed.
I don’t stop them.
I let it fail.
It is a gamble, letting them mess up, as most coaches would blow the whistle the second the first pass went wide. But men like these—men who are paid millions to believe they are infallible—don’t learn from being told.
I watch as Kovács fumbles a transition, the puck skittering away like a live thing. He swears, a sharp bark that echoes in the rafters, and looks around for someone to blame.
His eyes land on me, searching for a critique he can argue with, but I give him nothing. I just stand there with my arms crossed over my clipboard, my expression as flat as the ice.
Failure is a better teacher than I am, and right now, the silence of the rink is screaming at them. They know they are playing like a JV team in a state tournament. They are waiting for the lecture, the punishment, or the bag skate.
When I finally speak, I don’t give them the anger they are braced for. I give them a reset.
“Again,” I say after the second rep.
A few exaggerated exhales follow, and someone rolls their shoulders as if I am the inconvenience here. Still, they line up.
On the third rep, Callahan does exactly what I knew he would. He cuts wide, dumps the puck deep as if muscle memory has completely taken over, and then coasts back with that loose, infuriating posture.
He thinks he has proven something, and he has, just not what he intended. He’s proving he’s stubborn, even when it costs him the play.
I lift my whistle. The rink stills.
“Moore,” I say calmly.
He turns slowly, irritation already etched into his face, and rolls his eyes as if this is beneath him.
“That’s not the drill.”
“I’ve played this way for a decade,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m not changing it just because you said so.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Marcus Bennett’s reaction—a faint shake of his head. It is disappointment rather than surprise, and that matters more than any laughter could.
I push off the boards and skate toward Callahan, stopping just close enough that he has to look down at me. His jaw is locked tight, mirroring the way mine felt in the boardroom earlier.
“That’s a fascinating strategy,” I say, my brows lifting. “Really. It’s almost impressive how much effort you put into being completely wrong.”
Laughter breaks out.
Finn O’Connell—the goalie they call Cash—slaps a gloved hand against his chest like he’s been physically wounded.
I close the distance another inch, letting the silence hang until it feels heavy.
“Where I come from, we have a word for people who talk this much without really saying anything. We call them distractions.” I tilt my head, searching his eyes for even a flicker of the man who yelled at me in the rain.
“Please stop distracting me.”
The laughter dies instantly, replaced by scoffs and a sharp inhale. Callahan’s nostrils flare, a dark flush creeping up his neck. “You done?”
I purse my lips, considering him. “No. But you are.”
I skate back toward the boards and call for them to start again.
The difference is immediate. The entries are cleaner, the spacing is tighter, and the chaos smooths into purpose.
I watch as a defenseman, Miller, fumbles a transition near the blue line.
He stops, doubled over with his hands on his knees, his breath coming in ragged, noisy gulps that echo in the cavernous rink. He starts grumbling to the man next to him, shaking his head at the ice as if the frozen surface is personally responsible for his lack of conditioning.
The complaining is a virus: if I let it sit, it’ll infect the whole session.
“You done complaining,” I ask him mildly, “or should I schedule time for it?”
Miller snaps his head up, swallows hard, and immediately finds his feet.
This time the laughter is different—looser and warmer.
Then Kovács mutters something as I correct his form.
I stop. “What was that?”
He’s been testing me since the first drill, seeing how far he can lean before something snaps.
“You’re being mean to get our respect,” he sneers. “Doesn’t work like that.”
He’s likely used to being untouchable, but I won’t let him bristle at authority just because it’s mine.
“I’m not being mean. I’m being efficient. If I wanted to be mean, you’d be crying in the break room—and I’d bill you for the tissues.”
A ripple of sound moves through the group.
Finn laughs outright. “Damn, Ivy. Burn.”
I meet his eyes. “My name has seven letters. Use them all.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, saluting with his blocker.
I clap once, sharp and decisive. “Now, are we moving, or are you waiting for the ice to melt?”
They move.
They listen.
The rest of practice feels demanding and focused, and by the end, sweat darkens their jerseys. No one is laughing now, not because they’re angry, but because they are exhausted and they know the system worked.
When Rick blows the final whistle, I skate to the boards with my lungs burning and my pulse steady. I am soaked through and tired, but a heavy satisfaction settles in my chest.
Callahan passes me without a glance, his skates cutting deep, angry grooves into the ice.
That’s fine.
I’m not here to be liked; I’m here to win.
I change into my boots and pull my cap on as Rick stops beside me.
He looks at the ice, then at me. “I’ve seen three coaches try to get Kovács to tuck in like that. You did it in twenty minutes. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks, Rick.”
After he heads for the offices, I move toward the exit, my gaze drifting to the framed photos in the hallway. It’s a gallery of ghosts and legends.
I stop in front of the picture of my father from his first year as General Manager. He looks younger there, his hair more brown than white, but he has the same unreadable expression.
I force myself to keep walking.
The hallway is quiet, and my boots echo against the concrete. The adrenaline that carried me through the last two hours begins to fade, leaving a quiet, hollow ache in its wake.
I tell myself I did well, yet my chest feels tight. It is the same feeling I used to get in Europe—the sense that competence is a temporary visa that could be revoked at any moment.
You are only as good as your last drill.
I push through the exit doors and the cold Boston air hits me hard, shocking the humidity of the rink out of my clothes.
I am halfway to my car in the darkening lot when I hear a voice behind me.
“Coach.”
I turn to see Callahan standing a few feet away.
He’s still in his workout gear, a team sweatshirt thrown on, hair pushed back like he ran a hand through it on his way out. There’s no sign he even bothered with the shower.
Up close, he looks even more like trouble.
He has the same intense energy he had years ago when he was yelling at me in the rain, blaming me for a car accident that was as much the weather’s fault as mine.
“You run a hard practice,” he says, his expression guarded.
I wait, pursing my lips to the side.
“I don’t dump the puck for fun,” he adds. “It works. It’s how we’ve stayed in the hunt.”
“For you,” I say. “Sometimes. But ‘sometimes’ doesn’t win championships, Moore. It wins highlights.”
His jaw tightens. “You embarrassed me out there.”
“No. You embarrassed yourself. I just didn’t stop you.”
He exhales, a cloud of white breath in the freezing air, and for a fraction of a heartbeat, I catch something vulnerable behind his eyes. It’s the look of a man who realizes the world is changing faster than he can skate.
“You didn’t have to come at me like that.”
“I did. Because if I let the captain slide, I lose the rookies before they even lace up. You know that.”
I turn to leave, but he speaks again. “I’m not done.”
I stop and look up at him, realizing just how much height he has on me. “You should be. It’s been a long day.”
“Look,” he says, his voice dropping to a lower, more personal register. “If I had known you were the new hire—if I’d known who you were in the hall—I wouldn’t have talked to you like I did.”
“I know,” I say without missing a beat. “That’s even worse. If that’s how you talk to a stranger, I have even lower opinions of you than before. Character isn’t what you show your boss; it’s what you show the person you think can do nothing for you.”
I turn away completely and drop my bag next to my old, cheap car. The paint is peeling on the hood, a stark contrast to the rows of luxury SUVs belonging to the players.
As I unlock the door, he calls out, “See you tomorrow, Coach.”
I lift a hand without looking back, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Once I’m inside the car, my shoulders finally slump.
The mental gymnastics of the day have drained me more than the skating. Every word I spoke was filtered through a dozen different checks to ensure I didn’t seem too “emotional” or too “abrasive.”
The drive home takes longer than I expect. The city lights blur through my windshield, and for a moment, I feel a pang of intense loneliness.
For the last two months, I have been renting a studio apartment from a man named Greg who has knuckles that have clearly seen a few walls and rent that must be paid in cash.
The apartment is less of a home and more of a glorified closet with a kitchenette.
Everything is within arm’s reach; I can practically stir a pot on the stove while sitting on the edge of my bed, and the walls are thin enough that I’ve memorized Greg’s favorite television programs by sound alone.
It’s a far cry from the sleek, airy flats of Stockholm, but in its suffocating smallness, there is a strange kind of comfort—there is no room here for my father’s legacy to follow me, and certainly no room for anyone else’s expectations.
There was always the option of staying with my father, but he has a new wife and a new life that doesn’t seem to have room for a daughter who reminds him of everything he did wrong the first time around.
Staying at Greg’s is easier.
No memories, no expectations.
When I get to my apartment, the air smells faintly of old wood and radiator heat. I lean against the wall, wondering if I made a mistake coming back.
I could be in a league where my name means nothing.
Here, it’s a target.
***
Later, as I’m settling into bed, my phone lights up with a message from Leo Park.
10:36 PM
Leo Park: Coach? Are you awake?
I stare at the screen. Leo is a rookie with more talent than sense, and he’s the kind of player who will stay up all night worrying about a single missed pass.
Me: I’m awake, Leo. What’s up?
Leo Park: That neutral zone drill. I keep getting caught flat-footed when the winger cuts inside. Is it my pivot or my eyes?
I smile—a genuine one this time that makes the tightness in my chest loosen just a fraction.
This is why I do it. Not for the boardroom, not for the headlines, but for the kid who wants to be better.
Me: It’s your eyes. You’re watching his chest. Watch his hips. We’ll work on it tomorrow if you’re on the ice early.
Leo Park: I’ll be there. Thanks, Coach.
As sleep finally takes me, I realize that despite the cold room, the skeptical men, and the ghost of a car crash that refuses to stay buried, I don’t regret coming back.
Not yet.