7. Iveline Talvi St. James
Iveline Talvi St. James
Rick added you to “THE ADULTS”
Jenna: She’s coming. Or at least she said she would…
Miguel: She seems tense.
Noah: She corrected my data terminology yesterday.
Sam: Should we get her drunk?
Iveline: You know I’m in this chat, right?
Miguel: …
Rick: Go inside. Corner booth. Don’t drink without me.
Sam: RICK IS DRINKING?
***
The Blue Line smells like fried food and a heavy dose of victory nostalgia, the kind of place that hasn’t bothered to update its identity since the Boston Reign won the Cup in 2011.
It’s the kind of place where the floor is perpetually tacky, and the lighting is designed to hide the fact that the upholstery was last replaced during the Bush administration.
The bar is loud in the way hockey bars always are—too much bass, too much beer, and not nearly enough light. Jerseys hang like tapestries on the wood-paneled walls, and old playoff games loop on muted televisions, flickering like ghosts of seasons past.
I don’t plan on staying long.
My internal itinerary is set: one drink, show my face, be polite, and leave before anyone can say something stupid.
I see a group of guys in the corner wearing Moore jerseys, their faces flushed with pre-season optimism. They don’t see me. To them, I’m just another woman in a bar, and for the first time in forty-eight hours, that anonymity feels like a warm blanket.
It’s a relief not to be “the daughter” or “the coach” for the thirty seconds it takes to walk from the door to the back of the room.
I spot the “Adults” in a corner booth that looks like it’s seen more than its fair share of post-game loss autopsies.
The first thing I notice is Jenna, and damn, she’s stunning.
She’s wearing a tight, dark blue dress and heels that are far too high for a random Tuesday work night.
For half a second, I reassess my own choices: black dress pants, a red blouse, and heels that are sensible enough to escape in if things go south.
I look professional and intentional, but Jenna doesn’t look like she’s trying to fit in.
She looks like she owns the room.
Then I look around at the men—jeans, button-downs, and relaxed, slouchy postures. I realize then that Jenna isn’t overdressed. She’s just unapologetic. She knows exactly how much space she takes up, and doesn’t mind if it makes people stare.
As the evening continues, the conversation flows through a mix of trade rumors and league gossip. Jenna and Miguel eventually find their way to the small, crowded dance floor, their movements surprisingly fluid for people who spend most of their lives in cold rinks.
The music fades out and Jenna jogs back to our booth, her face glowing with a mix of exertion and laughter. She slides onto the stool next to me like we’ve always done this, like we’ve always been on the same side of the glass.
“You survived,” she reminds me, her eyes bright. “That deserves a drink, Iveline. A real one.”
“I was thinking water,” I say, tapping my glass.
I meant it when I told myself one drink.
One very sober, very forgettable drink.
“You can have water tomorrow.”
Before I can argue, Miguel appears, seemingly summoned by the word drink. He’s already holding three beers, his grin wide and infectious. Sam follows close behind, carrying a tray of shots that look like a chemistry experiment gone wrong—vividly green and bubbling slightly.
“First round’s on me,” Miguel says, setting a cold beer in front of me. “Welcome to the circus. We’ve been waiting for someone to tame the lions.”
“Charming as advertised,” I say, leaning back.
He grins. “It’s a gift. Hard to find in this economy.”
Noah arrives last, hovering near the end of the bar like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to take up physical space. He nods at me, then at Jenna, and then clears his throat with a nervous energy that makes me smile.
“Hi. This place has good… IPA variance,” he says, his voice earnest.
Miguel blinks, looking at his own glass. “Is that a compliment, Noah?”
“It means the selection is statistically above average for this zip code,” Noah explains.
Jenna presses her lips together to keep from laughing. I don’t bother. The laugh that escapes me is loud, sharp, and feels a little reckless.
An older man down the bar shoots me a look like I’ve committed a public crime. My chest tightens for a heartbeat.
I’ve been told too many times—by my father, by exes, by old bosses—that I’m “too loud.” It was always as if my voice needed curbing, as if my presence should shrink to fit the comfort of the men around me.
And yet… looking at this table, I realize I don’t care.
“I like him,” I say, lifting my beer toward Noah. “He speaks my language.”
Noah flushes a deep red, and Jenna finally loses it, her laughter echoing mine.
The first drink goes down easier than I expected it to. The second arrives without me even ordering it, and by the third, the tension I’ve been carrying in my shoulders finally loosens its grip.
Jenna leans closer, her tone shifting to something more confidential. “For what it’s worth, Iveline—they were assholes in the meeting. Especially Delaney.”
“Blunt,” I remark.
“I don’t sugarcoat. It’s bad for the brand,” she says, leaning on her elbows.
Her role as PR Director means she’s the one who has to spin every disaster into a triumph, but here, she’s raw.
“You didn’t deserve that. None of us do. I remember my first year here. It was like trying to teach etiquette to a pack of wolves.”
She’s the one who manages the image of this team, which means she’s often the one who has to tell a twenty-year-old multi-millionaire that he’s acting like a spoiled toddler.
I can see the invisible scars in the way she holds her shoulders.
It’s the same armor I wear, just a different style.
“How did you handle it?” I ask, my voice dropping below the roar of the jukebox playing an old Springsteen track. “The first time a veteran looked at you like you were the catering staff?”
Jenna smiles, but there’s no warmth in it.
“I leaned in. I made sure I was so undeniably right about their public perception and their marketability that they couldn’t afford to ignore me. And when they called me ‘sweetheart’?”
She takes a long, slow sip of her drink, her eyes hardening. “I made them do a six-hour media training session on their day off until they couldn’t remember their own names. You’ve got the right idea, Iveline. You don’t ask for the space. You take it, and you wait for them to try and get it back.”
It’s the first time someone has spoken my internal monologue out loud. A knot in my chest, one I didn’t even realize I was holding, starts to unspool.
I nod slowly. “Thank you, Jenna.”
Miguel raises his glass, his voice booming over the music. “To surviving assholes!”
We clink our glasses.
The conversation flows from there, easy and familiar, like momentum finding its groove on a clean sheet of ice.
That’s when Delaney shows up.
He doesn’t sit down at first. He hovers at the edge of the booth, already red-faced and speaking a decibel too loud. He’s clearly been somewhere else before this.
“Didn’t know this was a social gathering,” he says, his voice dripping with mock surprise. “Thought it was more of an analytics support group.”
Noah stiffens. Jenna rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t pull a muscle. And Miguel just exhales a long, tired breath.
I take a slow, deliberate sip of my drink, keeping my eyes on the condensation on the glass.
Delaney pulls up a chair anyway, forcing his way into the circle. He orders a whiskey, then another in quick succession. He starts talking like the room owes him its undivided attention.
“League’s changing,” he says, slurring just enough to have plausible deniability if anyone calls him out. “Too many systems. Too many opinions from people who’ve never taken a hit.”
His eyes land on me and stay there, heavy and challenging.
“Used to be simpler,” he adds, leaning in. “Didn’t have to worry about… optics.”
Jenna bristles at the word. It’s her trigger.
I don’t move.
I just watch him.
Delaney leans closer, his breath smelling of cheap rye. “No offense, Iveline, but Europe’s one thing. That’s a soft game. This is different. You’ll see. They won’t—”
“Won’t what, Mark?”
He gestures vaguely toward the front of the bar where the fans are sitting. “They won’t take you seriously. They see the name, they see the face, and they think ‘charity hire’. It’s just the way it is.”
“I’m not here for their feelings, Mark. And I’m certainly not here for yours.”
He scoffs, slamming his glass onto the table. “You think you can just walk in and change the culture because you’ve got a fancy degree and a famous dad?”
Delaney’s presence is like a drop of black ink in a glass of clear water.
It ruins the whole vibe of the night.
I’ve spent the last decade being “composed.” I’ve smiled through the sexist comments and the condescension in three different countries. But tonight, with the IPA hum in my ears and Jenna’s support at my back, the filter is dangerously thin.
When he opens his mouth again, something inside me finally snaps.
It’s a quiet, cold realization that I am done being “polite” to men who wouldn’t know professional courtesy if it hit them with a slap shot to the face.
“You think I walked in here without earning it,” I say, steady and level. My voice shifts, low and precise as the Finnish slips in.
“Sin? et tunne minua etk? tied?, mit? olen tehnyt p??st?kseni t?h?n.”
(You don’t know me or what I’ve done to get here.)
I hold his gaze, unblinking.
“Ja jos luulet, ett? joku baaripuhe saa minut horjumaan, olet pahasti pihalla.”
(And if you think bar talk is going to shake me, you’re badly mistaken.)
“I’m not here to convince you, Mark. I’m here to do my job. Whether you can keep up is your problem.”
The silence that follows is the most satisfying thing I’ve felt since I landed in the States. Even the guys at the next table have gone quiet, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.
Delaney looks like he’s just seen a cat speak Latin. His mouth is slightly open, his hand frozen on his empty glass.
Jenna’s grin is instant and wide. Sam whistles low, a sound of pure appreciation.
Rick is watching me over the rim of his glass.
He doesn’t look shocked. He looks like a man who just saw a rookie score a hat-trick in their first career game. He’s proud, and for the first time, I don’t care if that pride feels unprofessional. I’ll take it.
Miguel, who has been hovering nearby waiting for another round, laughs. “Wow. I didn’t understand a single word of that, but it was still hot. Terrifying, but hot.”
I glare at him, and he immediately lifts his hands in surrender.
“Respectfully! Totally respectfully.”
I feel a strange, electric buzz in my fingertips.
For a moment, I’m not just the GM’s daughter or the “new hire” being tested. I’m a woman who just claimed her territory in a language they can’t even touch.
Noah leans in, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “What language was that? The phonetic structure was fascinating.”
“Finnish. My mom’s from there,” I say, my voice returning to its normal, steady clip.
Delaney bristles, trying to recover some of his lost dignity. “You insulting me in another language now? That’s real mature.”
I lift my head slightly, a tilt of amusement mixed with pure exhaustion. The cold satisfaction hums under my skin.
“Only if you earned it, Mark. Did you?”
Jenna chokes on her drink, coughing into her napkin while trying to hide a massive smile.
Delaney mutters something about “total disrespect” and drains the dregs of his whiskey. Miguel signals the bartender for the check, and Sam steers Delaney away from the booth with practiced ease, whispering something about getting some air.
When Sam and Miguel return, they’re alone. The table exhales as one, the tension vanishing with Delaney’s departure.
“And there he goes,” Jenna sighs, leaning back and dramatically fanning herself with a cocktail napkin. “The man, the myth, the De-Lamey.”
I blink. “De-Lamey?”
“It’s the unofficial staff title,” Miguel explains. “Started about three seasons ago when he tried to argue that puck-tracking chips were a ‘government conspiracy.’ Now, everyone calls him that behind his back. Well, everyone except Rick.”
Rick doesn’t look up from his drink, but the corner of his mouth twitches in a way that is definitely not a frown.
“I don’t officially acknowledge nicknames,” Rick says into his glass. “But if the shoe fits, I can’t exactly stop it from being worn.”
“It’s not just a name, it’s a lifestyle,” Sam adds, turning back to me with a sharp, knowing look. “Don’t let him get under your skin, Iveline. He’s been De-Lamey since long before you got here. You’re just the first person who’s had the guts to tell him off in a language he couldn’t understand.”
Jenna turns to me, her eyes bright with a new kind of respect. “Iveline, you are officially my favorite person in this entire organization.”
I laugh and clink my glass against hers. “You’re not so terrible yourself, Jenna.”
She leans in, her voice conspiratorial. “Next round’s tequila. No arguments.”
Rick shakes his head, though he’s smiling. “That’s a terrible idea. We have a 7 AM practice.”
“We’re doing it anyway,” Jenna insists.
Miguel raises his glass high. “To new friends and better systems!”
Noah hesitates for a split second, then lifts his beer. “And to statistically unlikely bonding experiences.”
Sam joins in, grinning. “And to hot assistant coaches who swear in foreign languages. Now that’s a stat I can get behind.”
A genuine warmth settles in my chest. It’s unexpected and, in this business, probably dangerous. But as I look around at the faces in the booth, I realize that maybe this place won’t be as lonely as I feared.
* * *
“THE ADULTS”
05:36 AM
Rick: Everyone drink water and get to the rink on time.
Sam: Rick, you were slurring when we left.
Rick: No, I wasn’t.
Jenna: You told the bartender you were “emotionally Swedish.”
Rick: …Ignore that.