Page 2 of Uncoachable

“No.” My voice stays even. “Assistant Coach.”

He lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right. Sure you are.”

I don’t answer him. I’ve learned the hard way that silence is far more unnerving than defensiveness.

In the eight years of climbing through the ranks in Europe, I’ve dealt with a hundred men just like Delaney—men who view a woman’s presence as an invitation for a lecture or an apology.

They expect a scramble. They want to see the flustered overexplanation, the softening of the shoulders, the desperate need to reassure their egos.

I give him none of it.

I simply watch him, my expression a flat, unreadable slate. My quiet irritates him more than any retort could; it denies him the satisfaction of rattling me. Every second I remain still is another second he has to fill with his own mounting discomfort.

I let the awkwardness stretch until it’s his skin that’s crawling, not mine.

I take a slow, deliberate inventory of him—the way his tie is knotted slightly off-center, the way he smells like stale coffee and a desperate need to be the loudest person in the room.

He’s the kind of coach who relies on “grit” and “gut feelings” because the actual science of the game terrifies him.

He scoffs, shifting his weight, his cheap leather shoes squeaking on the linoleum. “Look, sweetheart, this wing is for staff. Actual staff. You can’t just wander back here because you’re lost or curious or—”

“I’m not lost.”

“Then you’re confused,” he says, smiling like he’s being generous. “It happens. These hallways are a maze. I can walk you back to the public area if you’d like.”

I stare at him. “No, thank you. I have to be at the meeting soon.”

He opens his mouth again, gearing up for another condescending assumption, but apparently I’ve convinced him that I’m not just a lost girl, because he suddenly changes gears.

“I just didn’t know we were looking for a new assistant coach,” he says, the words sharpened into something meant to cut.

He knows.

As the associate coach, he would have been on the email chains, would have seen my CV sitting on the corner of the GM’s desk.

This isn’t a lack of information; it’s a refusal to acknowledge my legitimacy. He’s forcing me to audition for a room I’ve already been invited into.

“Mr. Anderson requested me personally, sir,” I say, keeping my tone cool. It physically pains me to show respect, but optics matter. “We worked together in Europe.”

That gets his attention. Surprise flickers across his face, then calculation.

“Oh.” He laughs again, a short, dismissive sound. “Well, you understand my concern, right? I mean, what are you—twenty?”

He slowly looks me up and down, and I know I don’t look twenty. The assessment isn’t about my age; it’s a deliberate, slow-motion attempt to make me feel small.

My nerves spike, a sharp, cold hum under my skin, but I don’t give him the flinch he’s looking for. I keep my posture steady, meeting his gaze with the same clinical detachment I’d use to study a penalty kill.

If he wants to look, I’ll make sure he sees exactly how little he intimidates me.

“Twenty-six.”

“Oho.” His brows lift. “Then should we be worried you’ll be missing games when the kids are sick?”

There it is.

As if a woman cannot exist fully without orbiting a family she may or may not want. As if I am nothing more than a ghost in a waiting room, just passing the time until I’m summoned to motherhood.

I don’t rise to it. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I glance past him—and almost sigh in relief.