Page 26 of Uncoachable

“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.