Page 27 of Uncoachable

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.

“Sinä et tunne minua etkä tiedä, mitä olen tehnyt päästäkseni tähän.”

(You don’t know me or what I’ve done to get here.)

I hold his gaze, unblinking.

“Ja jos luulet, että 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.”