Page 3 of Uncoachable

My father is walking down the hallway.

William St. James does not rush. He never has.

He moves with a gravity that pulls the room toward him without effort, the very air seeming to straighten in his wake. He doesn’t need to raise his voice to be the loudest presence in the hallway; he simply is.

“Excuse me,” I say, already stepping away. “I should speak with Mr. St. James.”

Delaney opens his mouth to continue whatever bullshit he had queued up, but my father arrives just in time to cut him off.

“Mark,” Dad says calmly, authority carried without volume, “I trust you’ve been welcoming our new assistant coach.”

Delaney straightens instantly, his spine snapping into place. The transformation is almost comical.

“Coach St. James,” my father says, the title a formal barrier between us.

He doesn’t offer a smile or a hand on my shoulder; he doesn’t even use my name. He keeps exactly three feet of professional distance.

“Mr. St. James,” I reply.

My father’s gaze doesn’t linger on me for more than a second before shifting back to the hallway at large.

We don’t look like a family reuniting; we look like two strangers with nothing to say.

“I was just ensuring the coach felt… oriented,” Delaney stammers, his face flushing a mottled red.

“I’m sure,” my father says, his voice like dry parchment. “Though I doubt she needs a tour from someone who consistently forgets the way to the video room.”

He shifts his attention back to me, his eyes clinical. “I trust the associate coach hasn’t delayed your start, Coach St. James?”

“Not at all,” I say, tilting my head just a fraction of an inch. “He was just sharing his concerns about my hypothetical family obligations. It’s quite a modern touch to have the associate coach prioritize my future nursery over my current coaching credentials, but I suppose he’s just very focused on the long-term logistics of my life.”

The sarcasm is subtle—but not subtle enough.

My father ignores it for now. He always does in public.

“You’ll want to familiarize yourself with the arena,” he continues, checked out and already moving on to the next item on his mental checklist. “The full staff and the rest of the department are convening in the boardroom. We’ll be waiting for you in half an hour for the formal introductions.”

“Understood, sir.”

He’s already walking away.

I don’t waste another second on Delaney. I turn on my heel and head for the nearest bathroom, adrenaline buzzing under my skin now that the confrontation is over.

September is a strange month to join a coaching staff—late enough that the routines are set, early enough that the pressure hasn’t peaked.

But this was the timeline the organization chose, and I wasn’t about to ask for special treatment. If anything, starting now only proves I can keep up.

It’s surreal.

A year ago, this felt impossible—working in the same organization as my father. Not because I wasn’t qualified, but because I refused to be a nepotism headline.

I didn’t come back until the offer came without his interference. Until I could say, without hesitation, that I earned this.

And I did.

Eight years in Europe. Eight years of being second-guessed and evaluated harder than any man in the room. Eight years of locker rooms that went quiet when I walked in.

This is the price of loving the sport.