Page 7 of Uncoachable

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.

My father clears his throat.

The room shifts as every eye turns toward him. For the briefest moment, I catch a subtle shift in his expression, a pause in his breath, like he’s holding something back.

My mind flickers to a childhood memory—him reading to me late at night, a rare softness in his tone that I wasn’t allowed to depend on.

For a second, the smell of the expensive cologne is replaced by old library paste and wood smoke. I can almost feel the weight of a heavy hardcover book on my lap.

He used to read me biographies of leaders, his voice a steady rumble that made the world feel like something that could be conquered with the right strategy.

“Always look them in the eye, Ivy,” he’d told me when I was six, after a boy at school had pushed me. “Never let them see you blink.”

The warmth of the memory is immediately cooled by the reality of the man sitting six feet away. He hasn’t called me “Ivy” in ten years. Now, I’m just another line item on the payroll.

“She’s qualified,” he says flatly. “That’s why she’s here.”

No one responds. They wouldn’t dare.

William St. James occupies authority the way gravity occupies space. Gray suit, red tie, silver hair—the kind of man people hold elevator doors for out of instinct rather than kindness.

The meeting moves on—preseason benchmarks, roster evaluations. I stay concise and precise. Some men ignore me; some talk over me.

Then, Rob Keenan takes my observation about the defensive gap in the left circle, rephrases it in “locker room” terms, and suddenly the table is nodding as if he’s discovered fire.

A familiar, hot prickle starts at the base of my neck. I look at my father, wanting a flash of recognition, a sign that he sees the theft. But his face is a mask of professional indifference.

Don’t show them when it hurts.

I take a sip of lukewarm water to steady my pulse.

If I snap, I’m emotional; If I stay silent, I’m weak.

I find the middle ground.

“Exactly, Rob,” I say, cutting through the murmurs. “I’m glad you agree with the data I sent over this morning. Since you’ve already highlighted the gap, let’s look at the slide I prepared on how we actually close it.”

I don’t wait. I tap my tablet, and the screen flickers to life. I take my credit back with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.

Jenna exhales quietly through her nose, the kind of micro-reaction only another woman would notice.

Her fingers drum once against her notebook—a silent applause, or maybe a silent “men are idiots.”

Hard to tell. Maybe both.

Later, when I present a systems adjustment, Delaney scoffs. “That won’t work with our roster.”

“Players won’t listen to a new coach, especially one that’s…” another coach begins.

I look directly at Rick. “The data supports the adjustment. It increases controlled entries by eight percent.”

Silence.

Rick nods once. “We’ll test it in practice.”

The meeting adjourns. Chairs scrape back and men file out, most avoid eye contact, a few offer tight, forced smiles.

My jaw aches; holding my tongue against the blatant sexism never gets easier.