I have press to talk to and my players just want to chill out, fuck around, and cut loose after a successful game. They don’t want the person who decides their playing time to hang about and cramp their style.
But I still feel a pang of jealousy, of missing the camaraderie so much it hurts to breathe—it’s been a long time since my college hockey days were ended by an injury that meant I transitioned from playing to coaching, but I don’t think the yearning to be part of a team in that way is something that ever goes away.
Not for me, anyway.
I ignore the pain, the tightness in my lungs, and I deal with the press, give my interview, make my soundbites. Before I can end it and head for my office so I can finish with my post-game tasks, a question carelessly tossed across the room sends my blood boiling.
“How do you think that spending so much time rebuilding the Sierra has impacted your love life?”
What theactualfuck?
The room goes quiet and still, and swear to fuck, if I heard a romcom record scratch, I wouldn’t be surprised.
And I certainly don’t miss the wide-eyed glances the other reporters exchange.
My temper spikes. I just want to enjoy the win, ignore the shit that Damon churned up. I just want to do my fucking job without assholes jabbing at me, trying to get a reaction that will undermine my position.
But…misogyny.
Which isn’t entirely fair. Or maybe it’s not completely true.
Yeah, there are still assholes out there on social media, critiquing every move I make. But they’re quieting, coming fewer and further between.
It’s just…exhausting.
Having to be perfect and always composed and constantly walking a tightrope—being feminine and approachable anddon’t forget to smilebattling with just wanting to have the freedom to do my job like my male counterparts are able to.
But that’s not my reality.
I’m the first female coach in the league, and the expectations—myexpectations—are high.
I open my mouth, staring at the young twenty-something male who looks vaguely familiar. He’s wearing a smug expression on his face, and I feel a sharp retort zip toward the tip of my tongue. Then I glance around the room, some of my rage tempered by the looks on the rest of the reporters’ and sports bloggers’ faces.
Shock. Annoyance.Outrage.
And not just from the women.
A breath centers me. This too shall pass.
Another has my reply coming to mind.
This isn’t the first time some asshole wants me to lose my cool and mouth off, and while some of the coaches in the league can get away with their fiery responses and well-known tempers, I don’t have that same luxury.
For the moment, that’s reality.
I have to be calm and collected, lest I’m emotional.
I have to be measured and successful, lest I’m impulsive.
I have to beperfect, lest I don’t belong here.
Not with everyone.
But still with enough people that I’m always—fuckingalways—aware of the double standard of being a female coach in this league.
So, I don’t mouth off.
Instead, I look at that group of men and women who are annoyed by the question on my behalf, and ask, “Anyone have any real questions?”
