Page 30 of The Rule Breaker (Colton U Playbook #1)

ISABELLA

S ports management has always been a boys’ club.

Not officially, of course. If you look at the course catalog, the brochures, the university website, they’ll all tell you that it’s an open field, a career path for anyone passionate about athletics, business, and strategy.

But sit in a classroom like this, surrounded by guys who don’t think twice before dismissing you, and it becomes painfully clear that isn’t the case.

I try not to let it get to me as I take my seat in the small, cramped group of desks shoved together at the back of the classroom.

The professor just finished explaining our first major project of the semester—developing a team strategy for a hypothetical sports franchise.

The goal is to take everything we’ve learned so far—roster management, player statistics, financial planning—and create a game plan that makes sense for our assigned team.

I should be excited. This is the kind of thing I love, the kind of work I actually want to do in the future. But as I glance around at the four guys I’ve been grouped with, I already know I’m going to have to work twice as hard just to be heard.

None of them look at me as I sit down. Two are on their phones. One is doodling in the margins of his notebook. The last one, a guy with a buzz cut and a smug expression, leans back in his chair like he’s already decided this whole project is beneath him.

Great .

I clear my throat. “So, should we start by assigning roles?”

That gets their attention. Kind of. The guy closest to me—blue eyes, athletic build—raises an eyebrow. “We don’t even know what sport we’re working with yet.”

“Right, but the professor said we should think about the key elements of team strategy first. What makes a team successful, what their biggest challenges are?—”

Buzz Cut smirks. “Damn, you’re really into this, huh?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Well, yeah. That’s kind of the point of taking the class.”

The blond guy finally looks up. “Aren’t you the girl that works with the hockey team?”

“Yeah, I?—”

He scoffs, cutting me off. “So, you, what, hand out water bottles?”

I freeze for a second, my brows dipping. “What?”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “Or, like, pick out the jersey colors? That’s cute.”

Buzz Cut chuckles, shaking his head. The other guy snickers under his breath. The only one who doesn’t laugh is the dark-haired guy across from me, but he doesn’t bother to correct them, either.

I grip my pen tighter, my nails pressing into my palm. I shouldn’t be surprised. This isn’t the first time someone’s dismissed my job like it’s nothing more than a hobby. But that doesn’t make it any less frustrating.

“Actually,” I say, keeping my tone even, “I track game stats, help with scheduling, and sit in on meetings. But yeah, let’s go with ‘picking jersey colors.’”

There’s a beat of silence. Then the blond guy lets out a low whistle. “Damn, alright,” he says, before going back to his phone, like that’s the end of the conversation.

Buzzcut chuckles, his eyes flicking over me. “That’s nice and all,” he says, leaning forward, “but come on. No offense, but this isn’t really your place.”

I blink, thrown off by how casually he says it, like it’s just a fact. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, you’re obviously smart, but you really think a pro-team is gonna listen to a girl when it comes to strategy?” he asks. “Name one female GM in the NHL.”

I stare at him for a long second, debating whether or not I should even waste my breath. Then I inhale slowly, setting my pen down.

“Ava Caldwell,” I say, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Assistant GM of the Seattle Storm. Maya Kincaid, the league’s first female scout. Riley St. Clair, senior director of player development for the Chicago Phantoms. Want me to keep going?”

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s about to argue, but I don’t give him the chance.

“Just because there aren’t many doesn’t mean there won’t be,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

“You’re acting like sports is a ‘boys-only’ club.

Hate to break it to you, but it’s not. Are any of you actually working with a sports team right now?

” I glance at them, waiting for an answer. Of course, there’s none.

The blond guy looks up from his phone, arching an eyebrow. “Let’s be real. You only got that job because of your dad.”

The air in my lungs turns razor-sharp, but I don’t flinch. I’ve seen the looks. Felt the judgment every time I walk into a room. I knew they were thinking it.

But hearing it out loud? It makes my stomach churn, knowing all of my suspicions were true.

“It’s not like they’re actually listening to you,” he continues.

You do belong.

Ryan’s voice cuts through the noise in my head, steady and sure. I breathe it in. Let it anchor me.

Because I know how this works. I know what they see when I walk in—my last name, my brother, my dad. Not the hours I’ve put in. Not the late nights or the early mornings or the fact that I’ve had to be twice as prepared, twice as sharp, just to get a seat at the damn table.

But I’m not here to make them comfortable. I didn’t work my ass off to be quiet and grateful and small.

They can underestimate me.

They can doubt me.

But I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t work my ass off to sit here and shrink and let them take over.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk, eyes locked on his, daring him to keep talking. “You ever sat in on a game strategy meeting?”

Silence.

“Ever gone through a player’s stat sheet, helped make a call on whether they should be in the starting lineup?”

Nothing.

I nod slowly, watching his face redden. “That’s what I thought. See, while you were busy acting like this industry belongs to you, I was actually working. Learning. Earning my spot. So, tell me. If I don’t belong here, why am I already doing the job you’re sitting in this class hoping to get?”

His face flushes deeper.

I let the silence stretch before leaning back, crossing my arms. “Now, are we actually gonna work on this project, or are you gonna keep proving me right?”

The professor, who’s been circling the room, must have overheard the conversation, because suddenly, he’s standing next to our group. “Something I need to step in for?”

Buzz Cut clears his throat, shaking his head. “Nope.”

The professor glances around the table before settling his gaze on the guys. “Sports management is about skill, not gender. If you think otherwise, you’re in the wrong field.”

I glance at the guys before adding, “And for the record, I don’t need any of you to believe in me. I know what I’m worth.”

The room goes quiet. And for the first time since I stepped into this class, I’m looking forward to proving them wrong.