3. Callahan Eli Moore
Callahan Eli Moore
“You’re a little sassy today, Callie.”
Cash’s voice carries easily through the locker room, cutting through the low hum of pre-practice energy with that practiced, effortless volume he’s perfected over a decade in the league.
I don’t look up from my bench. My focus is narrowed entirely on the roll of black friction tape in my hand, the adhesive tacky against my thumb.
“Says the guy who hasn’t shut up since 2009,” I mutter.
We’ve been a package deal since high school—two kids from the same neighborhood who survived the cut-throat world of AAA hockey by looking out for each other.
Back then, he was just Finnian, the only goalie crazy enough to let me take slap shots at his head for four hours after the team buses had gone home.
The “Cash” nickname was a fluke from our senior year; he’d shown up to a game with a wad of crumpled bills he’d won off a bad bet and announced to the scouts that he was the only thing “guaranteed” in the building.
He played the game of his life that night, and the name stuck like resin. He leaned into it, transforming from the scrawny kid I used to share five-dollar pizzas with into the loud, swaggering personality the league loves to market.
To the fans, he is Cash—the guy who shuts down breakaways and never shuts his mouth.
But to me, he’s still the same Finn who has covered my back for twenty years, the one person who can read my silence better than any playbook.
He wears the persona like a mask, but I’m the only one who knows exactly when it’s slipping.
“Confidence,” Cash corrects me with a grin, leaning back against his stall. “Also, I’m always right, which means I’m legally allowed to talk as much as I want. It’s in the bylaws.”
A couple of the guys laugh as a rogue sock flies through the air in his direction. It misses him by a mile, hitting the floor with a soft thud.
The locker room is a chaotic symphony of rituals: music turned up just a hair too loud, defensemen arguing over the playlist, and rookies pacing like we’re already late.
Through it all, Finn keeps running his mouth, providing the steady white noise that keeps us grounded.
It’s a necessary routine; a quiet locker room means a shit practice.
I return my attention to my stick, watching the tape overlap in perfect, quarter-inch increments. If the tape isn’t flawless, the puck feels like a live grenade on my blade.
It’s a ritual born of superstition and sustained by the pressure of the C stitched to my chest.
Around me, the younger guys are buzzing, still in that blissful phase of being happy just to have a locker with their name on it. They don’t have the weight of the captaincy or the looming shadow of a rebuild on their minds.
I catch my reflection in the polished steel of my skate blade and realize I look older than thirty-one. There are new lines around my eyes that weren’t there two seasons ago—the inevitable tax of playing for William St. James.
He doesn’t just want wins; he wants a brand of perfection that feels like a moving target I can’t quite hit anymore.
“Boys,” Cash announces dramatically, flopping back onto the bench and spreading his arms wide. “This is preseason. This is when coaches are at their meanest, like grizzly bears coming out of hibernation with a grudge against humanity.”
“Did you hear?” one of the wingers asks while yanking his laces tight. “We’ve got a new assistant joining today.”
“Another one?” a defenseman groans from the corner. “Didn’t we just burn through the last guy?”
“European,” someone else adds, pitching his voice lower. “Top-tier pedigree, apparently. Worked in the Swedish Elite League, or whatever they call it now.”
My brain betrays me instantly.
I think of the woman I caught a glimpse of in the hallway earlier this morning.
Cash perks up, his eyes gleaming with interest. “Oh, that explains the new gear. Get ready for fancy drills and enough cones to block off a highway.”
I finally glance up, feeling a wave of exhaustion hit me before I’ve even touched the ice. “Are you done?”
“Just getting started.” Finn squints at me, his playful expression shifting into something more clinical. “You’re more bitchy than usual, Callie. You’ve got that look like you’re ready to check a mascot through the glass.”
I don’t answer because he’s right. I’ve been wired and irritable since I walked into the room, a strange, restless energy scraping under my skin.
I know exactly whose fault it is, even if I don’t want to admit it.
“Callahan’s probably just stressed about St. James,” Kovács chimes in from across the room. “The big man has been breathing down everyone’s neck since the trades went through.”
That hits closer to the truth than I care to acknowledge. St. James has been circling me for months, offering praise that feels more like a threat.
Before I can snap back at Kovács, the heavy locker room door swings open. The noise dies instantly as Rick Anderson, our head coach, steps inside.
“Alright,” Rick says, his voice low. “Circle up.”
Helmets go on and the room shifts as thirty men move into a tight semi-circle. I stand at the front, keeping my gaze fixed on the purple logo on the wall.
“Quick introduction before we hit the ice,” Rick says, tapping the door behind him. “The front office has been looking to modernize our development systems, and we’ve finally found the right fit to lead that charge.”
The door opens, and she walks in.
My body reacts before my brain can process the sight. My stomach drops, my breath hitches, and my spine goes rigid.
It’s her.
The same dark hair is now pulled back into a tight bun and she wears a team-issued rink jacket zipped to the chin with a tablet tucked under her arm.
“This is Iveline Talvi St. James,” Rick announces. “Our new assistant coach in charge of systems and player development.”
The name hits the room like a physical shock wave.
St. James.
My heart does a strange, violent kick against my ribs. Seeing her here, under the unforgiving buzz of the fluorescent lights, the reckless version of her I’d built in my head begins to crumble.
There is a lethal precision to the way she stands. She isn’t just the GM’s daughter; she looks like she knows the game better than half the veterans in this room.
My mouth goes bone dry. I wait for her to see me, waiting for the moment of recognition to break her composure.
“She’ll be on the ice for every session starting now,” Rick continues.
Iveline nods once.
Then, her gaze finally lifts and lands on me.
It lasts only a second. There is no flicker of recognition, no narrowing of the eyes, no reaction at all. It’s as if I’m a complete stranger—as if that bridge and that rain never happened.
Somehow, the total lack of reaction feels worse than a confrontation.
“You okay, Callie?” Cash murmurs, leaning in.
“Fine,” I grunt, though my jaw is clamped so tight it aches.
Rick claps his hands once, signaling the end of the meeting. “Enough talk. Helmets on. We’re five minutes behind.”
He turns to leave, and Iveline follows him without a word.
As the door shuts, the room explodes.
Everyone is talking at once about the GM’s kid. The air is thick with nepotism, sexism, and dismissal.
My jaw tightens with an odd, unwanted tug of protectiveness. For a split second, a flash of genuine guilt hits me for the way I’d treated her that night.
I shove it down immediately.
Cash turns slowly toward me, a sharp, knowing grin spreading across his face. “Callie. You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Shut up, Finn.”
“Oh,” his eyes light up as he reads my face. “You know her. You definitely know her.”
“I don’t.”
“Bullshit.” He plants his hands on my shoulders, blocking my path to the door. “Tell me the truth or I’m going to start a rumor that you’re retiring to become a professional mime.”
I push him off and try to ignore him, but he bumps his shoulder into mine as I stare at the empty doorway.
“Dude,” he says, his voice dropping to a hiss. “Close your mouth. You’re drooling.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he interrupts, his grin returning. “And I support the drama, I really do. But also? You’re an idiot if you think this ends well for you.”
We hit the ice a minute later.
She is already there, standing at the boards with a whistle around her neck, looking like she owns the rink.
It throws me off enough that I nearly catch an edge on my first turn, a rookie mistake that makes my ears burn.
She steps toward the center circle, and every eye follows her.
“Warm up,” she says. Her voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the sound of skates carving ice. “Same pace as last week, but I want your transitions tighter. Don’t coast through the turns.”
No one moves at first. A few of the veterans glance at Rick for confirmation. When Rick remains silent, leaning against the glass, we finally move.
Her drills come fast, designed with a complexity that leaves no room for laziness. By the third rep, even the younger guys are breathing hard.
I can’t stop watching her—not because I want to, but because I’m looking for a flaw.
Standing ten feet away from her, I feel that old knot in my chest return: a volatile mix of the irritation I’d nurtured for four years and a new, begrudging realization of her competence.
Finn skates past me during a water break, panting heavily. “Okay. She’s legit. My lungs are on fire.”
I don’t answer because I’m too busy realizing that the woman I’ve blamed for the worst night of my career is no longer a ghost on a rainy bridge.
She’s real, she’s sharp, and she’s holding a whistle.
This is going to be a massive problem.