9. Iveline Talvi St. James
Iveline Talvi St. James
The worst part isn’t that my father heard me.
It’s that I didn’t notice him until it was already too late.
There is a specific kind of silence that happens in a hockey rink when a General Manager walks into the room. It’s a total suspension of physics.
The humidity seems to drop, the hum of the overhead lights grows louder, and suddenly, twenty-five of the most confident, highly paid men in the world look like schoolboys caught throwing spitballs in the back of a classroom.
Every player’s eyes snap to the boards, then back to me, like they’re watching a car crash in slow motion.
I stand frozen on the ice, my whistle still warm in my hand. I can feel the heat of my outburst still coloring my cheeks, a sharp contrast to the biting cold of the arena.
My father’s presence is a physical weight.
He’s standing by the tunnel entrance, watching me with the slow, inevitable momentum of a glacier.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Callahan Moore.
He’s standing by the far goalpost, his chest heaving under his jersey, his eyes darting between me and the man at the boards.
For a fleeting second, I see something in his face that looks like genuine concern—or maybe it’s just the grim anticipation for the explosion he thinks is coming.
William St. James doesn’t say a word.
He never does when he’s assessing damage.
Rick is the first to recover. He’s been around my father long enough to know how to navigate the weather.
“Alright,” he says briskly, clapping his gloved hands once. The sound cracks through the silence like a gunshot. “Reset. Back to stations. Let’s see that transition again, and this time, do it like you want to keep your spots.”
Sticks hit the ice faster than ever before. Skates start moving, the rhythm of practice resuming with a frantic energy.
I push off, my blades biting into the ice as I skate toward the bench.
My heart is pounding—not with fear, but with something much sharper.
Defiance, maybe. Or perhaps just pure exhaustion.
Probably both.
My father watches in total silence as the drill resumes.
His gaze doesn’t soften as I get closer, but it doesn’t harden either. It’s the same look he gives high-powered agents during contract negotiations when he’s already decided the outcome before they’ve even opened their mouths.
I hate how much that steadiness grounds me. No matter how much I want to pull away from his shadow, there’s a part of me that still leans into the gravity of his composure.
He waits until the flow of the practice settles into a predictable groove before he gestures toward the tunnel.
“Walk with me,” he says.
I pause for a fraction of a second, bracing myself instinctively. A knot of dread curls in my stomach, mingling with a strange, persistent curiosity.
I don’t think I’ve ever met a person who’d describe William St. James as kind or soft. To the world, he’s a shark in a tailored suit. But the world has never met my father—not the GM, not the hockey know-it-all, but Will.
He’s the man who stood beside me during Mom’s funeral when the world felt like it was ending. He’s the man who learned to braid my hair because he knew I’d get frustrated when it tangled under my helmet.
I remember the day he taught me how to do it myself.
I was seven years old, crying because the other girls had pretty ribbons and my hair was always a mess. He sat me down on an old equipment trunk in the garage, his massive, calloused hands—hands that had fought in more than a hundred NHL games—trembling slightly as he worked through the knots.
“Precision, Iveline,” he had whispered back then. “It’s all about the tension. Too loose and it falls apart. Too tight and it breaks. Just like a power play.”
He’s been braiding my life together since the moment my mother died, trying to be the soft place to land while simultaneously forging me into something that couldn’t be crushed.
Now, as I step off the ice and onto the rubber matting of the tunnel, I search for a trace of that man in the set of his jaw.
He’s wearing his “General Manager” mask, the one that makes his eyes look like chips of flint, but I can see the way he holds his left shoulder—the one that still aches when the Boston rain starts to fall.
That’s my dad.
The rest of this? This is just the business.
I reach down and pull my blade guards out of my pocket, snapping them onto my skates with a series of sharp clicks.
I follow him into the hallway, away from the prying eyes of the players. The whispers will come later. The assumptions are already sharpening like knives in someone else’s pocket.
I force myself to match his stride, refusing to look like a scolded child.
We reach the “dead zone” of the hallway, a quiet stretch between the rink and the executive offices where the shadows are longest.
My father stops and turns, his silhouette framed against the bright lights.
“You were clear,” he says.
I blink, the adrenaline of the fight on the ice still humming in my ears. “Clear?”
“In your expectations. In your reasoning.” He glances at me briefly, his eyes scanning my face. “You didn’t raise your voice, Iveline. You kept the room.”
That’s it.
No lecture. No disappointment. His approval catches me completely off guard. I hadn’t expected any acknowledgment—let alone something so quietly given.
“I wanted to yell,” I admit, leaning my back against the cold concrete wall.
“I know,” he says. “I spent twenty years wanting to scream at guys like Hale. It doesn’t help. What you did? That helped.”
I cross my arms over my chest, still ready to defend myself if the tone shifts. “He questioned my legitimacy in front of the entire team, Dad. He called me a charity hire.”
“Yes, he did.”
“And you’re not going to tell me I handled it wrong? That I should have been more… diplomatic?”
He studies me then, searching for the girl he raised in the woman standing before him. “Did he challenge the system again after you spoke?”
“No.”
“Did anyone else find their voice to back him up?”
“No.”
“Then you handled it,” he says simply. “In this league, results are the only apology anyone accepts. You got the result.”
A wave of relief threatens to spill over, but I shove it down deep.
I can’t afford to be vulnerable, not even with him. Not here.
“You also used the word misogyny,” he adds, his voice leveling out.
“I did.”
“In public. In front of twenty-five players and the head coach.”
“Yes.”
There’s a long pause. He looks me straight in the eyes, his expression unreadable.
“I would have chosen a different word,” he says carefully. “But I’m not the one standing on the ice anymore. It’s a different game now.”
That’s as close as he ever gets to a glowing endorsement.
His eyes soften for a moment—a flash of warmth so brief I almost consider I imagined it. He turns his head back toward the rink, the professional mask sliding back into place.
“You’re coaching well today,” he says. “Better than yesterday.”
“Well I wasn’t hungover yesterday,” I say before I can stop the words from jumping out of my mouth.
The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared, but I saw it.
He knows exactly what happened at the Blue Line last night. He probably got a full report from Delaney before the sun came up.
“Be mindful,” he says, his voice regaining its edge. “In your position, you don’t get many missteps. People are waiting for you to fail so they can say they were right about you. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”
I hate the reminder that every move I make is under a microscope, every breath analyzed for weakness. I swallow the anger down, letting determination harden in its place.
“I know.”
He nods once, the conversation over as far as he’s concerned.
He turns and starts walking toward the executive elevators, leaving me standing in the tunnel. I watch him go, feeling the weight of the St. James name pressing down on my shoulders.
I missed him when I was in Europe. I missed the way he could simplify a crisis into a single sentence. I let myself sit in that feeling for a beat, breathing in the cold, recycled air.
And then, I turn back toward the rink.
The rest of the practice is brutal. It’s clean, efficient, and almost eerily quiet.
Hale avoids my eyes entirely, skating with his head down like he’s trying to become invisible.
Moore doesn’t avoid me, though.
I try to focus on the drill, but Callahan is making it nearly impossible.
He’s playing with a new kind of intensity now, his movements aggressive and fluid. He isn’t just following the system anymore; he’s testing the absolute limits of it.
Every time he crosses my line of sight, I feel a prickle of electricity at the back of my neck.
He saw the “St. James” family meeting, and I can tell he’s dissecting it in that sharp, arrogant brain of his. I can practically hear the gears turning: Is she the Ice Queen or is she just the Daddy’s Girl?
I wait until he’s skating past the bench to catch his eye. I don’t smile, and I don’t acknowledge the tension vibrating between us. I just tap my clipboard with my pen and point to the blue line—a silent, authoritative command for him to tighten his gap.
For a split second, his lips twitch. It’s not a smirk this time; it’s a challenge accepted. He digs his edge into the ice, sending a spray of snow hitting the glass, and launches himself into the next rep with a speed that makes my heart skip a beat.
It’s a conversation without words, and it’s more exhausting than the hangover I’m currently nursing.
It irritates me more than if he’d just been an outright asshole.
At least I know how to deal with assholes.
When the final whistle finally blows, the players file off the ice without the usual loud chaos.
Rick claps his hands together, and as the last player disappears down the tunnel, he looks over at me. “Good work today, Ivy. I’m proud of how you held that line.”
As I step off the ice and begin to unlace my skates, Noah appears again. He’s been hovering like a quiet shadow near the bench.
“Um. I… there’s more coffee in the coaches’ lounge if you want it,” he says, looking at his feet. “Fresh pot.”
I manage a small smile. “Noah, you’re a lifesaver. Truly.”
He nods, looking genuinely pleased with himself. “Happy to support optimal performance. Your caffeine levels were likely dipping below the functional threshold.”
I laugh under my breath as I follow him toward the lounge.
By the time I reach my office, the adrenaline has worn off, leaving nothing but a headache and the urge to lie face down on the nearest flat surface.
If anyone asks why I look like I’ve lived three lives before noon, I’ll blame the hangover.
If they’re smart, they won’t ask.