10. Callahan Eli Moore
Callahan Eli Moore
I wake up before my alarm.
I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom. The light from the streetlamp outside filters through the slats of the blinds, casting long, rib-like shadows across the bedspread.
Most guys on the team have lives that look like a whirlwind—dogs barking for breakfast, girlfriends sleeping on the other side of the mattress, kids waking up too early, or at least a mountain of laundry that needs to be addressed.
My life is a series of controlled environments. There is the gym, there is the rink, and there is this apartment.
I like the silence.
Or at least, I used to like it.
Now, the silence just leaves too much room for the memory of her voice to echo.
I can still hear the way she said my name on the ice yesterday—Moore. Not “Captain,” not “Callahan,” just my last name, delivered with a clinical precision that made me feel like a rare bug pinned under a microscope.
I lay there wondering if she’d say it the same way if I had her pinned against that gray wall in my hallway—if her voice would still be that steady, or if I could make it break into something breathless and jagged.
I kick the sheets off, the cool morning air hitting my skin and forcing the last of the sleep from my bones. If I stay in this bed any longer, she’s going to start taking up permanent residence in my head, and she hasn’t even paid the rent for that kind of mental real estate yet.
My apartment is quiet in the way that only happens when you live alone and don’t bother with the distractions of decoration. Gray walls. Clean counters. Nothing is out of place. There is only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the subtle, rhythmic creak of the radiator.
I move through the space on autopilot like my body knows the routine even if my head is currently miles away.
And my head is exactly the problem.
Iveline Talvi St. James shouldn’t be the last thing I think about when I close my eyes or the first thing I realize I’m looking for when I open them.
She’s my assistant coach. She’s my boss’s daughter. She’s sharp, controlled, and irritatingly unimpressed by everything I do. That should be more than enough to shut this down entirely.
It’s not.
I think about the way she corrected me yesterday. There wasn’t an edge of arrogance in her voice—just a pure, unadulterated certainty. It was like she wasn’t trying to prove anything to the room, and she wasn’t performing for the cameras.
That’s what really gets under my skin.
She doesn’t ask for respect; she simply takes it as her due. And as someone who prides himself on knowing every inch of the ice and running plays without interference, I hate how much I respect that.
It also doesn’t help that she’s gorgeous.
Not in a magazine model way, but in a “see her on the street once and think about her for the rest of your life” kind of way.
By the time I grab my keys, I’m already annoyed.
The arena is already awake by the time I pull into my spot. The lights are humming, the ice has already been resurfaced into a glass-like sheet, and the staff is moving with a quiet sense of purpose.
The locker room is loud when I enter.
Finn is talking too much as usual, someone is blasting a heavy bass track, and Leo is laughing like this isn’t the most serious season of our lives.
For him, maybe it isn’t.
But for me? This is all I have.
I drop into my stall and start getting ready, trying to tune out the noise. But despite my best efforts, my eyes keep flicking toward the door.
I hear the click of her arrival before I actually see her.
I can feel the shift—the way conversations suddenly dull and the volume of the music seems to dip just enough to be noticeable. I keep my head down, focusing intently on the laces of my left skate, pulling them tight enough to feel the pressure against my foot.
Every guy in here is pretending they aren’t looking at her, but the silence is far too loud to be natural. We’re a bunch of professional athletes, some of the toughest men in the league, and yet we’re all acting like we’re about to be inspected by a boarding school principal.
It’s embarrassing and it’s infuriating.
And yet, I’m doing it too. I’m holding my breath, waiting to see where her gaze is going to land.
“Practice starts in twelve minutes,” Iveline says evenly. “If you’re not dressed and on the ice by then, you’re skating extra until I get tired. And I don’t get tired easily.”
A few guys chuckle, thinking it’s a joke. I know better. Looking at the set of her shoulders, I know she’s dead serious.
She’s standing near the entrance, a tablet tucked under her arm, her posture perfectly straight and her expression completely unreadable.
My gaze travels over her, and it’s a form of torture.
The black dress pants are professional, sure, but they’re tailored well enough that I can see the slight, powerful curve of her quads—the legacy of a lifetime on skates.
I find myself fixating on the small patch of bare skin at her wrist where her sleeve is pushed up, and the thought of putting my mouth right there, right over her pulse, is almost loud enough to drown out Finn’s entire conversation.
Cash grins at her from three stalls down. “You serious, coach? Twelve minutes? I haven’t even finished my espresso.”
She meets his eyes. “Yes, O’Connell. I’m serious.”
Cash’s smile falters just enough for me to see it. He immediately scrambles for his skates. Leo mutters a curse under his breath and starts pulling on his pads faster than I’ve ever seen him move.
I go back to taping my stick, my jaw tight.
I don’t like being managed, and I never have. And yet, I can’t deny the fact that under her direction, the drills run cleaner and smarter than they ever did under the old regime.
She turns and walks out without a word, without a glance in my direction. My pulse stutters anyway, traitorous and infuriating.
I give my laces one final, sharp tug, forcing my focus away from the door and down toward my skates.
By the time I hit the ice, the transition is instant.
The humid air of the locker room is traded for a dry, biting cold that lunges at my lungs. We move in synchronized patterns that leave no room for a wandering mind. Every pivot must be perfect, every weight transfer intentional.
There is a quiet, suffocating pressure in the way she watches from the bench, her eyes tracking the gap between our blades and the puck.
“Again,” she says when a line fumbles a zone entry.
From the crease, Cash lets out a dramatic groan, tapping his stick against the post. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Coach?”
“I’d enjoy it more if you actually cut inside when you were supposed to,” she fires back without looking up from the whiteboard. “You left a three-foot lane open for the shooter.”
He blinks, surprised. “That was specific.”
She glances over, raising her brows. “It was obvious to anyone who was actually looking at the play.”
Someone in the back laughs. It’s not a mocking laugh directed at her; it’s a laugh of genuine surprise.
That’s new. Usually, the guys are defensive when a coach calls them out, but her bluntness is almost refreshing.
Cash skates a little closer to her, leaning in with that casual, obnoxious charm he uses on everyone from puck bunnies to referees.
“What was your full name again? I missed the introduction,” Cash asks.
Iveline narrows her eyes. I can tell she’s expecting him to make a comment about her father, but I know Finn better than that. He’s looking for a different angle.
“Iveline Talvi St. James,” she answers.
Cash grins, leaning in like he’s about to share a massive secret. “Talvi? That’s not exactly a Boston name. Where are you from exactly?”
Iveline’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t give him a full smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Cash?”
The rest of the players have stopped skating. The few who were still moving freeze in place, listening to the exchange. The fact that she used the nickname Finn gave himself carries weight in this room.
Cash gasps, putting a dramatic hand to his chest.
“Are we friends now? You used the name.”
Her brows go up. “I can take it back and call you ‘Number 30’ for the rest of the season if you’d prefer.”
“No, no, please—call me Cash,” he says, finally taking off his gloves. “And I can call you Talvi?”
She narrows her eyes, pursing her lips as if she’s considering the structural integrity of his ego. “If you want to die on the ice today, then yes, feel free.”
I suppress a smirk. I’m partly impressed by her handle on the room and partly frustrated by the ease of it.
I watch the way the name sits in the air between them.
Cash is a flirt—it’s his default setting—but I see a genuine curiosity in his eyes that makes my jaw lock. He’s breaking through the coach barrier, finding the person underneath the whistle, and I hate that he’s the one doing it.
I want to know where she’s from. I want to know the story behind the name that sounds like winter and iron.
But I’m the one she’s already labeled as a “distraction.” And if I start asking personal questions, I’m just proving her right.
So I stay at the edge of the circle, my stick blade resting on the ice, feeling like an outsider in my own team.
“Hell yeah, Coach Talvi. I like to live dangerously,” Cash says without missing a beat.
She laughs—just for a second. It’s a low, genuine sound that transforms her face before she goes serious again. “Show’s over. Everyone, back to the blue line.”
So we skate.
And when it’s my turn, I push myself harder than the drill requires. I know she’s watching me, and I hate how much that knowledge affects my stride.
I miss a read on a pass. It’s a tiny mistake, barely noticeable to anyone else.
“Moore,” she calls out.
I stop at the boards, my chest rising and falling. Irritation is sharp in my throat. She skates closer, maintaining that professional distance.
“Your first step is half a second late,” she says quietly, so the other guys don’t hear.
“I saw the lane,” I snap back. But as soon as I look into her eyes, some of that irritation softens against my will.
“I know you did,” she replies calmly. “You hesitated anyway.”
That should piss me off, but instead, the advice actually sticks. I nod once, not trusting my voice, and push off without another word.
When I nail the transition on the next rep, she doesn’t offer any praise. She just checks something off on her tablet.
Somehow, that feels better than a “good job.”
It feels like I’ve met a standard.
I finish the rest of practice and finally skate to the bench, grabbing a towel.
Not a minute later, Cash is beside me, tossing me a water bottle. “You good, Callie?”
“I’m fine,” I say, wiping the sweat from my face.
“Cool. Because you look like a kicked puppy and I didn’t bring any emotional support snacks today.”
I glare at him. “I don’t look like a kicked puppy.”
“You do,” he insists. “But it’s okay. She scares me too. Did you see her eyes when I called her Talvi? I thought I was going to be sent to the minors.”
I snort despite myself. “She doesn’t scare me, Cash.”
“Sure,” he says, grinning. “And I’m the Pope.”
By the time practice ends, the mood of the team has shifted. The guys are talking and laughing as they head toward the tunnel. There’s less of an edge to the room and more of a rhythm.
Rick nods at us. “Good work today, boys.”
As the players peel off the ice, Finn skates past me one last time. “Seriously, she’s scary. But in a good way, right?”
“Focus on your skating, Cash,” I mutter.
He grins, wiggling his eyebrows. “Oh, believe me, I’m focused.”
I glance back toward the center of the ice one last time before I leave.
Iveline is already talking to Noah. Her head is inclined as she listens to him explain something on his screen. She doesn’t look up as I go.
And that—more than anything else—is what makes me want her attention.
I want to see that focus and that quiet authority she wields. I want to be the person she notices—not because she’s required to as a coach, but because she chooses to.
My hands curl slightly around my stick as I walk into the tunnel, my knuckles turning white.
It’s maddening.
I’ve spent my entire life being the center of the universe.
When I walk into a room, people turn. When I score, twenty thousand fans scream my name until their throats are raw. But to Iveline St. James, I’m just a “half second late” transition on a spreadsheet. I’m just a data point that needs to be corrected for the system to function.
I shouldn’t care. I should be happy she’s focused on the work and not on the drama. But as I walk away, I find myself wondering what I have to do to make her look at me the way she looks at those numbers.
I don’t just want her to coach me.
I want her to see me.
And that is easily the most dangerous thought I’ve had in years.