11. Callahan Eli Moore
Callahan Eli Moore
Cash: Guess what I’m about to get
Me: On my nerves?
* * *
The private terminal is a sea of black rolling suitcases and oversized team hoodies.
There is a specific energy here; a mix of caffeine-fueled adrenaline and the low-grade grumpiness of twenty-five men who haven’t had enough sleep.
I’m leaning against a cold marble pillar, nursing a lukewarm coffee and watching the guys.
Cash is busy trying to convince the flight attendant that he needs an entire row to himself for “optimal spine alignment,” and Marcus is already wearing his noise-canceling headphones, effectively opting out of reality before we’ve even left the ground.
Then I see her.
She’s walking toward the gate with Rick and the rest of the coaching staff.
She isn’t wearing the team gear; there is no black, purple, or even gold for that matter. She’s in a charcoal gray tracksuit, her hair tucked into a neat, low bun that hasn’t moved a single millimeter since our 5 AM meeting.
She looks like she’s headed to a high-stakes board meeting, not a cross-country flight to Washington.
My heart does a stupid, irregular thump against my ribs.
I tell myself it’s the caffeine.
She doesn’t look at the players as she passes. She doesn’t look at me. She just walks onto the plane like she’s boarding a private shuttle to her own island.
She’s already seated by the time I step onto the aircraft. Her legs are crossed at the ankle, and her tablet is balanced on her knee like the cabin is just another annex of her office.
I stop dead in the aisle, my duffel bag hitting the seat beside me.
She’s in the window seat. My usual window seat. I stand there for a second, feeling the lack of sleep catching up to my patience.
“You’re in my seat,” I say.
She looks up slowly.
She just gives me that same assessing look she uses on the ice, then glances down at the ticket tucked into her tablet case.
“No,” she says. “I’m not.”
I check my own ticket, ready to argue, but then I see the row and seat number. She’s right. I drop into the aisle seat with more force than necessary, the leather creaking under my weight.
The space in these seats is generous, but with her sitting three feet away, the entire cabin feels like a cramped cardboard box. Every time she shifts, the faint scent of her perfume drifts over the armrest.
I try to focus on my own tablet, but the screen is just a blur of unread emails from my agent and sponsorship requests I don’t want to deal with.
I’m acutely aware of her hands, her fingers flying across her touchscreen with a rhythmic pace that’s almost hypnotic.
“You’re going to give yourself a headache,” I say, nodding toward the bright screen in the dim cabin light.
She doesn’t look up, but I see her lips thin into a straight line. “I’ll just add it to the list of things I’ve inherited since taking this job.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Meaning that between the bad defensive rotations I’m fixing and the unsolicited medical advice from my captain, my head is already plenty full, Moore.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
“Try to contain your enthusiasm,” she says lightly. She sounds perfectly calm, which only makes me more restless.
The plane starts to move, the engines beginning their low-frequency roar. The seat belt signs click on with a synchronized chime. Someone a few rows back—probably Leo—is already complaining about the Wi-Fi speed.
Iveline doesn’t react to the noise. She doesn’t even flinch when the plane tilts.
“You’re not nervous about flying,” I remark, watching the way her hands rest perfectly still against the armrests.
She doesn’t turn immediately, her gaze fixed on the receding terminal below. “No. Why would I be? Gravity is a constant, and the engineering is sound. Statistics are on our side, Captain.”
“Not even a little? Most people have a physiological response to the G-force. It’s a natural reaction to leaving the ground.” I let my voice drop a fraction, a bit lower than the professional standard we usually maintain.
She looks at me finally, her expression unreadable until one of her dark brows lifts in a silent, pointed challenge. “Are you suggesting I lack a basic survival instinct, or are you just projecting your own discomfort?”
“Maybe I’m just wondering what it takes to actually rattle you,” I say, my voice dropping to a low, gravelly hum that vibrates in the narrow space between our seats.
I let my gaze travel deliberately from the sharp line of her jaw down to her throat, then back to her eyes. “Because from where I’m sitting, you look like you’re made of marble. It makes a man want to see if you’re actually that cold to the touch.”
The air in the cabin suddenly feels ten degrees hotter. Iveline doesn’t blink, but the hand resting on her tablet tightens, her knuckles turning a stark, ivory white. A faint, treacherous bloom of pink creeps up the column of her neck, disappearing under the edge of her neat bun.
“Careful, Captain,” she whispers, her voice steady even as that flush deepens against her pale skin. “I’d hate to have to file a report on your lack of boundaries before we even hit cruising altitude.”
“I’m just observing,” I say, shifting slightly closer, my shoulder nearly brushing hers. “You’re remarkably composed. It’s almost intimidating.”
“Good,” she says, her voice as smooth and cool as the glass of the window. “Intimidation is an excellent tool for maintaining efficiency. Are you nervous?”
“No,” I mutter, though my throat feels a bit dry as her eyes lock onto mine. There is a spark there, buried under layers of professional ice, that makes it hard to breathe for a second.
“Good. I don’t have time for a panicked captain, and I certainly don’t have the patience to manage your adrenaline levels through a bit of turbulence.” She turns back to her tablet, the movement crisp and dismissive, yet she lingers just a second too long before tapping the screen.
I shake my head, leaning back into the headrest with a short, frustrated huff of a laugh. “You’re impossible, you know that? Completely unreachable.”
She hums quietly, a low, melodic sound that almost suggests she’ll take that as a compliment.
A few minutes pass in a silence that isn’t exactly awkward, but it is heavy. It feels present, like a third person sitting between us.
I allow myself to look at her while she’s preoccupied.
The charcoal sweats are casual but fitted perfectly to her frame. I realize I’ve never seen her out of dress pants and tailored professional layers before. It’s disorienting and oddly intimate to see her in something soft.
My brain begins to wander into a danger zone that I have to shove down fast.
She scrolls through game footage on her tablet. She pauses a clip, rewinds it five seconds, and watches it again.
“What are you looking for in that replay?”
“Patterns,” she replies, finally turning her head to meet my eyes. “Yours, mostly.”
My chest tightens.
“And?” I ask. My voice is lower than I intended it to be.
She studies the screen for a moment longer before answering.
“You rely heavily on instinct,” she says. “It’s the reason you’re as good as you are.”
I wait, because I know with Iveline, there is always another layer to the critique. “And?”
“And it’s also the reason you resist structure so much. You trust your gut more than the system.”
I glance at her, feeling a spark of incredulity. “Are you psychoanalyzing my playing style now?”
She smiles faintly. “No, Callahan. I’m just coaching.”
“Yesterday,” she adds quietly, her voice almost softer than the hum of the jet engines, “you adjusted fast. I noticed.”
I nod, staring at the back of the seat in front of me. “I didn’t want to make a habit of arguing in front of the rookies.”
“Smart,” she says.
Then, even quieter, in a tone that feels almost private: “Thank you.”
My breath catches in my throat. My pulse jumps. I can’t tell if it’s pure surprise or the sheer weight of hearing her actually acknowledge my effort.
The rest of the flight passes in this strange, silent rhythm.
I catch myself leaning slightly closer to her, just to see the notes she’s scribbling on the digital margin, to see the flicker of intense concentration in her eyes. There are side glances, minimal words, and observations that feel more like tests than conversation.
I can’t tell if I’m learning her system, or if she’s simply seeing right through me.
Maybe it’s both.
By the time the descent begins, I’ve come to two very clear conclusions.
First, I am completely, embarrassingly aware of her every move.
Second, I can’t stop noticing the small things, like the way she tilts her head when she’s thinking or how she holds her pen.
It is exactly what she wants, or at least, that is the lie I tell myself to keep my ego intact.
The plane touches down in D.C., and I feel a shift in gravity—not just the physical landing, but the shift in my own thoughts. I’ve spent the entire flight in a state of high alert, half annoyed and half curious, all of it tangled up in her presence.
The aisle clears faster than I expected once we reach the gate.
She’s out of her seat first, her head down and her hands firm on her bag. She moves with that easy authority that makes people instinctively step aside without even realizing they’re doing it.
The airport is a chaos of rolling luggage and echoing PA announcements. People are bumping into each other in the rush to get home. Cash is already complaining about the lack of duty-free snacks in this terminal.
The team bus is waiting outside in the humid evening air. The guys filter out of the terminal, groaning and stretching their stiff muscles.
I lag a step behind Iveline, noticing the way she steps onto the bus and chooses a seat in the middle.
I end up sitting two rows behind her. It’s close enough to see her, but far enough to try and keep my cool.
The bus is dark; the only light is coming from the passing streetlamps of the highway and the blue glow of a dozen different phone screens. Most of the guys are already asleep, their heads lolling against the windows, but she’s still awake.
From where I’m sitting, I can see the curve of her neck and the way a single stray hair has escaped her bun, curling softly against the collar of her hoodie.
It’s a tiny, human imperfection on an otherwise perfect woman.
It fascinates me.
It makes her look reachable in a way she never does on the ice.
I want to say something to her.
I want to ask her why she stayed in Europe for so long when she clearly had the talent for the NHL. I want to ask her if she hates me as much as I’ve hated the memory of what she represents to my past.
But the air on the bus is heavy with the collective breathing of the team, and any word I spoke would feel like a shout in a library. So I just watch the shadows play across her shoulders.
I feel like a predator stalking prey, except I’m the one who feels caught in the trap.
By the time we hit the hotel lobby, it’s well past midnight.
The key cards are handed out in a haze of exhaustion. She takes hers without a word, disappearing into the elevator bank before I can even find my voice.
I spend the night staring at the ceiling of my room, the scent of her perfume competing with the smell of hotel bleach.
My mind won’t shut off.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her checking her tablet, her fingers moving with that hypnotic, surgical precision.
***
Morning skate at the Capitals’ facility is a different kind of torture.
The ice is hard and fast, mirroring the temperature in the room. I feel the travel in my joints—a dull, heavy ache that protests every stride. But the moment I see her standing at the center circle, the fatigue vanishes.
She’s back in the charcoal gear, whistle in hand, looking like she hasn’t slept a wink and doesn’t care who knows it.
I follow behind the rest of the team, noticing how the chatter among the players dips the moment they see her. Conversations die mid-sentence; laughter quiets down; eyes flick to her with a mix of respect and something that looks like caution.
Rick appears at the entrance to the rink, clipboard in hand, but even he steps back slightly as she reaches the boards.
She owns the space without saying a single word.
She doesn’t acknowledge me as we take the ice. Not yet. But I can feel her awareness of my position. I feel it in the subtle tilt of her head as I skate past and the way her gaze sweeps across the players.
I skate through the motions, pushing myself harder than I usually do for an after-travel day skate. Every time I glance toward the bench, I catch her watching. Her eyes move over me in a slow, steady sweep, as if she’s taking my measure one inch at a time.
I realize then that I desperately want her to notice me.
I hate that I want it, but the truth settles in anyway.
Cash is skating beside me, rolling his eyes and muttering something about “Finn the Fearless” under his breath. I ignore him, focusing entirely on the puck.
Halfway through the session, Carter Hale tries to slip in one of his usual smart-ass comments. He mutters something about nepotism and how her last name is the only reason we’re listening to her.
He smirks, looking around for a laugh, but the reaction he’s hunting for doesn’t come. The room is quieter than it was yesterday; there’s a new, cautious weight to the silence that follows his words.
As I head toward the locker room after the skate, the sound of my own footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway makes my skin feel too tight for my body.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
She was supposed to be a ghost, a mistake from my past that I could bury under the weight of a new season. But every time she opens her mouth, she carves out a little more space in my mind.
She isn’t a ghost; she’s a force of nature.
I stop at my stall and lean my forehead against the cool metal of the locker.
I can still hear her saying thank you on the plane.
It wasn’t the words themselves that got to me; it was the way she said them. It sounded like it cost her something to admit I was doing a good job.
I want to make her say it again.
I want to earn every single syllable of her respect until she has no choice but to look at me and see something other than a “distraction.”
I’m in deep, and the puck hasn’t even dropped on the first game of the season yet.