12. Iveline Talvi #2
I watch a stray flake of frost melt against the collar of his coat, and a sudden, sharp pang of homesickness—or maybe just a longing for something solid—hits me square in the chest.
“My mother used to say the cold keeps you honest,” I murmur. It’s almost to myself, but I know he’s listening.
Callahan tilts his head, his eyes catching the yellow light of the streetlamp. “Is that why you moved to Boston? To stay honest?”
“I moved here to work, Callahan. You know that.”
“Right,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Work. It’s always the work with you, isn’t it?”
He pauses, then cuts through my reverie. “The guys… they’re starting to trust you, Talvi.”
I blink at him, caught off guard by the use of my middle name and the honesty of the statement.
“I know,” I say softly. I’m admitting more than I intended to. “That’s what scares me.”
He furrows his brows and shuffles closer until his shoulder brushes mine. It’s a slight touch that should be accidental, but I know it’s not.
My body stiffens just enough to notice the sensation, but I don’t step away.
Alcohol or not, I’m suddenly very sharp and very awake.
“Why does that scare you?”
My gaze snaps to his. “Because trust makes things personal.”
“And you don’t do personal.”
I raise a brow at him. “Neither do you, Captain.”
Callahan’s smile warms, and before I can react, he reaches out and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers graze my skin—barely there, but enough to send a shiver down my spine.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Keeping your hair out of your eyes,” he says. “You’re already unsteady. You don’t need anything else in your way.”
“I’m not unsteady.”
“Iveline, you’ve been leaning toward me for the last three minutes because you’re losing your balance. Trust me, I’m enjoying this, but let’s get you inside in one piece.”
He opens his mouth to say something more, but the air between us is suddenly too heavy to breathe. His gaze is a physical weight, tracing the line of my jaw, settling on the pulse I know is hammering in my throat.
Then, the bus door hisses open behind us, the seal breaking with a violent puff of air.
“Alright, party’s over! Move it or sleep on the upholstery!” Rick’s voice booms from the front step, cracking the silence like a whip. “O’Connell! Nico! Get out!”
Cash tumbles out of the bus behind Rick, tripping over his own feet and nearly taking poor Leo down with him. His face is a mask of pure, drunken delight.
“Coach Talvi! Don’t leave us yet! We played so well tonight, we deserve more coaching!”
I let out a laugh, the sound feeling lighter than it has in years. “Don’t worry, Cash. I’m staying.”
“Well,” Cash continues, walking over and putting his hands on my shoulders with drunken affection.
I can feel the weight of him, the clumsy sincerity in his grip.
“If you ever think about going back to that European country you don’t want to admit you’re from—you talk to me first. I’ll stage a protest.”
I giggle, startled by the gesture, and sway a bit on my feet. “No problem, Cash.”
Callahan steps in immediately. It is a fluid, protective motion—he catches Cash by the elbows, gently prying his hands away from me. “You should go back in and see if Rick is still in the lobby, Cash. Go.”
Cash’s eyes light up at the mission. He turns and yells over his shoulder as he heads toward the sliding hotel doors, “Bye, Talvi! Best coach ever!”
The words jump out of my throat before I can think. “It’s Finland, by the way!”
Saying it aloud makes me exhale half the tension I didn’t realize I was still holding. It feels like a piece of armor falling into the gutter.
Cash’s neck snaps toward me, delight written all over his face.
“I knew it! I love you, Finland!” he shouts into the empty D.C. street.
I laugh. Callahan shakes his head, looking amused as he tells Cash to go away and shut the door.
Finally, the street quiets around us again, the silence of the night rushing back in to fill the space. Callahan turns back to me, his eyes softened.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“For what? Telling Cash to beat it?”
“For everything tonight.”
We stand there in the quiet. Neither of us knows exactly what to say, and neither of us seems to want to move.
I glance at his profile, the curve of his jaw highlighted by the streetlight, and I realize that for all his teasing, he is incredibly careful. He is protective and precise. Calculated. And somehow, that draws me closer without my permission.
“Are you going to just stare at me all night, Coach?” he asks softly.
“Maybe,” I murmur. A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips.
“Good answer,” he says. For a moment, I think he means it as a joke—but the look in his eyes tells me he doesn’t.
The moment is swallowed as the rest of the team spills out of the bus, a chaotic surge of suits and travel bags. Marcus is barking orders about morning skate times, and we are swept up in the tide, moving into the hotel as a single, loud unit.
We pile into the elevators, the space tight and smelling of cool night air and sweat.
Callahan stands right in front of me, his back a broad wall that blocks out the rest of the space. He doesn’t turn around, but I can feel his presence like a physical heat.
The car empties floor by floor until it’s just me. I watch the numbers glow, the ascent silent and smooth. When I finally reach my floor, I step out into the empty, carpeted hallway.
I’ve trained myself for years to compartmentalize everything.
Work, emotions, personal life—they are all separate boxes. Neat, tidy, and closed.
But Callahan is a complication; the kind that refuses to be boxed up.
Tonight proved one thing:
Iveline Talvi St. James can control a locker room. She can control a game. She can even control herself in public.
But she cannot control Callahan Eli Moore.
And he, in turn, will not be controlled by her.