14. Callahan Eli
Callahan Eli
Me: Don’t do that again.
Cash: Do what? Win? I plan on doing that a lot.
Me: The cheek thing.
Cash: THE BIRTHDAY HUG? YOU CAN’T BE JEALOUS OF A BIRTHDAY HUG.
Me: I’m not jealous. But you shouldn’t be kissing our coach. It’s a professional boundary.
Cash: YOU’RE JEALOUS. I’M FRAMING THIS CHAT AND PUTTING IT ON THE LOCKER ROOM DOOR.
***
The bar is loud before I even step inside.
It’s not the kind of noise that comes from speakers alone, but from bodies packed too close together, from laughter that punches through the music, and from the hum of victory vibrating in everyone’s bones.
Hockey bars have always been familiar territory for me—too familiar, maybe—but tonight carries a different edge.
The season has barely started, and the stakes are already climbing. I am supposed to keep my head down, keep the routine clean, and my focus sharp. Instead, my chest tightens with the kind of tension that warns you something bigger is waiting just around the corner.
I scan the room automatically; my eyes flick from face to face, player to player, checking the perimeter.
But then, my gaze stops.
I’ve seen Iveline Talvi St. James in a lot of uniforms. I’ve seen her in the sharp, high-collared blouses that make her look like she’s about to testify in a high-stakes court case. I’ve seen her in the team tracksuits, hidden under layers of nylon and discipline.
I thought I knew her silhouette, the way she holds herself like a fortress.
I was wrong.
The red dress isn’t just a garment; it is a provocation.
The material catches the low, amber light of the bar, shimmering with every breath she takes. It clings to the curve of her spine, trailing down to where the fabric splits dangerously high at her thigh.
My mouth goes dry instantly.
I’ve spent years around some of the most beautiful women in the world—actresses, models, influencers—but none of them carried themselves with this kind of effortless, terrifying gravity.
She isn’t trying to be the most beautiful woman in the room.
She just is, and she seems entirely bored by the fact.
I find myself leaning against a wooden pillar, my drink forgotten in my hand, watching the way her bare shoulders move as she talks to Scottie and Dean.
There is a small, pale scar just below her left shoulder blade—a tiny imperfection that makes my heart stutter.
I want to ask her where it came from.
I want to know every story the coach version of her hides behind that clipboard.
She is in the middle of a laugh, her head tipped back just slightly, her throat exposed in a way I shouldn’t notice.
One hand is wrapped loosely around a glass, the other gesturing sharply as she talks.
She looks completely unguarded, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed as she keeps pace with Scottie’s relentless energy.
Scottie’s red curls bounce as her mouth runs a mile a minute, clearly telling a story that involves too many details and not enough shame, and Iveline leans into her, hanging on every word like they’re back in a school hallway.
What surprises me most is Dean.
When he arrived at the rink, he looked like a man physically incapable of a smile, scanning the arena with an expression carved from stone.
But here, standing just behind the girls, the bouncer persona has vanished. He’s actually laughing, a deep, genuine sound that pulls him into their tight-knit circle.
Ivy takes a playful swing at him, and Dean leans away with the practiced ease of someone who’s been her friend forever.
Cash is somewhere near the bar, his voice raised about something—likely his own greatness on the ice. Nico is with him, laughing too hard, already halfway gone. But my gaze keeps returning to her, to the way she exists when she isn’t trying to be the coldest person in the room.
There is a pull—physical and undeniable. My body angles toward her before my brain can even intervene.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low as I move into their space.
She turns, her brow lifting and her lips tugging into a smirk that feels deliberate, pointed specifically at me.
“Don’t glare at me like that, Callahan,” she says, face flushed in that unmistakable two-drinks-in way. “It’s distracting.”
I scoff, the sound softer than I intended.
“You’re distracting,” I murmur.
And God help me, I mean every word.
I let my eyes roam, slow and deliberate, taking her in.
The curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, and the way the fabric moves like it knows it’s being watched. Her heels are ridiculous, but somehow they make her look more grounded.
She catches me looking, and her lips curve with a satisfied edge. She doesn’t call me out or try to cover herself. She just tilts her head, daring me to keep going.
Scottie notices immediately. Her eyes dart between us, widening dramatically.
“Oh,” she says, loud enough for half the bar to hear. “Ohhh. This is interesting.”
“Scottie,” Iveline warns, though she’s still smiling.
Dean’s eyes snap to mine, and the warning is loud enough. I step back just enough to give him space before this turns into a lecture or a legal deposition.
The night blurs after that.
I buy rounds of drinks I barely taste. The team gets louder and looser.
Cash reenacts his third-period save like he’s auditioning for a Broadway production, using a pool cue as a stick. Nico spills beer on a stranger and claims he doesn’t mind, though the man definitely minds. Brick stops a non-existent fight just by standing there and looking heavy.
I laugh when I’m supposed to and nod when someone speaks to me, but my attention keeps drifting back to the red dress.
The music shifts, the tempo slowing down. The bass crawls instead of jumps, wrapping around the room and pulling everyone in.
Cash grabs Iveline’s wrist, laughing and tugging her toward the center of the floor. Brick follows, pretending not to dance while absolutely dancing. She goes with them easily, moving between them like she belongs there, like she owns the floor.
My jaw tightens before I even realize I’m doing it.
Brick catches my look first. He freezes mid-step and raises his hands in mock surrender.
Cash notices, bursting out laughing.
“Abort,” Cash announces. “Abort mission. Captain is going to kill us.”
They scatter, leaving a gap in the crowd.
Iveline frowns, looking around. “What was that about?”
I don’t answer. I just offer my hand without thinking it through.
She looks at my palm, then at my face, then slowly places her hand in mine. Heat lances through me, sharp and grounding, as if the world just snapped into focus and everything else disappeared.
The contact hits harder than the alcohol ever could.
We move together instinctively, our bodies aligning like we’ve done this before in another life. We aren’t really dancing; we are just swaying in the small, crowded orbit we’ve carved out for ourselves.
Around us, the world is a blur of drunken teammates and shouting fans, but here, in the few inches between our chests, the air is still.
I shouldn’t be holding her this close.
I am the captain.
I am the one who is supposed to maintain the boundaries.
But every time her scent hits me, my resolve crumbles another inch.
“You’re a good dancer, Moore,” she whispers, her voice vibrating against my collarbone. “I expected you to be all elbows and ego.”
“I’m full of surprises, Ivy,” I murmur back.
I pull her a fraction closer, my thumb tracing the line of her hip. I see her pupils dilate, the dark centers swallowing the blue.
This is the danger zone. This is the moment where I should let go, walk back to the bar, and order a water.
Instead, I tighten my grip.
I want to see how far she’ll let me go.
It is a terrible idea. Either way, I don’t let go.
She looks up, her eyes darker now and her lashes low. I hear the hitch in her breath when I lean in slightly.
“Is that a gasp, Coach?” I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “I thought you were the one who never lost her breath.”
She lets out a shaky, frustrated laugh, her fingers tightening on my shoulder. “It’s the altitude, Moore. You’re… you’re standing too high on your ego.”
“Your heart is racing, Ivy,” I tease, my hand moving to the small of her back. I watch her eyes go dazed and dark as they search mine. “And for someone so controlled, you’re breathing like you’ve just run a marathon.”
“Shut up,” she whispers, her breath hitching again as I pull her flush against me.
If she doesn’t move in the next three seconds, I’m going to forget exactly who is paying my salary.
The room disappears. No music. No noise.
Just her.
Desire and restraint clash inside me, a warning I am already failing to heed. But then the song ends, someone shouts nearby, and a fan bumps into us.
The moment disappears.
I step away, straightening my jacket and breathing like I’ve been underwater for too long.
I catch Dean’s eyes from across the room. He’s still standing by the wall, but his posture has changed. He isn’t just scanning the room anymore; he is scanning me.
There is a look of grim recognition on his face—the look of a man who knows exactly what kind of fire I’m playing with.
He knows I’m falling.
And worse, he looks like he knows Iveline is letting me.
It is a sobering thought.
This isn’t just a bar-room flirtation. This is Iveline’s life. These people—Scottie and Dean—are her fortress. By dancing with her and touching her like this, I am trying to scale the walls of that fortress.
“You’re blushing,” she says, bringing my attention back to her.
“I am not,” I shoot back, even as my chest betrays me.
She laughs and turns to leave. The sway of her hips as she moves sets something inside me on edge, a mix of longing and frustration I can’t shake.
Cash appears, shoving a drink into my hand; I down it immediately.
“Coach Talvi,” Cash says, looking solemn. “She’s hot, she’s funny, she’s terrifying. But her friend—” he gestures toward Scottie and groans. “Someone kill me. She just told me my career earnings wouldn’t cover her shoe budget.”
Kovács slides in, raising his brows. “What just happened? You both look like you just saw a ghost or a goddess. Possibly both.”
Brick knocks a glass over. Leo laughs too loud at something that isn’t funny. It’s chaos around me but I barely notice any of it. My eyes keep finding her in the crowd.
I hate it.
I love it.
It is twisted, electric, and entirely unavoidable.
Something tells me this isn’t going to be simple. Not even close.
***
The bar fades behind me as I eventually step outside.
The night air hits like a punch. The neon signs and the chaos are behind a pane of glass now, muffled and distant. I lean against a car, letting my hands fall to my sides, trying to shake the heat from my chest that has nothing to do with the whiskey.
I shouldn’t feel this way.
She’s my boss’s daughter. She’s the assistant coach. She’s Iveline. Smart, lethal, and disciplined. She is controlled.
And yet tonight, she was none of those things.
Tonight, she was alive. She was dangerous. Not in the way of the ice, but in the way she makes you question your own self-control.
I want to be angry. I want to tell myself to step back, that this is unprofessional, and that her warmth shouldn’t mean anything to me.
But I can’t.
Frustration builds like a knot in my throat.
I hate that she has this effect on me. I hate that the rest of the team’s antics don’t even register past her presence. I hate the way my body betrays me.
And most of all, I hate that I keep thinking about her.
I shove my hands into my pockets and pace a few steps.
God, I hate that I want her.
I think about William St. James. If he knew I spent the last twenty minutes trying to memorize the texture of his daughter’s skin, he’d have my contract shredded before sunrise.
But it’s not just the job. It’s the team. If the guys see me as “Coach’s boyfriend,” I lose the room. The authority I’ve spent four years building will evaporate in a heartbeat.
Is she worth it? the voice in my head asks.
I think of the way she looked in that red dress. I think of the way she told me I was distracting. I think of the “thank you” she whispered on the plane.
Yeah, I think. She’s worth the whole damn team.
A part of me revels in it; the risk, the tension, the uncertainty. It’s the same part of me that reads a rink like an open book and anticipates every play. But this is uncharted territory.
I’ve never liked being out of control, but with her, I don’t seem to have a choice.
I take a deep breath, let the cold air fill my lungs, and try to calm the storm inside my chest.
* * *
11:32 PM
Leo: Boys, why am I already tired?
Cash: Because you skate like a baby deer and think cardio is a type of pasta.
Me: Shut up and sleep. We have a flight at noon.
Nico: Captain’s cranky. Someone get him a snickers and a cold shower.