16. Iveline Talvi
Iveline Talvi
I slip inside my office and close the door with a quiet, decisive click.
The office smells like stale coffee, old paper, and the faint ozone scent of the rink’s cooling system.
Usually, this room is my sanctuary. It is the place where I turn chaos into tidy columns of data and transform messy plays into elegant, winning strategies.
But today, the air feels thick, as if I am trying to breathe through layers of heavy wool.
I look down at my hands.
They’re shaking—a slight tremor, barely visible to the naked eye, but it is enough to make me feel like a total stranger in my own skin.
I have survived European leagues where fans threw lighters and coins at me from the stands. I have survived boardrooms full of older men who looked at me like I was a frustrating glitch in the hockey software.
I have always prided myself on being the sturdiest person in any room.
So why did a few quiet sentences from Callahan Moore turn my bones to glass?
I press my back against the door, my palms flat against the wood, and try to force my lungs to cooperate. Each inhale catches halfway, as if my body no longer trusts the air it’s being given.
God, he said it like he meant it.
It wasn’t an obligation or a strategic move to smooth over team chemistry before the next game. There was no defensiveness in his eyes when he looked at me. There was no edge, no arrogance. There was just something raw and unguarded that reached straight under my ribs and pulled.
That is what scares me the most.
Apologies usually mean vulnerability, and in my experience, vulnerability is a trap. Every time I’ve accepted an olive branch in the past, it has been followed by disappointment, betrayal, or the quiet expectation that I now owe something in return.
But Callahan didn’t look like he wanted a favor.
He looked like he wanted peace.
I push off the door and start to pace. My boots strike the floor in sharp, controlled beats—one end of the office to the other. Turn. Repeat. The movement helps, but only barely. It keeps me from standing still long enough for the feelings to gather enough momentum to knock me over.
My clipboard is sitting on the desk where I left it.
I grab it, flip it open, and stare at the notes I took during practice.
They’re useless. My handwriting looks like someone tried to write while falling off a cliff—arrows going nowhere, half-finished thoughts about defensive rotations, tactical nonsense.
I drop the clipboard back onto the desk with a dull thud.
Why did he look at me like that? Why did I let him? Why did it feel—
No. I am not going there.
But my brain won’t let me do anything else.
I close my eyes and I am back on that bridge four years ago. The sound of metal on metal is still the loudest thing I have ever heard. I can still smell the rain, and I remember the terrifying silence that followed.
And then, there was Callahan.
He had been a blur of a purple jersey and pure fury. He had screamed at me, his face twisted in a way that made him look like a monster from a nightmare.
I remember thinking: Is this what the rest of my life is? Just people screaming at each other in the dark?
I hated him for it.
I used that hatred as fuel to get through my coaching badges in Europe, to move back to the States, and to take this job. I wanted to prove to him—and everyone exactly like him—that I couldn’t be broken by a loud voice or a bad day.
And now, with a few quiet sentences in a locker room tunnel, he has taken my fuel away. He has apologized for the very thing that defined my resolve. It’s as if he has reached into my chest and rearranged all the furniture, and now I have no idea where anything is supposed to go.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I freeze.
Please don’t be him. Please don’t be him.
Scottie: Emergency. I’m fighting with a hot lawyer.
Scottie: YES. Dean. He’s being insufferable. Also, his forearms should be illegal.
I shake my head, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction.
Scottie has been “fighting” with Dean since the day they met in a university library ten years ago.
She flirts with him the same way she flirts with the barista, the mailman, and half my defensive line—it is her default setting, a whirlwind of energy that Dean absorbs with the practiced, platonic patience of a saint.
They are a locked set, two best friends who share everything from secrets to legal strategies, but the idea of them actually dating is a running joke between us.
Dean is the anchor, Scottie is the storm, and they wouldn’t have it any other way.
Me: Why are you fighting now?
Scottie: He said I can’t threaten to sue someone for “bad vibes.” I told him to watch me.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, picturing the scene.
Dean is likely sitting across from her with a calm, unimpressed expression while she paces his office, making wild legal demands.
Me: Please don’t get arrested today. I don’t have the bail money on me.
Scottie: No promises. Also… are you okay?
I look at the screen, the smile fading into something more contemplative.
Scottie has this unnerving talent for sensing when my equilibrium slips, even through a screen; I don’t have to say a word before she picks up on the shift.
Scottie and Dean are my “normal.”
They knew me when I was just a girl with a whistle and a desperate dream of making her father proud. They don’t see the “St. James” brand; they just see Iveline.
I think about Dean—how he watches over us with that silent, fierce loyalty. It is a protection born of choice, not duty. For a terrifying second, I wonder if that is what Callahan was doing in the bus that night, or in the hallway today.
Was he protecting the coach, or was he protecting me?
My father’s face flashes in my mind.
I know how he operates. He doesn’t fix problems; he replaces them.
If he sees me becoming a “distraction” or if he sees his star captain losing his competitive edge because of me, he won’t hesitate for a second.
He’ll trade Callahan to a basement-dweller team in the West, or he’ll fire me before I can pack my whistle.
The stakes aren’t just my heart; it is my entire career.
I stare at the phone screen, my thumb hovering, my mind abruptly empty. I push off the desk and walk to the window that overlooks the rink.
Everything looks so orderly from a distance.
My phone buzzes again.
Scottie: If you don’t answer, I’m coming to the rink. With snacks. And threats of physical violence.
Me: It’s nothing, Scottie. Just a long day.
Scottie: Mhmm. Translation: “I felt something and I hate it.” Been there, Ivy. I hate it every single time.
The truth lands like a physical blow.
My chest tightens, heat pools under my skin, and a wave of nausea curls low in my stomach. I turn away from the window and lean back against the wall, sliding down slowly until I am sitting on the floor with my knees bent.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, breathing through the panic.
Get it together, Iveline. You’re a professional. You don’t unravel just because a man said he was sorry for being a jerk.
But even as I repeat the mantra, I can feel the walls I built around my heart shuddering. Small cracks are forming, tiny fissures are letting the memory of his voice and the weight of his gaze slip in, and it makes me dizzy.
I push myself off the floor eventually.
I straighten my clothes, smooth my hair, and force my breathing into something that passes for normal.
The armor goes back on.
The walls, the ice, the control.
I rebuild them piece by careful piece.
But no matter what I tell myself, I don’t leave the office until the sun has long since set. I stay at my desk until the shadows stretch across the room and the rink lights flicker on, casting silver lines on the empty ice below.
The arena is haunted at night.
The empty seats look like thousands of people waiting for a show that has already ended. I watch the Zamboni driver finish his last lap, the surface of the ice gleaming like a mirror under the half-lights.
I imagine Callahan down there, skating alone in the dark.
I wonder if his head is as loud as mine. I wonder if he’s regretting the apology, or if he’s already moved on to the next game, the next goal, the next person.
Part of me wants to go down there.
I want to find him in the locker room and ask him why he’s doing this to me. I want to demand that he goes back to being the arrogant, irritating captain I know how to handle.
But I stay in the office.
I stay because as long as there is a door between us, I can pretend I am still the one in charge.
I pack my bag with slow, deliberate movements. I turn off the lights, leaving the room to the shadows. And as I walk to my car, the cold night air hits me, and for the first time, I don’t feel the Sisu my mother always talked about.
I don’t feel resilient or strong.
I just feel lonely.