17. Iveline Talvi
Iveline Talvi
The lights in the film room are dim, and the glow from the projector paints the walls in flickering, electric ice. I sit at the head of the table with my clipboard in hand, resisting the steady urge to straighten every chair and adjust every pen.
It’s barely ten in the morning—the kind of hour where the rink still smells faintly of disinfectant and last night’s ice cut. We don’t have the luxury of easing into the day; game sixty-eight is tonight, and if we pull it off, it’ll be our forty-first win of the season.
The schedule has been merciless—a blur of airports and film sessions and bruises that never quite heal—and the weight of it sits in the room like a second oxygen supply.
No one says it out loud, but everyone feels it: we’re deep in the grind now, the part of the season where discipline matters more than adrenaline.
Usually, the entire roster is packed into these tiered seats. But today is different. This isn’t a full team meeting; it is a specialized session for the leadership core and the special teams unit. The rest of the guys are either in the weight room finishing their sets or already in the showers.
It is just me and three of the most influential voices in the locker room—a session I called specifically for the defensive veterans and the goalie to tighten up the penalty kill.
Since Callahan is the primary engine of our offensive power play, he is currently down the hall with the rest of the forwards, which somehow makes this smaller setting feel ten times more intimate.
Cash is on the far side of the room, leaning back with his hands behind his head.
A grin is already forming on his face as he looks for an opening to disrupt the flow.
Nico sits cross-legged on the floor, balancing his laptop precariously on his knees, and Marcus sits in the middle with his posture upright and calm.
“Okay, first period. Let’s go over the breakdown. Systems first—heroics second.”
Cash snorts instantly. “Heroics second? Are you sure about that, Coach? Because I think my last glove save deserves an entire series on a streaming platform. Six episodes, minimum.”
Nico bursts out laughing, his laptop sliding an inch toward the floor. “Cash’s glove save? Legendary. It was totally worthy of slow-motion, heart-thumping background violins. You should’ve seen the sheer grace of it—oh wait, you did. Replay, replay!”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t suppress the small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “We aren’t filming an action movie, Nico. Focus on the defensive rotation.”
He sits up just enough to wag a finger at me in the dim light. “I am focused, Ivy. The action, the heroics, the dramatic flair… that is the very definition of focus. Cinematic focus.”
Marcus clears his throat. “Or we could, you know, focus on what actually works. Like the positioning that allowed us to strip the puck twice in the neutral zone without losing our momentum.”
Cash groans and flops back into his chair. “Marcus! Killjoy of the century. Chill out, man. Let Iveline appreciate the art of the game for once.”
Nico nudges my notebook with his foot from his spot on the floor. “Coach Talvi, your handwriting is terrifying. Are those tactical diagrams or some form of high-end modern art?”
“Those are my notes. They make perfect sense to me, and they will make sense to you once you pay attention instead of providing a play-by-play commentary.”
“Ouch. That was harsh but fair.”
He leans back again, smirking at Cash. “Though, I feel like someone has to say it—Cash? You do realize you’re lucky she’s teaching us and isn’t judging us for being completely ridiculous all the time?”
Cash gasps, clutching his chest in a show of pretend offense. “I am a work of art, Nico. A living legend. She can’t judge a legend. It’s against the bylaws.”
I can’t help the laugh that finally slips out. Even Marcus cracks a small, genuine grin.
For a fleeting moment, I catch myself thinking that maybe this isn’t so bad. Maybe being here with them isn’t just a grueling job or a way to prove my father wrong.
We move through the clips—neutral zone turnovers, defensive rotations, and power play setups. Cash and Nico keep up a steady stream of commentary between my technical observations.
At one point, Cash leans over the table, whispering loud enough for the entire room to hear. “You know, Ivy, you could totally do the commentary for the next highlight reel. You’ve got the whole stoic yet terrifying thing down to a science.”
The nickname catches me off guard again. Warmth flickers through me before I can shut it down.
Hearing it come out of Cash’s mouth should irritate me. It should feel like a breach of professional conduct that I need to shut down immediately. But instead, it feels like a hand reaching out to pull me into the circle.
“And here he goes—watch him slice through the defense like a warm knife through butter!” Nico narrates as I point to a specific play on the screen.
I shake my head. “Focus on your positioning, Nico. You were wide open on the left wing.”
He ignores me entirely and continues his one-man drama show.
Cash chimes in, “And don’t forget—Marcus is still undefeated in the stare-down of the century competition. He’s terrifying when he’s serious.”
“I’m serious because it matters. The way we move together and the trust we build is what actually wins games. Everything else is just noise.”
I glance at him; Marcus is the anchor of this room. While Cash and Nico provide the spark and the energy, Marcus provides the structure.
I watch the way he listens—not just to the tactical plays, but to the tone of the room. He is the bridge between me and the rest of the players. He was the one who translated my “Ice Queen” directives into “Coach” orders when I first arrived and everyone was still skeptical.
He catches me looking and gives me a small, respectful nod.
“You’re doing a good job, Iveline,” he says quietly, pitching his voice so the others can’t hear. “Most people would have folded under the ‘St. James’ shadow by now. You didn’t. You made your own.”
I swallow hard, a sudden lump forming in my throat. “Thanks, Marcus. That… that really means a lot.”
“Don’t get mushy on us now,” he grins, the serious mask slipping for a split second. “Cash will try to hug you, and then we’ll never get out of here.”
Cash leans back dramatically, sighing at the ceiling. “Alright, alright, enough with the seriousness. We need at least one more highlight reel debate. I call it ‘The Great Puck Argument of 2026.’”
I groan, but the sound is filled with humor.
Nico grabs a stack of index cards from the table. “Coach Talvi, you’re going to do a mock press conference with these ridiculous questions. It’s educational.”
“Educational?” I raise an eyebrow, skeptical.
“Yes! It’s a simulation. You have to learn how to handle total absurdity without losing your composure.”
I groan again but sit at the front of the table, clutching my clipboard. Cash’s “reporter” voice is deep and booming.
“Coach Talvi,” he begins, leaning forward with an imaginary microphone. “If the team were a type of pasta, what type would they be and why?”
I stare at him blankly for a few seconds. Marcus sighs quietly in the background, and Nico snickers uncontrollably into his hand.
“It depends,” I answer finally, a smirk spreading across my face.
“I’d say Cash is lasagna—there are messy layers involved, but it is surprisingly effective.
Nico is probably spaghetti. Flexible, a little slippery, but usually the life of the party.
And Marcus…” I pause for a second, looking at the veteran.
“Marcus is penne. Solid. Reliable. He doesn’t bend under pressure. ”
Cash gasps dramatically, clutching his heart. “Penne? That is cruel! Penne is so boring!”
Marcus only smirks. “I’ll take it. It’s functional.”
“Wait, wait,” Nico interrupts, waving his index cards like a madman. “If we’re pasta, what is Callahan? You can’t leave the captain out of the pantry, Coach. That is a major locker room violation.”
The mention of his name is like a spark in a dry forest. My heart does a quick, traitorous skip against my ribs. I try to keep my face neutral, but I can feel the heat rising in my neck.
“Callahan?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. “He’s… he’s spicy arrabbiata. He looks simple enough from a distance, but the second you get close, he has enough heat to ruin your life.”
Cash howls with laughter, slapping the table with his palm. “Ruin your life! Oh, I am definitely telling him that. I’m texting him right now.”
“Don’t you dare, Cash,” I warn, though the real edge is gone from my voice.
“Too late! ‘Callahan, Ivy says you’re a spicy noodle who ruins lives.’ Sent!”
I groan, burying my face in my hands.
I should be mortified. I should be worried about the professional fallout of comparing the team captain to a spicy sauce. But the sound of their laughter is infectious.
It is impossible to stay embarrassed when the room is this full of light.
The rest of the “press conference” devolves into complete nonsense. We create award categories like “most dramatic ice fall” and “best hockey hair flip.”
I’m laughing—the kind of laugh that has been missing from my life since I moved back to Boston.
Eventually, the room empties out, leaving only the hum of the projector and the faint scent of old popcorn from some forgotten snack in the corner.
I slide open the blinds and look out over the empty rink.
The ice gleams under the overhead lights, perfectly smooth and waiting for the team to return.
I realize something important.
Maybe I don’t have to face this storm alone. Maybe this team, with all its chaos and ridiculousness, is my anchor.
And maybe, just maybe, I can finally let myself belong here.
The rink hums softly behind the glass, cold and steady, and for once, the silence doesn’t feel like a threat to my peace.
I lean against the glass, just watching the light hit the ice. It’s weirdly quiet for noon, the whole rink just glowing in that sharp, bright overhead glare.
This is my world.
The cold, the lines, and the strategy.
But Callahan Moore has introduced a variable I simply didn’t account for. He isn’t a play I can draw up on a whiteboard and solve with a different rotation.
I touch the glass, the cold seeping into my skin.
I am not just the GM’s daughter anymore. I am the woman who called the captain ‘spicy arrabbiata’ in front of his teammates. I am the woman who touched his shoulder and let the wall crumble for a second.
I am a mess.
And as I turn to leave, catching my reflection in the dark glass of the door, I realize I don’t mind the mess as much as I used to.