18. Callahan Eli
Callahan Eli
Cash changed the name to “PASTA PANTRY”
Cash: @Callahan Ivy says you’re a spicy noodle who ruins lives.
Nico: Spicy Arrabbiata, actually. Get it right.
Cash: Same thing. You’re officially a life ruining pasta.
Me: What the fuck are you guys talking about?
Cash: Film room secrets. You had to be there, Cap.
* * *
Practice hasn’t even started yet, and I’m already watching her.
It’s not in the casual, accidental way I’ve been pretending for weeks—like my eyes just happened to land there and stayed a second too long because I was distracted by the scoreboard.
No. This is intentional.
I can still see the text Cash sent me last night, the one that made me nearly choke on my water when it flashed across the screen.
It is a ridiculous, juvenile comment. It is exactly the kind of thing that should be laughed off in the group chat with a middle finger emoji or a quick jab at Cash’s intelligence.
But “spicy” and “ruining lives” are two things I’ve been feeling acutely since the moment she arrived in Boston.
The fact that she said it—even as a joke during a film session with the guys—means she’s thinking about me in a context that isn’t just power plays and neutral zone traps.
I look at her now and I have this sudden, irrational urge to walk right up to her and ask her exactly which part of me is ruining her life.
Is it the way I look at her when no one is watching? Is it the apology I gave her in the hallway four days ago? Or is it the fact that we both know the air in the rink gets ten degrees hotter every time we’re within five feet of each other?
I should be annoyed that the guys are already using her nickname. But hearing that they were sitting in the film room laughing together while I was down the hall with the forwards makes my chest feel tight with a strange, prickly kind of envy.
I’m supposed to be the one in the inner circle, the one who knows what’s going on with the team. Instead, I’m out here on the perimeter, watching the woman I want and the team I lead become a family I’m not sure I’m allowed to join just yet.
She’s standing at the far blue line, her clipboard tucked against her chest. Her hair is pulled back in that sharp, no-nonsense way that should make her look severe or unapproachable.
It doesn’t.
It just makes her look like she’s about to ruin me.
She’s talking to Sam, pointing at something on the ice, her brows drawn together in total concentration. Her posture is straight and controlled, every movement deliberate.
And then—there it is.
That thing she does when she’s thinking too hard.
She bites her lip.
It’s not dramatic or performative. It’s just a small, unconscious press of her teeth against her bottom lip as she studies the ice.
I feel it immediately—a low, tight pull in my gut that is entirely unwelcome. I drag a hand across my jaw, trying to shake the feeling loose, but my body doesn’t listen.
It hasn’t listened to me since the hallway, since the apology.
I still don’t know what possessed me to say it. Maybe it was the guilt of the anniversary. Maybe it was the way she looked at me—like she expected me to fight her, but I folded instead.
It shouldn’t even matter that much; it was just an apology.
But something shifted between us. I felt it, and I know she felt it too. The air hasn’t settled since, and I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or the beginning of something I won’t be able to undo.
“Callahan,” Rick calls from the bench, breaking my trance. “You good?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring far too long to be considered professional.
“Fine,” I say, skating toward him. “Just thinking.”
Rick snorts. “That’s dangerous. Stick to shooting.”
I ignore him and glance back at her.
She’s moved now, pacing along the boards with her pen tapping against her clipboard. She is focused and precise, completely unaware that she’s the only thing I can see in a room full of twenty-five men.
I shouldn’t be watching her like this.
Lines exist for a reason.
But the thing about lines is that they tend to blur when you get close enough to them.
And I’m close.
I’m far too close.
Warm-ups start, and I skate laps with the guys. My legs move on muscle memory alone while my attention remains splintered.
She’s talking to Leo now, demonstrating something with her hands. He’s nodding like she’s explaining the secrets of the universe to him.
She’s good with the younger players—patient without being soft, firm without being cruel. She corrects his stance, adjusts his angle, and taps the ice exactly where she wants his feet to be.
I didn’t expect that from her.
I didn’t expect a lot of things.
I didn’t expect the way she laughed when her friends showed up, or the way her voice softened when she told Nico to breathe before his shift. I certainly didn’t expect the way she looked at me in the bar that night—like she couldn’t decide whether to push me away or pull me closer.
I find myself noticing the tiny details I used to ignore.
The way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating.
The faint crease between her brows when she’s frustrated.
The subtle tilt of her head as she listens to a player’s complaint.
The quick glance down at her clipboard, her fingers curling around the edge, before she shakes her head slightly at herself.
I’m not sure what I’m more obsessed with: her absolute control or the way that control slips in the tiniest, most human moments.
It feels like a sickness.
I’m counting the seconds between her glances. I’m tracking the way her skates carve into the ice, noticing that she favors her right side when she’s turning to talk to Rick.
I’ve spent my entire life studying tape, looking for weaknesses in goaltenders and gaps in defensive pairings, but I’ve never studied a human being like this.
I’m learning the architecture of Iveline St. James, and the more I see, the more I realize I’m hopelessly outclassed.
The frustration of it is starting to bleed into my play. I’m hitting the puck harder than I need to. I’m taking turns too fast.
I’m a man trying to outrun a feeling that has already caught up to him.
“Dude,” Cash mutters, skating up beside me during a drill. “You’re staring again.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’re practically burning a hole in her jacket.”
“Shut up, Finnian.”
He grins behind his mask. “It’s okay. I get it. She’s hot. Everyone knows it.”
I shoot him a look sharp enough to cut through his goalie pads. My chest tightens, a sudden flare of territorial heat that I don’t want to acknowledge.
He lifts his hands in a mock surrender. “Relax. I’m not suicidal. Besides, I’ve found a new obsession. Redheads. I think I’m going to marry a redhead.”
“Good for you,” I mutter.
The thought of him even thinking about Ivy makes something dark and protective flare in my chest. I don’t want to be the kind of guy who gets jealous over a woman who isn’t even mine, but it’s there, and it’s growing every day.
Practice officially starts, and she is all business.
Her voice is sharp, her commands are clear, and she shows no hesitation. I watch her from the corner of my eye as I run through the power play drills. She weaves between players, adjusts cones, and corrects angles with quick, confident movements.
Halfway through practice, Delaney comes up beside me during a water break. He’s smirking, which is usually a bad sign for everyone involved.
“So,” he says. “How’s it feel being coached by the GM’s princess?”
My jaw tightens so hard it hurts.
I don’t respond, but he keeps going. Of course he does.
Delaney has always been a mouthpiece for the old guard, the guys who think a woman on the bench isn’t anything more than a PR stunt.
Even the players have heard the nickname the training staff uses behind his back—the “De-Lamey”—their way of mocking how he can stall an entire meeting and still blame someone else for it.
But standing there now, he looks entirely too comfortable leaning against the boards while he tries to dismantle the credibility of the best assistant coach we’ve had in years.
“Must be nice,” he continues. “Having someone who only got the job because of her daddy telling a veteran like you how to skate. It’s embarrassing for the league, honestly.”
I don’t react right away. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me ruffled. But then I see her across the rink.
She’s talking to Leo, helping him with his stick placement, completely unaware of the bullshit being said about her.
The idea of anyone reducing her to a shortcut or a favor hits me like a personal insult.
That’s when the anger turns sharp.
I step closer. I’m taller than Delaney, and I use every inch of it to loom over him. I can smell the Gatorade on his breath and see the flicker of genuine fear in his eyes.
This isn’t “Captain Callahan” giving a pep talk.
This is a man protecting something he hasn’t even admitted he has yet.
“She earned it,” I say, my voice low and vibrating in my chest.
Delaney blinks, taken aback. “What?”
“You think her dad did the work for her in Europe?” I snap.
“You think he was out there on the ice at four in the morning when she was building her career from nothing while you were out partying? She has twice the hockey mind you do, and she has ten times the heart. You don’t have to like her.
But you will respect her. Am I being clear enough for you? ”
His smirk falters completely. “Jesus, man. I didn’t know you were so—”
“Careful,” I warn him, my eyes narrowed. “She’s smarter than half the staff and more qualified than you’ll ever be. If you ever talk about her like that again, you’ll regret it. I’ll make sure of it.”
He shuts up instantly, looking away.
I skate away before I do something worse, like punch him right in front of the cameras. I skate hard, the cold air stinging my face, trying to process why I’m actually this angry.
When the practice finally winds down, the players file off the ice, but I take my time. I stay out there stretching and cooling down, pretending I’m not waiting for everyone else to leave.
Iveline packs up her notes methodically. She pauses to adjust her sleeve, smooths the hem of her coat, and then steps toward the boards with a purposeful, silent authority.
And there it is again.
That pull.
That quiet obsession that has been building since the moment she walked into this rink and looked at me like she wasn’t impressed by my stats.
She finally looks up, and our eyes meet across the ice.
Heat floods my chest—relief tangled with a tension so thick I could cut it with a skate blade. Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe memory, or maybe the same fucking thing that’s burning in my chest.
Then she looks away, and her mask snaps back into place.
Ice queen. Untouchable. Unbothered.
But I saw it; I saw the crack in the ice and now I can’t stop looking for it.
***
In the locker room, the guys are loud and joking, full of life after a hard skate, but I barely hear them. My head is still on the ice. It is still on her.
Cash nudges me as I’m pulling off my jersey. “You good, Callie?”
“Fine.”
“You’re lying through your teeth.”
“Drop it, Cash.”
He grins. “You’re obsessed. It’s written all over your face.”
I don’t deny it this time. Because maybe I am.
Maybe I’ve been fighting something that has already won. Maybe the resentment I thought I felt was just the first stage of something else entirely—something I’m not ready for and don’t know how to manage.
Something that feels a hell of a lot like—
No. I’m not going there. Not yet.
But as I shower, dress, and head out of the locker room, one thing is clear to me: I’m not done watching her. Not even close.
As I walk toward the parking lot, the evening air is crisp and cold, but I’m still burning from the inside out. I see her car—the practical, black one that replaced the wreck from four years ago. It is perfectly parked, just like everything else in her life.
I think about the “spicy noodle” comment again, and a smirk tugs at my mouth in the darkness.
She thinks I’m a disaster. She thinks I’m a complication. And the worst part is, she’s absolutely right. I am going to ruin her neat, organized professional life.
I pull my keys from my pocket, the metal feeling cold against my palm.
Tomorrow is a game day.
Tomorrow, I have to be the leader. I have to be the one who scores the goals and manages the room and keeps everyone focused.
But tonight, as I drive home through the Boston streets, all I can think about is the way she bit her lip, and how much I want to be the reason she does it again.
* * *
7:43 PM
Cash: Did you verbally murder Delaney during practice?
Me: He tripped.
Cash: On respect?