19. Iveline Talvi
Iveline Talvi
The rink looks entirely different when it is full of children.
There is a softness to the light in here today, as if the harsh fluorescent glare has been dimmed by the sheer volume of high-pitched giggles.
My hands, which are usually curled into defensive fists or gripping a whistle until my knuckles turn white, feel strangely light.
I find myself watching the parents in the stands. They aren’t scouts with clipboards or critics with anonymous Twitter accounts waiting for a mistake. They are just parents watching their entire world spin around on two thin strips of steel.
“Okay!” I call out, clapping once. “Rule number one—if you fall, you get back up.”
A few kids nod solemnly, absorbing this like it is gospel. They look at me with wide, trusting eyes that make me feel more like a teacher than an NHL coach.
“Rule number two,” I continue, leaning down slightly. “If you don’t fall at least once, it means you aren’t trying hard enough.”
Gasps ripple through the small group. One boy looks genuinely horrified by the suggestion. Another boy immediately drops to his knees on purpose, placing his palms flat on the ice as if he is proving a point.
I blink, taken aback by the literal interpretation. Then, I laugh—sharp, surprised, and loud enough to echo against the rafters. The sound startles me as much as it does them.
“That one doesn’t count,” I tell the boy, pointing at him with a grin. “Nice try, though.”
The kid beams at me as if he has just won the Stanley Cup.
Around the rink, the players are scattered in small, carefully assigned groups. I watch them for a moment, seeing sides of these men that never come out during a game.
Nico is crouched low, his tongue sticking out in concentration as he re-tightens a little girl’s skate. He is murmuring encouragement to her with infinite patience, and I think to myself that the internet would never believe this version of Nico exists.
Cash is letting a kid take shots on him. When a slow-moving puck squeaks past his goalie pad, he throws himself backward dramatically, arms flailing in the air.
“Oh no!” he groans, his voice echoing through the arena. “I have been defeated by the greatest sniper in the city!”
The kid screams in triumph, raising his stick high.
At center ice, Brick stands rigid with his arms crossed, looming like a stone statue—until a tiny child grabs his glove with both hands and looks up at him as if he has discovered a real-life superhero.
Brick freezes, his eyes wide. Then, slowly, his mouth twitches. It is barely there, but it is a smile.
When I first heard about this community outreach day, I was convinced I was going to hate it. I knew I was going to hate the loss of control and the unpredictable chaos of thirty children on skates.
But then I stepped on the ice.
Now, looking at the team, I know this was the right decision.
The schedule hasn’t given us much breathing room. Seventy-four games down, forty-nine wins on the board, and April barely underway. It’s not a break so much as a thin gap in the calendar—the kind of lull that feels like the eye of a storm rather than a moment of rest.
Everywhere you look—broadcasts, articles, even the league’s own social feeds—people are calling us a Cup contender now. The pressure sits on our shoulders like extra padding beneath the gear.
I glide between the groups, my instincts taking over. I adjust helmets, tug on loose chin straps, and kneel down to eye level with kids who look overwhelmed by the size of the arena. I keep my voice soft and steady.
“It’s okay,” I murmur to a little girl who is clutching her stick like it is the only thing keeping her from sinking into the earth. “I promise the ice isn’t mad at you.”
She stares at me for a second, then giggles. Her shoulders relax and her grip loosens.
This is easy.
No one is measuring my worth here. There are no expectations, no scrutiny, and no famous last name attached to every breath I take.
I don’t need to be sharp or guarded or strategic; I can just be kind.
“Coach Talvi!”
I turn around and find a kid whose helmet is on backward. I fix it without comment, sliding the cage into place.
Another kid asks me if falling hurts. I tell him that sometimes it does, but it hurts a lot less when you know how to fall properly. I demonstrate a controlled fall, exaggerating the motion and letting myself slide a little too far on the ice.
They laugh, and I let them.
From the bench, I hear someone clear their throat loudly.
“Unfair,” Jenna mutters.
I glance over my shoulder.
She is leaning against the boards with her clipboard tucked under her arm and a coffee balanced precariously in her hand.
Her blonde hair is pulled into a messy knot, and she looks more relaxed than I have ever seen her.
An intern stands beside her with his phone out, already filming the scene for the team’s social media.
“What’s unfair?” I ask, skating closer to the boards.
Jenna gestures vaguely at the ice. “You’re good at this in a way that makes the rest of us look emotionally unavailable, Ivy. It’s bad for our reputations.”
Sam nods solemnly from her other side. “That kid just imprinted on her like a baby duck. It’s adorable and sickening.”
“I don’t want legal responsibility for any ducks,” I say, shaking my head.
Jenna snorts. “Too late. You’re the Mother of Ducks now.”
A kid barrels straight into the back of my legs mid-conversation, nearly knocking me over. I catch him automatically, steadying his small frame. “Oof. You okay there, speedster?”
He nods seriously, looking up at me through his cage. “You smell like winter.”
The comment hits me softer than I expected. It tugs at something nostalgic and quiet, like a memory I didn’t even know I was missing.
Winter.
In Finland, winter isn’t just a season; it is a feeling. It is the smell of my mother’s heavy wool coat after she had been out gathering wood in the crisp air.
It was the smell of safety.
I haven’t thought about that in years. I have spent so much time in climate-controlled rinks and sterile hotel rooms that I forgot the world actually had a scent of its own. To hear it from a six-year-old with a backward helmet feels like a tiny earthquake in the middle of my chest.
Miguel’s laugh pulls me back to the present. Jenna is pressing her fist to her mouth, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
“That’s it,” she says. “I’m putting it on the team website. Coach Talvi smells like winter. The fans will lose their minds.”
I shake my head, laughing as I send the kid back toward his group. Jenna watches me for a beat longer than necessary, her expression turning thoughtful.
“You ever think about doing this full time?” she asks.
The question lands heavy in my gut. I open my mouth to give my standard answer about my career goals, then I close it again.
I settle for a tight, noncommittal smile. “One crisis at a time, Jenna.”
She nods, understanding that some answers just aren’t ready to be spoken yet.
That is when I feel it—that subtle awareness I’ve learned to ignore whenever he is in the room. I glance up toward the far end of the ice. Callahan is standing by the boards, his arms crossed and his posture loose. He is supposed to be working with the older kids, but his eyes are locked on me.
My chest tightens instinctively, and a wave of heat pools low and unwelcome in my stomach.
I look away first, focusing on my clipboard. But even without looking, I know exactly where he is. It is a magnetic pull I can’t turn off no matter how hard I try. I can feel his gaze on the back of my neck, heavy and curious.
I wonder what he sees from over there. Does he see the woman who dismantled his ego in the film room? Or does he see the woman who just did a theatrical pratfall to make a toddler feel better?
I force myself to turn to a little girl who is struggling to learn her c-cuts.
Focus, Iveline. They’re just kids. He’s just a player.
The bench is empty now except for Jenna, which is exactly why she catches me off guard.
“Oh my god. You like him.”
I turn my head so fast I almost pull a muscle. “What? Who?”
Jenna gives me a look that only she can deliver—equal parts judgment, amusement, and terrifying psychic accuracy. “Don’t play dumb with me. You know exactly who I’m talking about.”
I blink at her, keeping my expression as flat as possible. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jenna. I’m working.”
She snorts. Actually snorts. “Iveline, please. You went full Disney-princess-seeing-her-prince-in-a-crowded-ballroom the second you realized he was looking at you.”
“I didn’t,” I say, my voice higher than I intend it to be.
Her eyebrows rise. “You so did. You practically sparkled.”
I open my mouth, ready to shut this down with professional finality, but she’s already stepping closer, studying my face like she is collecting evidence for a trial. I force my shoulders to relax and try to slow my pulse.
Jenna leans in, lowering her voice. “You know he’s staring at you, right? Like, he hasn’t looked at the kids in ten minutes.”
My stomach drops. “He’s the captain. He stares at everyone to make sure they’re following the program.”
“Not like that,” she says in a sing-song voice.
A flicker of genuine panic sparks under my ribs. If anyone else heard her—if anyone else saw what she thinks she saw—I would be done. I wouldn’t just be reprimanded or warned. I would be finished in this league.
I swallow hard, keeping my tone as even as I can manage. “Jenna, you’re imagining things. We have a professional relationship. That’s it.”
She tilts her head, studying me with those sharp eyes. “I’m not trying to get you in trouble, Ivy. I just… noticed. It’s hard not to notice when the air gets that heavy.”
And that is what shocks me the most.
It’s not her assumption or even her accuracy. It is the fact that I believe her. I trust her not to run her mouth or twist this into locker room gossip.
I trust her not to ruin me.
“Jenna,” I say quietly, looking her in the eye. “There isn’t anything going on.”
She shrugs, clearly unconvinced but willing to let it go for now. “Okay. If you say so, Coach.”
I nod, relieved that she’s moving on—until she adds, far too casually as she turns away: “He’s still staring, by the way. Just thought you should know.”
My breath catches in my throat.
I don’t turn around. I don’t look. I already know she’s right, and I know that if I look back—even just once—I won’t be able to pretend anymore.
“Coach!” a kid yells from near the goal, saving me from the tension. “Can you help me stop? I keep hitting the wall!”
“Absolutely,” I say, skating toward him with more speed than necessary.
We practice stopping and falling. I exaggerate my movements, wobbling on purpose so the kids don’t feel stupid when they lose their balance. A little boy asks me if I ever get scared when I’m out on the ice.
“Yes,” I tell him honestly, kneeling down. “All the time.”
His eyes widen behind his cage. “Really?”
“Being brave doesn’t mean you aren’t scared,” I add, and I can feel Callahan listening from the sidelines. “It just means you do it anyway, even when your legs are shaking.”
The words feel heavier than I expected them to be. They are too close to the choices I’ve made in my own life, and the ones I keep trying to avoid.
Then, the heavy double doors at the end of the rink creak open. I feel the shift in the room before I even see him.
Dad.
He stands just inside the rink, his coat immaculate and his posture perfect. He is surveying the scene like he is reading data off a screen, his eyes scanning the chaos with a cold, detached efficiency.
He is watching me.
My smile fades and is replaced by something neutral and controlled.
I remember exactly why I am here.
This—the kids, the laughter, the softness—isn’t the path I chose for myself. And even if I wanted it, I wouldn’t take it. I have worked too hard and sacrificed too much to let it go.
I would never disappoint my father that way.
Jenna notices the change in me immediately. Her playful expression vanishes.
I straighten my spine, my movements becoming stiff and professional once again.
“Okay, everyone,” I say evenly, my voice devoid of the warmth from a moment ago. “Line up by the boards. Practice is over.”
The kids obey, sensing the shift in authority even if they don’t understand where it came from.
My father stands there, silhouetted against the bright lights of the lobby. He doesn’t need to say a single word. His presence is a vacuum, sucking the joy and the chaos out of the room until only the cold remains.
Then I glance at Callahan.
He has seen it all; he has watched the light go out of my eyes, and for a split second, I see a flash of pure, unadulterated anger in his expression.
It’s not directed at me.
It is directed at the man standing by the doors.
It’s the first time I have truly realized that Callahan Moore might be the only person in this entire building who isn’t afraid of William St. James.
William approaches me, his footsteps echoing on the rubber matting.
“Iveline,” he says softly.
“William,” I reply.
Jenna steps closer to me—she doesn’t touch me, she just stands there. I am grateful for her presence in a way I can’t put into words.
When the event finally ends, the parents thank us and the kids wave goodbye as they head for the exit. The usual chaos resumes, but I stay back. I shake hands and smile when it is expected of me, but I keep my distance from everyone.
But I don’t miss Callahan’s eyes on me.
He saw exactly how fast I turned back into the Ice Queen, and the look on his face tells me he isn’t going to let it stay that way.