21. Iveline Talvi
Iveline Talvi
The alarm has been screaming on my bedside table long enough that the sound feels fused to the inside of my skull by the time I actually register it.
When I finally crack my eyes open, the ceiling wobbles—just slightly, just enough to make my stomach pitch in a way that is deeply unpleasant.
I lie there longer than I ever allow myself to, staring at the faint, jagged crack in the white paint above my bed. I count my breaths, waiting for the room to steady itself, but it never happens.
I try to remember the last time I took a sick day, but I can’t.
In my house growing up, a fever wasn’t a reason to stop; it was just another variable to be managed with ibuprofen and silence.
My father didn’t believe in “rest.”
He believed in grit.
I remember being twelve years old, skating through a lung infection that made every breath taste like copper, because the St. James name didn’t allow for empty spots on the roster.
You showed up, you performed, and you didn’t complain.
When I finally push myself upright, the floor tilts. It’s not a violent shift, not enough to drop me to the carpet, but it is enough to make my body feel lagging and detached from my intentions.
I press my fingers into my temples and close my eyes, a single thought echoing in the fog: Great. Just great.
Still, I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
Because that is what I do.
I move forward. I don’t linger in the weakness. I don’t listen to the part of my body that is quietly waving a red flag.
The bathroom mirror doesn’t offer any mercy.
My eyes are glassy and bright with fever. My skin is flushed in a way that has nothing to do with exertion or adrenaline—it is just dull, feverish, and wrong.
I stare at my reflection, cataloging my symptoms with a detached efficiency, searching for justifications or excuses I can use to get through the next few hours.
I can get through practice. I always can.
Failure has never been about the pain for me; it is about the precedent. Once you allow yourself to fail, people start to expect it from you.
Outside, the Boston cold bites at me immediately.
It is sharp and clean, and for a fleeting moment, I convince myself the temperature is helping. The chill feels clarifying, like it is burning something toxic out of my system. My breath fogs in front of me in thick clouds, and I cling to that sensation like it is proof that I’m still functioning.
By the time I reach the rink, the pounding in my head is already familiar.
Kids’ Day was only two days ago, and that’s probably where this started—a hundred tiny hands, too many hugs, and a schedule that hasn’t let me breathe since January. Mix that with travel and playoff pressure, and my immune system never stood a chance.
Inside the arena, the smells ground me instantly: the scent of fresh ice, the smell of expensive rubber, the faint traces of metal, and the sharp aroma of burnt coffee.
Homeostasis returns.
Muscle memory takes over.
“Morning,” Sam calls out from the equipment room. He stops and squints at me. “You look… festive.”
“Don’t,” I say, shrugging out of my heavy coat.
Miguel grins from behind him, leaning on a stack of sticks. “She looks like she partied harder than the rookies last night.”
“I didn’t,” I mutter, heading toward the coaches’ office.
Jenna appears beside me, a coffee in her hand. She stops mid-sip when she really looks at my face.
“Oh,” she says flatly, stepping back a full foot. “Nope. I don’t like that at all.”
I arch a brow, trying to look imposing despite the cold sweat on my neck. “Good morning to you too, Jenna.”
She lowers her voice so the players can’t hear. “Iveline, you look like you’re actively running a hundred-degree fever. Your eyes are practically glowing.”
“I’m just tired,” I lie. My voice is clipped, trying to reclaim the composure that is slipping through my fingers. “The travel caught up with me.”
“That isn’t tired,” she replies, her expression flat and unamused. “That is Victorian child. Do you need me to go find some smelling salts? Or maybe a fainting couch?”
Amusement flickers in my chest despite myself, but it is quickly smothered by irritation. She isn’t wrong, and I hate that she’s comfortable enough to call me out on it.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the stainless steel of the coffee machine as I pass it.
Jenna is right. I look ghostly. My skin is a translucent, sickly pale except for two high, angry spots of red on my cheekbones.
I look fragile. I look like someone who needs to be taken care of, and that thought is more nauseating than the fever itself.
I’ve spent years building a persona of indestructible iron. If I let the mask slip now—especially here, in front of Rick, in front of the boys—I’m not just Iveline anymore. I’m a liability. I’m the girl who couldn’t handle the pressure.
I open my mouth to retort to Jenna, but Rick’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade.
“If we don’t clean up our defensive zone coverage,” he says without looking up from his tablet, his voice measured and sharp, “we’re not making the playoffs. Period.”
Silence follows his declaration. Then he lifts his eyes, tracking Jenna’s gaze until it lands on me.
He studies me the way he always has—measured, steady, seeing far too much without making a spectacle of it. The concern I see in his eyes twists something ugly in my chest; fear that I’m already disappointing the only person who gave me a real chance.
“You eat anything this morning, Iveline?”
“Yes,” I lie smoothly.
He hums, clearly unconvinced, but he doesn’t push it.
Rick doesn’t comment on the flush of my face or my rigid posture. He doesn’t mention the way I’m gripping my clipboard like it might float away if I let go. He just watches me for a beat too long—the kind of look that isn’t judgment, but a careful inventory of a damaged asset.
“Warm-up stays short today,” he says to the room at large. Then, even quieter to me: “You call the pace, Coach.”
Gratitude and shame land in my gut at the same time. I nod, equal parts thankful for the leeway and irritated that I need it.
On the ice, everything feels ten times louder.
The scrape of skates against the surface digs into my skull, a constant reminder that my body is no longer obedient. The lights seem brighter, the air colder.
Callahan glides past me, moving too slowly for a warm-up. His eyes flick to my hand where it is white-knuckled on the boards. They linger a beat longer than they should. I see his jaw tighten, the muscle leaping in his cheek, but he says nothing.
Cash skates up beside me during a reset. He doesn’t grin and he doesn’t chirp. That alone sets my nerves on edge because a silent Cash is a dangerous thing.
“Hey,” he says quietly, his voice devoid of its usual humor. “You want me to take the first reps on the drill today? Give the guys a bit more of a target?”
“Why would you do that?”
He shrugs, his eyes steady on mine. “Just figured. You’ve got that ‘about to pass out but pretending not to’ vibe going on. It’s a bit distracting.”
“How cute,” I mutter, trying to find my edge.
He holds my gaze, unblinking. “I’m not joking, Ivy.”
I wave him off with a flick of my hand, and he skates away, but he moves slower than usual, keeping me in his periphery.
Pucks snap against sticks, bodies collide, and the whistle pierces through my head like a needle. I grip the boards before pushing off for the next drill, waiting for the dizziness to settle into something I can manage.
Focus, Iveline. Just focus.
“Coach?” Leo’s voice cuts in, hesitant and soft. He’s already half-crouched, his stick resting on the ice, his eyes flicking over my face with genuine worry. “You sure you’re good to run this one?”
“Yes,” I say without slowing down.
He nods too quickly. “Right. Cool. Great.” Then, softer, like he’s trying to keep Rick from hearing, “Just, uh, tell us if you need a second.”
I don’t answer him. I just blow the whistle instead.
I move through the drills on autopilot—clipboard in hand, voice steady, posture rigid. I correct angles, call out adjustments, and maintain my authority. But my body is failing the mission.
“Coach,” Nico murmurs as he glides past. “You’re kind of… gray. Like, the color of a rainy day in Seattle.”
“You’re imagining things, Nico.”
“I usually imagine a lot of things,” he says with a snicker that dies quickly. “But not this. You look terrible.”
“Run the drill.”
He does, but his head turns back twice to look at me anyway.
Halfway through a transition drill, Noah is rambling behind me—something about shot suppression rates—but his voice blurs into background noise.
It feels like I’m underwater.
The blue line is suddenly much closer than it should be.
My skate catches on a rut in the ice. It is a stupid, amateur mistake that I would be annoyed at a rookie for.
I don’t fall immediately.
I stumble, my arms windmilling for a second as I try to find my center.
But that is enough.
The world tips violently this time. My knee buckles, my vision smears into a mess of white and black, and suddenly, the ice is unforgiving.
One second I am upright, the next the horizon is slanted at a forty-five-degree angle and my equilibrium is shouting a warning I can’t process.
I wait for the impact—the cold shock of the ice against my palms—but it never comes.
Instead, I am caught.
Callahan’s arm is like a steel bar wrapped across my waist.
He hauls me back from the edge of the abyss with a strength that is startling. Even through the layers of our gear, I can feel the raw, vibrating energy of a man who just finished a full-speed sprint.
For a terrifying second, I want to lean into him. I want to let him take the entire weight of my body so I don’t have to carry it anymore.
His hand is large and splayed across my ribs. I can feel his fingers digging in just enough to keep me upright and balanced. The air between us is thick with the secret we shared in the hallway, and having him touch me like this in front of thirty people feels like a loud shout in a silent library.
“I’ve got you,” he says, his voice low and urgent. “Easy, Ivy. Just breathe.”
I blink, trying to clear the black spots from my vision.
“I’m good,” I say automatically, though my body sways the moment he loosens his grip.
“You’re not,” he replies, his voice hard. “Stand still.”
The rink has gone quiet.
“Coach?” Cash calls out. “You okay?”
I straighten up too fast, and a wave of nausea rolls through me.
“I said I’m good. Back to the drill!” I snap, the sound echoing harshly.
Callahan doesn’t let go of my waist. “You’re burning up,” he says, his eyes searching mine.
“I can stand on my own, Callahan.”
“You’re shaking.”
And that is when I see Carter Hale.
He’s standing by the far boards, his helmet off, watching us. He isn’t looking smug or hostile. He looks… concerned.
It unsettles me more than his usual disdain ever has.
He’s always been the one I expected to lead the mutiny against me. But as he looks at me now, I don’t see the sneer. I see the same look my mother used to give me when I stayed out in the snow too long.
It is worse than hostility.
Hostility is something I can fight. Hostility gives me an edge to sharpen myself against.
But pity? Concern? It makes me feel small. It reminds me that I’m a woman in a room full of men who have been taught to protect, and right now, I’m giving them every reason to do it.
I hate it. I hate that I’m proving them right—that I’m the one who needs the arm around the waist.
I pull away from Callahan, reclaiming my space out of pure, panicked reflex.
“I’m staying,” I say, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “Practice isn’t over.”
Callahan exhales sharply, his frustration palpable. “Ivy—”
“Don’t.”
His restraint unsettles me more than anger would. He’s choosing to control himself for my sake. I know he wants to argue. He wants to pick me up and carry me off the ice. But he doesn’t.
His eyes never leave mine, though.
Neither do Carter’s.
Rick doesn’t argue when I skate back to the boards. He just says, his voice even and calm, “Authority doesn’t disappear just because you sit down, Iveline.”
The words hit me harder than the stumble did.
Then he continues. “We’ll reassess in five minutes. Take a seat.”
I nod, though my head is pounding so hard I can barely see.
The sweat on my skin chills too quickly, making me shiver. The sounds of the rink begin to distort, and the edges of my vision are blurring into gray.
I’ve spent my entire life mastering the art of endurance. But this feels different. There are no places to hide on the ice. There are no walls and no excuses. It’s just me, unraveling in front of everyone I’m supposed to lead. And buried beneath my stubbornness and my denial, I know the truth.
If I sit down now, I won’t be able to get back up.