22. Callahan Eli #2
They’re gone a moment later. The room feels strangely quiet without their whirlwind energy, leaving Ivy blinking at the ceiling like she’s not entirely sure what just happened.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, feeling the weight of the room. She shifts slightly, her eyes half-open, studying me like she is trying to remember exactly why I am sitting in her apartment.
“You didn’t have to stay,” she murmurs.
“I know.”
“So why did you?”
Because you scared the hell out of me. Because you never let anyone take care of you. Because I didn’t want you waking up alone.
“You looked like you’d fall over if someone breathed too hard in your direction,” I say instead, trying to keep my tone light.
She huffs a weak laugh. “I’m very sturdy, Callahan.”
“You’re very stubborn. There is a difference.”
That earns me another soft laugh. She closes her eyes again, letting her voice drift, becoming quieter and more melodic. “You’re different when you’re not being… you.”
I blink, confused. “What does that even mean?”
She shifts under the covers, pulling the wool blanket closer to her chin. “Loud. Cocky. Annoying. The guy who thinks he owns the ice.”
“Wow. Thanks for the glowing review, Coach.”
“But…” Her voice trails off, then returns, even softer than before. “You’re gentle. When it matters. You have a way of making people feel… safe.”
My chest tightens so much it actually hurts. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
She smiles—a small, sleepy, genuine smile. “Your secret is safe with me.”
A long beat passes.
“You know,” she murmurs, “I used to think you hated me.”
I swallow hard, the guilt of those first few months bubbling up. “I didn’t hate you, Ivy. I was just… I was an idiot.”
“You still are,” she says, her eyes opening again, hazy but honest.
“Probably.”
Another beat of silence.
“You don’t scare me,” she whispers.
Something in my heart stutters. “Good.”
“Most people do,” she adds, and that hits me harder than any check I’ve ever taken on the boards.
I reach over, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead. I’m careful not to touch too much, careful not to let her think I’m losing my mind, but I don’t pull away. I stay there.
She swallows, her voice barely a whisper. “I can’t miss the games. We’re too close. I have to be there.”
I shake my head, brushing my thumb lightly along her temple. “You don’t have to be anywhere except here, getting better. The team can handle the games without you. I’m not letting you burn yourself down for us.”
She exhales a long, shaky breath. “Thank you, Cal.”
The name hangs in the air, vibrating between us.
No one calls me “Cal.” I’m Callahan, or I’m Moore, or I’m the captain. But coming from her, whispered in a fever haze, it sounds like a homecoming. It is the sound of walls finally falling down.
The door swings open again fifteen minutes later.
Scottie and Dean return arms full of pharmacy bags and still-steaming takeout containers. They move through the room with quiet efficiency—meds on the counter, water in the fridge, soup on the nightstand—the kind of care that doesn’t need announcing.
When the door clicks shut behind them the space feels smaller, quieter—like the world has narrowed to just Iveline and the pain she’s trying to swallow.
I look at her and I see the sheer exhaustion etched into every line of her face. She has spent so long being “The General Manager’s Daughter” and “The Tactical Expert” that she forgot how to just be a person.
My hand is still hovering near her face, and I can’t help myself—I let my knuckles graze the side of her cheek. Her skin is scorching, but she leans into the touch, a tiny, subconscious movement that tells me more than a thousand words ever could.
“Sleep, Ivy,” I whisper, the nickname feeling more natural on my tongue than my own name. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got the puck.”
The silence stretches on, comfortable this time, filled with the subtle rhythm of her breathing and the faint hum of the city outside the walls.
She finally drifts off for real about twenty minutes later.
I know because the tension leaves her face completely. I know because her hand loosens its grip on the blanket. Because she stops fighting for every breath.
That is when the weight of it all finally hits me.
I step into the tiny kitchenette and brace both of my hands on the counter, my head dropping forward. My pulse is still running too fast. My chest feels tight in a way I don’t have a name for yet.
I replay the last hours in my head: her swaying on the ice, the terrifying heat of her skin, the way she didn’t argue when I told her we were leaving and the way she trusted me to catch her and carry her out.
“Shit,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face.
I’m used to pressure. I’m used to the noise and the chaos of the game. I know how to handle injuries, blood, and screaming crowds. But watching her break quietly, still trying to hold herself upright while she was crumbling, did something to me that I wasn’t prepared for.
Anger flares up inside me, sharp and directionless.
I’m angry at her for pushing herself so hard. I’m angry at myself for not noticing sooner. I’m angry at the fact that she thinks strength has to mean isolation. I’m angry that she would rather burn herself out completely than let anyone see her falter for a single second.
And under that anger is fear.
The kind of fear that doesn’t make any noise. The kind that sits heavy in your gut and refuses to leave.
I straighten up, forcing myself to take a slow, deep breath, and then another.
Get it together, Moore.
She needs calm right now, not whatever the hell this is.
When I look back toward the bed, she is still asleep. She is still here. Something in my chest eases at the sight of her breathing.
I don’t sit back down on the bed, though. I stand watch by the counter.
She is curled on her side now, a small shadow under the heavy wool blanket. She looks so much younger when she is asleep. She looks less like a coach and more like the girl in the photograph.
I realize then that I’m not just staying because she is sick.
I’m staying because I’ve spent my whole life looking for something that finally made sense, and for the first time, in this quiet, fever-scented apartment, it finally does.