24. Iveline
Iveline
I’m not even through the heavy glass doors of the loading entrance when the hushed, frantic echoes of the tunnel reach me.
“Do we… I don’t know, do we mention the sick thing?”
“No, you moron. Act like she just went on a long lunch. Don’t be weird.”
“I’m not being weird. You’re literally standing in a defensive stance.”
“Shut up, is that—OH MY GOD, don’t move!”
I round the corner of the concrete pillars, and the three rookies scatter like pigeons caught in a gust of wind.
One becomes deeply fascinated by the inspection tag on a fire extinguisher; another nearly trips over his own equipment bag, his face going scarlet as he suddenly finds the floor incredibly interesting.
The hallway clears in a frantic blur of nylon and nervous energy, leaving only the fading squeak of rubber soles and a sudden, heavy silence.
After missing practice for two weeks—due to Rick’s insistence that “fine” and “ready” are not the same—I almost forget how good it feels to walk back into the arena.
It’s the only place where the noise in my head usually goes quiet, replaced by the rhythmic thwack of pucks against the boards and the long, shearing drag of blades.
I keep walking, my heels clicking sharply against the concrete, though I feel anything but sharp.
The last fourteen days exist only in jagged, humid fragments.
I remember the weight of the wool blanket, the aggressive hum of the radiator, and Scottie appearing at my door like a weary soldier delivering a structural disaster in a Tupperware container.
Apparently, Cash had attempted to “construct” a lasagna in my honor. The noodles were less of a meal and more of a geologic hazard, layered with a density that defied physics, while the cheese appeared to have been applied with an industrial caulking gun.
He’d reportedly panicked at the sight of his own creation, calling Scottie to facilitate the hand-off so he wouldn’t have to face my tactical critique of his kitchen skills.
Scottie showed up looking suspiciously pleased with herself, which made me think Cash’s emergency call had been less about fear of my judgment and more about finding an excuse to talk to her.
But I remember the taste—salty, messy, and perfect. It was the first thing my stomach didn’t immediately reject.
I still have the note he’d tucked underneath the lid, scrawled in his frantic, messy handwriting: Eat this or I’m telling Callie you’re refusing medical advice.
It did more for my health than any antibiotic ever could.
But mostly, I remember the call my father made last week.
He hadn’t asked about the trade deadline or my tactical reports; he hadn’t asked if I’d finished the breakdown of the power play. He had only asked if I was eating.
It was the shortest conversation we’ve had in years, and by far the most significant.
As I pass the training room, I wonder if anyone will look at me differently now. If they’ll soften their voices or hesitate before handing me responsibility, searching my face for signs of fragility instead of the data they need.
Doubt lingers longer than respect ever does.
I’ve spent years perfecting the art of being the most capable person in the room. In ten minutes of physical weakness, I had handed everyone a reason to second-guess me.
I reach the bench just as morning skate is winding down.
Rick is standing by the boards, his whistle still in between his lips. He looks at me and nods, a slow, deliberate movement that says welcome back without the sentimentality he knows I’d hate.
Then I see Callahan.
He’s the last one off the ice, gliding toward the gate with a powerful, effortless stride that makes my chest tighten.
He looks different today.
Or maybe I’m the one who’s different.
“Coach,” he says, pulling up at the boards. He doesn’t hop over. He just stands there, his gloved hands resting on the wood, looking at me with an intensity that makes the bustling arena feel cavernous and empty.
“Moore,” I reply, leaning my hip against the bench railing. “I heard you’ve been running my drills. Rick says the power play is looking… adequate.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Adequate? I’ll have you know I’ve added a certain flair to the rotation. A bit of ‘annoying competence,’ as someone once called it.”
The memory of my fever-induced rambling flashes through my mind, making my cheeks warm. “Don’t let it go to your head. I was delirious. I probably would have called a fire hydrant competent if it was holding a water bottle.”
“Is that right?”
He steps off the ice, the metal of his skates clinking on the rubber mat. He moves into my space, not enough to be unprofessional, but enough that I can smell the cold and the sweat and that faint scent of laundry detergent that haunted my apartment for a week.
He leans in closer, dropping his voice so the passing equipment managers can’t hear. “Because I remember you saying something about my shoulders being nice, too. Was that the fever, or the tactical expert in you making an observation?”
I choke on a breath, my heart doing a jagged little dance against my ribs. “The tactical expert thinks you’re a distraction, Moore. And the fever is gone, so don’t expect any more observations like that.”
“Good to know,” he murmurs, his expression softening into something dangerously sincere.
He doesn’t mention the way I called him “Cal.” He doesn’t mention the way I clung to his neck in the hallway. He’s giving me the gift of my dignity back, but the way he’s looking at me tells me he hasn’t forgotten a second of it.
“You’re really okay, Ivy? You’re not just pulling a ‘St. James’ and faking it?”
“I’m really okay,” I say, and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m lying to be strong.
“Good,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Because it’s Game 81. It’s going to be a bloodbath, and I need my coach focused.”
***
By 7:00 PM, the arena is vibrating.
I stand in the tunnel as the lights dim for the intros, the bass from the speakers thumping in the soles of my shoes. I feel the weight of a dozen eyes on me as I take my place on the bench. I can see the players glancing my way, then quickly looking away when I catch them.
I ignore them. I open my tablet, my fingers flying across the screen as I pull up the Monarchs’ neutral zone transition stats.
I am a machine. I am data. I am fine.
The first period is brutal.
The Monarchs play a heavy, physical game, and they’re targeting our defensemen every time they touch the puck.
I see Callahan take a hit against the boards, the sound of the glass rattling like a thunderclap. My heart stops for a beat, but then he’s back up, skating hard, his face set in that grim, focused mask I’ve come to rely on.
During the first intermission, the locker room is a cacophony of heavy breathing and the smell of smelling salts. I’m standing by the whiteboard, scribbling adjustments to the breakout when I feel a presence at my shoulder.
“The left wing lock is leaking,” Callahan says, his voice raspy.
“I know,” I say, not looking up from the board. “They’re cheating toward the middle because they know we’re trying to stretch the play. We need to stop the long passes and go back to short, quick cycles.”
“Tell them,” he says.
I look at him then. “Rick is already—”
“No,” Callahan interrupts, his eyes flashing. “Rick is talking to the goalies. You saw the leak. You fix it. Tell them, Coach.”
I feel the room go quiet.
This is the moment where I either reclaim my spot or let the doubt win.
I step forward, my voice cutting through the noise. “Listen up! We’re playing right into their hands with the stretch passes. From now on, I want the puck moving in five-foot increments. Short, sharp, and ugly. We tire them out in their own zone, or we don’t win this game. Move!”
The players scramble, the energy in the room shifting instantly. I feel a surge of something—not pride, but a quiet, steady confidence. I look back at Callahan, and he gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod.
The second period is a war of attrition.
We’re down 1-0 after a fluke bounce, but the short cycles are working. The New York Monarchs are starting to slow down.
I’m leaning over the boards, screaming instructions, my voice holding steady.
I don’t feel fragile.
I feel like the only person in the building who knows exactly what to do.
With five minutes left in the game, we’re tied 1-1.
Callahan is on the ice for a defensive zone face-off. He wins it, ties up the opposing center, and kicks the puck to the boards. He’s moving with a desperate, beautiful kind of grit.
I see the opening before he does.
“Callahan! The gap!” I yell.
He hears me. He sees the defenseman pinching too far. He chips the puck past him and takes off. It’s a footrace down the wing.
He’s tired—I can see the hitch in his stride—but he finds another gear. He cuts toward the net, the goalie sliding with him, and at the last possible second, he tucks the puck between the goalie’s pads.
The arena explodes.
2-1.
When the final buzzer sounds, the relief is so thick I can taste it.
We’ve done it.
Home ice is ours.
The players are piling onto the ice, and I find myself leaning against the bench, my legs finally feeling the weight of the day.
Later as I’m walking back toward the locker room when I see my father standing by the coaches’ office. He looks at me for a long time, his expression unreadable.
“Good call on the cycles,” he says.
“Thank you,” I reply, my voice neutral.
“You’re… you’re looking better, Iveline.” He hesitates, his hand going to his tie. It’s the most awkward I’ve ever seen him. “Don’t stay too late tonight. The reports can wait until morning.”
I blink, stunned. “I have to finish the post-game analysis.”
“No,” he says, his voice firmer. “You have to sleep. That’s an order from the GM.”
He turns and walks away before I can argue. I stand there in the quiet hallway, the echoes of the crowd still ringing in my ears.
He’s trying.
It’s clunky and weird and entirely too late, but he’s trying.
I’m still processing the conversation when a heavy shadow falls over me.
“You heard the man,” Callahan says, his hair damp from the shower, a towel draped around his neck. “Orders are orders.”
“I don’t take orders, Moore,” I say, though there’s no bite in it.
“Consider it a safety precaution, Iveline. You’ve been staring at those screens so long I’m surprised you haven’t gone blind.
” He steps closer, the heat radiating off him cutting through the drafty hallway.
“Besides, I’ve spent the last three periods trying to read your mind from the bench.
I think I’ve earned the right to see if you can actually hold a conversation that doesn’t involve a power play. ”
I feel the heat rising in my neck, a prickle of electricity that I shouldn’t be feeling in a cold arena at midnight. I force myself to meet his eyes, trying to find the cold, clinical distance I’ve spent years perfecting.
“That’s highly unprofessional,” I murmur, though the corners of my mouth betray me, twitching with a suppressed, breathless smile. “I’m fairly certain there’s a clause in your contract about making personal comments to the coaching staff.”
“Report me then,” he taunts, a devastatingly slow smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I’d love to see how you explain this conversation to your father. Tell him exactly what I said. See if you can keep a straight face while you’re doing it.”
I blink, my heart thudding against my ribs with such violence I’m certain he can see it through my blazer. He takes another half-step, close enough that the scent of his skin—clean, warm, and entirely distracting—settles into my lungs.
“So,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine with a focused, quiet heat. “The GM says you need sleep, and I happen to be heading the same direction as your apartment. Let me drive you. You can give me a lecture on professionalism the whole way there if it makes you feel better.”
I look at him, my brain frantically trying to find a tactical reason to say no while my heart hammers out a completely different rhythm against my ribs.
“I have my own car, Captain,” I say, finally finding my voice, though it’s still far too soft.
He freezes. Not dramatically—just a subtle stillness, like the word hit him somewhere he wasn’t braced for. Then that slow, unguarded smile spreads across his face, the real one, the one he never wastes on cameras or reporters.
“I know,” he says. “But I’ll follow you home anyway. Just to make sure the fire hydrants don’t give you any trouble.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head as I turn toward the exit. “You’re annoyingly persistent.”
“Get used to it, Coach.”
As I walk out into the cold night air, the stadium lights glowing behind me, I don’t feel like the General Manager’s daughter or a tactical machine. I feel like a woman who survived a fever and found something better on the other side.
I’m not fine.
I’m better.
* * *
7:21 PM
Cash: Just FYI, I told the Monarchs’ backup goalie you were sick because you were too powerful.
Me: Why would you say that?
Cash: He believed me. I’m unstoppable.