25. Iveline
Iveline
“We’re not breaking tradition,” Rick says, clapping his hands together with a finality that suggests arguing will only make things worse for everyone involved. “End-of-season dinner. Players and staff. No excuses, no exceptions.”
The guys walked into the rink this morning looking like men who survived a war and are stupidly excited to walk into another one.
“I still have film to—”
“It’ll be there tomorrow,” Jenna cuts in, already collecting her things and throwing a pointed look my way.
A few hours later, I’m standing just inside the doorway of a low-lit restaurant not far from the rink. My coat is still on, and my bag is slung over one shoulder as if I might flee if given even a second of an opening.
The place is loud—voices overlap in a chaotic symphony, chairs scrape against wood, and laughter echoes off the exposed brick walls.
On the ice, these men are defined by their jerseys and their numbers, but tonight they’ve been replaced by soft sweaters and heavy jackets.
This place is a far cry from the sterile, fluorescent-lit world of the rink where I spend my life. Here, the shadows are deep amber and the atmosphere is thick with the scent of charred steak.
It feels heavy, rich, and intensely human.
I find myself tracking the small details of my team in a way I usually reserve for scouting reports or game-tape analysis.
I notice the way Brick always lets someone else finish their sentence before he starts his own, a quiet politeness that contradicts his aggressive style of play. I see the way Nico’s hands never stop moving, even when he’s eating, tapping out a rhythm on the table.
I’ve spent months looking at these men as data points—as shooting percentages, skating velocities, and defensive lapses—but tonight, they are just men.
They are brothers who have bled for the same goal, and for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m standing behind a glass watching them through a lens.
I hover near the entrance longer than is strictly necessary until Rick spots me from across the room. He lifts a hand in greeting, waving me over like my presence was never in question, like I’ve always had a seat reserved at this table.
“You made it,” he says, sounding genuinely pleased as I approach.
He pulls out a chair beside him without asking. I take it, shrugging out of my coat and folding it carefully over the back of the seat.
The conversation flows easily once I’m seated.
Nico is halfway through a story that involves a missed flight and a very questionable airport bar when Cash interrupts to make the story sound even worse on purpose.
Leo listens to every word like it might be vital information later, and Marcus just laughs quietly, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.
Brick sits back with a drink in his hand, observing the room like a detached anthropologist watching a strange tribe, but there is a small, rare softness in his eyes.
Plates arrive in a steady stream. Glasses are refilled without anyone asking for permission. Someone orders dessert far too early in the meal, and no one objects.
Rick stands partway through the meal, his glass raised. The room groans and cheers automatically, conditioned by years of these traditions.
“Alright,” he says, waiting them out with a practiced patience. “Before this gets any louder and the manager kicks us out.”
He lets the silence settle, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant clinking of silverware from the other tables.
“We’ve had a strong stretch,” he continues, his voice dropping into that “coach” register that commands attention. “It hasn’t been flashy, and it certainly hasn’t been perfect. But it has been disciplined. And that isn’t an accident.”
My shoulders tense before I can stop them.
Rick’s gaze finds me immediately, and he doesn’t look away.
“I took a risk bringing Iveline on,” he says plainly, his honesty cutting through the room. “Some of you thought it. Some of you said it. Some of you were polite enough to just wait and see if she’d sink or swim.”
My chest tightens.
A spike of fear and tension rises unbidden, a stark reminder that being truly seen by others is a dangerous thing. But gratitude swells right along with it, fleeting and sharp, like a lungful of cold winter air.
Usually, when people talk about my father in public, I brace myself for the punchline. I wait for the subtle implication that I’m a charity case or a clever political move.
But Rick isn’t looking at my father’s empty seat.
He’s looking at me.
He’s talking about the late night film sessions and the way I restructured the penalty kill until it became a weapon for us instead of a liability.
I look down at my hands.
They’re steady, but my heart is beating in a frantic, uneven rhythm.
It is one thing to earn respect through fear or the raw weight of authority; it is something else entirely to have it given to you in front of the people who matter most.
I realize then that Rick isn’t just praising my work. He is validating my existence outside of the St. James name. He is telling every man in this room that I’m here because I’m better at this job than anyone else, not because of who my father is.
“But hockey isn’t about comfort,” he goes on, his expression turning serious again. “It’s about growth. And what she’s brought to this team—on the ice, in the room, and behind the scenes—has made you better hockey players. It has made you better men. Period.”
I swallow hard, trying to keep my composure.
“So,” Rick finishes, lifting his glass high. “To Coach Talvi.”
There’s a beat of silence that feels like an eternity.
Then the room erupts.
Chairs scrape loudly against the floor as they stand. Glasses are lifted high into the air. Someone whistles sharply. Cash, never one to miss a moment for drama, shouts, “Speech!” like he’s been waiting his whole life for this specific opportunity to put me on the spot.
Heat floods my face, and I can feel the tips of my ears burning. I stand up before I can talk myself out of it, my heart hammering.
“I’m not giving a speech,” I say immediately, my voice projecting through the noise.
There is a chorus of mock groans from the players.
“But,” I add, lifting a single finger to quiet them. “I will say this.”
The room stills instantly.
“I don’t believe in miracle fixes,” I say. “I don’t believe in saviors, and I certainly don’t believe in shortcuts.”
I take a breath, letting my gaze linger on the veterans and the rookies alike.
“But I believe in work,” I continue. “And I believe in people who show up. Every single day. Especially when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when the world is telling them they don’t belong.”
I hesitate for a fraction of a second, then finish softly, “So thank you. For trusting me. And for doing the work.”
I sit down quickly, my pulse racing as if I’ve just finished a sprint. The applause this time is quieter, but it feels more significant—deserved.
Cash wipes his eyes dramatically, claiming it’s “just allergies.” Nico clinks his glass against mine with a grin that’s all teeth and sincerity.
The conversation resumes around me, but something fundamental has shifted in the air. The feeling settles into my chest and into my bones—a steady, unfamiliar warmth. The thought I’ve been resisting for months finally surfaces, and this time, it is undeniable.
I belong here.
Not because of the name on my birth certificate. Not because of the lines on my résumé.
I belong here because I deserve to be at this table, and I earned the right to stay.
***
Later, after most of the group has drifted toward the dessert menu or the bar, I find myself leaning against the polished wood of the counter, nursing a drink I haven’t yet finished.
Carter Hale drifts closer to me. “Good speech.”
“I said I wasn’t giving one.”
“You still did,” he replies, a rare, almost imperceptible glint of amusement in his eyes.
Silence stretches comfortably between us for a moment.
“You don’t like shortcuts either,” I say, watching him.
“They get people hurt,” he replies without a moment of hesitation. “On the ice and off it.”
“Yes,” I agree. “They do.”
He studies the liquid in his glass for a moment before looking back at me. “You’ve changed how we play, Iveline. You know that, right?”
“That wasn’t the primary goal. The goal was to win.”
“It still happened,” he says. There’s less of an edge in his voice now. There is more thought, more genuine curiosity. “You ever think about slowing down?”
I blink, caught off guard. “In what sense?”
“You’re always moving,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the room. “Planning three steps ahead. Scouting the next ten games while we’re still playing the first period.”
I smile faintly, the expression feeling more natural than it used to. “Someone has to do the thinking, Carter.”
“Does it always have to be you?”
The question lands much heavier than I expect it to. It echoes the thoughts I had in the apartment when I was sick—the exhaustion of being the only one holding the roof up.
“I don’t know how not to be that person,” I admit, the honesty feeling strange in my mouth.
He nods once, like that answer makes perfect sense to him. “Maybe you should learn.”
Carter doesn’t linger. He moves away quietly, rejoining the others near the bar.
Across the room, Callahan is watching me.
I feel his gaze before I even register it fully.
It is a subtle heat in my chest, a tightening in my shoulders, and the kind of hyper-awareness that makes every breath feel a little sharper than the last. My spine straightens instinctively. My hands tighten around the cool glass.
When our eyes meet, it is as if the rest of the noise in the restaurant fades into a dull, distant hum. There is a secret between us now—the fever, the apartment, and the “Cal” that I still haven’t apologized for using.
He raises his glass just a fraction of an inch, and I see his thumb graze the rim. It is such a tiny gesture, but it feels like a physical touch. My skin prickles as if he’s actually reached across the room and run his hand down my arm.
I return the gesture, lifting my glass slightly.
A flicker of warmth spreads across my skin, steadying me and reminding me of that night in the apartment.
I take in the room again, really looking at them.
Cash is currently miming an absurd, over-the-top slap shot for Nico’s amusement, nearly knocking over a water glass in the process. Leo is explaining something to Marcus, his hands flying through the air.
The warmth of the scene settles over me.
This isn’t home—not yet. But it is something I didn’t realize I’d been missing for a very long time. This loud, stubborn, and often infuriating collection of people… they’re becoming my family.
As the night finally winds down and the bill is settled, I find myself standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. The Boston air is biting and sharp, but I don’t reach for my coat immediately.
I want to feel the cold for a moment.
I want it to remind me that I’m awake and that all of this is actually real.
I watch the guys pile into Ubers, shouting friendly insults and laughing into the night.
They are a mess of massive egos and raw talent, but they are my mess.
I look up at the dark sky and take a deep, steady breath.
The playoffs are coming, and the pressure is only going to get worse from here. But for the first time in my life, I know for a fact that I don’t have to carry that weight alone.
Behind me, I hear the heavy door of the restaurant open and a familiar, steady tread on the concrete.
I don’t have to turn around to know exactly who it is.
I just wait, letting the warmth of the dinner and the sting of the cold settle into a perfect, terrifying balance.