26. Callahan
Callahan
The door clicks shut behind me, and the cold hits like a clean slap—sharp enough to cut through the leftover noise of the restaurant.
Ivy is already at the curb, her coat still open, looking up at the sky as if she’s trying to memorize the stars over Boston.
There’s something different about her tonight, something softer around the edges, and for the first time since she walked into our locker room months ago, I’m not looking at the Ice Queen.
I’m looking at the woman who stood in front of a room full of exhausted players and made them believe in themselves again.
She doesn’t turn around immediately, but I see her shoulders drop just a fraction of an inch.
She knows it’s me.
She always knows where I am on the ice, and apparently, that radar extends to the sidewalk too.
“You’re going to catch another fever standing out here like that,” I say, my voice low. It carries easily in the quiet of the street.
She finally turns, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold and the wine. “I’m fine, Callahan. The cold helps me think. It clears out the noise.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” I counter, stopping a few feet away.
I want to move closer. I want to bridge the gap and wrap my arms around her just to see if she’s still as warm as she was that night in the apartment, but I stay back.
Professional optics, even on a dark sidewalk, are a bitch to maintain.
“That was a hell of a speech, Ivy.”
“It wasn’t a speech,” she insists, though the corner of her mouth twitches. “It was a statement of facts.”
“Whatever you want to call it, the boys would follow you into a burning building right now. You saw Cash’s face. I thought he was going to ask you to adopt him. Even Brick looked like he was considering a smile, and that’s a medical miracle.”
She lets out a soft, genuine laugh that puffs into a white cloud in the cold air.
We stand there for a moment, the silence between us feeling a lot more comfortable than it used to. The tension is still there, but it’s not the kind that makes you want to fight.
It’s the kind that makes you want to stay.
“I talked to your father,” I say, the words slipping out before I can talk myself out of it.
“You did what?”
“Relax. I didn’t ask for a trade,” I say, trying to keep the mood light. “I just told him what everyone else was too afraid to say. That he’s lucky to have you. And that he needs to start acting like it.”
She stares at me, her breath hitching. I can see the gears turning.
“You went to the General Manager to talk about… me?”
“I went to a father to talk about his daughter,” I correct her.
I take a step closer, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of her perfume over the April air.
“I told you, Ivy. I’m not going to watch you burn yourself out.
If that means I have to take a few hits from the front office, I’ll take them. I’ve had worse.”
She looks down at her boots, her voice becoming very small. “Why would you do that?”
“Because someone has to,” I say. I reach out, my hand hovering near her arm for a heartbeat before I let it drop. “And because I wanted to. You’re always looking out for the system, for the team, for the win. I’m looking out for you.”
She looks up at me then, her eyes searching mine.
There’s a world of things we aren’t saying—about the apartment, about the way I feel when she’s near the bench, about the fact that I’m the captain and she’s the coach and the world is waiting for us to trip up.
“Thank you, Cal,” she whispers.
The name hits me like a clean check to the chest. It’s the first time she’s said it while fully conscious, and it’s a thousand times better than the fever haze version.
I want to kiss her right there, under the streetlights, but the door of the restaurant opens again and a group of loud tourists spills out, breaking the spell.
“Go home, Ivy,” I say, forcing a smile. “Get some sleep. We’ve got the flight to Philly tomorrow.”
She nods, pulling her coat tight. “Goodnight, Callahan.”
“Goodnight,” I mutter, watching her walk away.
***
Forty-two hours later, the silence of the sidewalk is a distant memory, replaced by the deafening, bone-shaking roar of the Silverline Trust Arena.
This is game one of the first round. The playoffs. This is where the pretenders start to bleed.
I’m sitting in my locker room stall, methodically relacing my left skate.
I look around the room.
Cash is bouncing his leg, his eyes wide and glazed with pre-game jitters. Leo is staring at a spot on the floor, probably visualizing his first shift. Carter is the only one who looks calm, but his jaw is set so hard I’m surprised his teeth aren’t cracking.
I stand up, the heavy weight of the ‘C’ on my chest feeling like it’s made of lead tonight.
I’ve been a captain for four years, but the playoffs never get easier. They just get heavier.
“Listen up!” I bark, and the room goes silent instantly. Even the trainers in the back stop moving.
I walk to the center of the room, my eyes scanning every face.
I don’t give “Rudy” speeches. I don’t believe in them. These guys don’t need a movie moment; they need a reminder of who the fuck they are.
“We know what this is,” I say, my voice steady and low. “The Wolves are going to come out like they’re shot from a cannon. They’re going to try to hit us into the boards, they’re going to try to get under our skin, and they’re going to wait for us to break. That’s their game.”
I pause, leaning forward.
“But they don’t know our game. They think we’re the same team that folded last year.
They’re wrong. We have a system that works, we have the best coaching staff in the league, and we have each other.
If they hit you, you stay on your feet. If they talk, you ignore them.
You play the whistle, you play the structure, and you trust the man next to you. ”
I look at Nico. “Play fast.”
I look at Carter. “Play smart.”
Finally, my eyes drift to the door where Iveline is standing with Rick. She’s wearing a sharp, dark suit, her hair pulled back, looking every bit the strategist. She catches my eye and gives me a single, sharp nod.
“We don’t hope for the win tonight,” I finish, my voice rising just enough to hit the back walls. “We earn it. One shift at a time. Let’s go.”
The roar that goes up from the boys is enough to vibrate the lockers.
We head out into the tunnel, the sound of the crowd growing louder with every step until it’s a physical force.
The game is a bloodbath from the opening face-off.
The Wolves are playing a heavy, physical game, trying to punish us for every inch of ice. Within the first five minutes, I’ve taken a cross-check to the ribs that’s going to turn purple by the second period, and Leo has already been sent into the boards by a hit that sounded like a car crash.
I’m on the bench, chest heaving, watching the play.
Iveline is standing right behind me. I can feel her presence like a heat lamp. She’s leaning over the rail, shouting instructions to the defensemen.
“Gap control, Marcus! Don’t let him turn the corner!” she yells.
She isn’t panicked.
Even when the Wolves score the first goal on a lucky bounce off a defenseman’s skate, she doesn’t flinch. She just checks her clipboard, whispers something to Rick, and then taps me on the shoulder.
“Callahan,” she says, her voice cool and clinical against the roar of twenty thousand screaming fans. “Their left side is cheating on the pinch. If you win the draw, look for the chip and chase. Nico has the speed to beat their veteran pair.”
“Got it,” I say, pulling my helmet on.
I head out for the next shift.
I see their defenseman cheating up just like she said. I chip the puck past him, a soft touch off the boards, and Nico is already gone. He’s a blur of purple and black, flying down the wing.
He gathers the puck, fakes a shot, and slides it cross-crease to Leo, who buries it.
1-1.
I skate past the bench, and I catch Ivy’s eye. She doesn’t celebrate. She just points at her head—stay smart—and then turns back to the defense.
The game grinds on.
It’s 2-2 by the middle of the third period.
The ice is getting chewed up, the players are exhausted, and every hit feels like it’s being delivered in slow motion.
This is the part of the playoffs that the cameras don’t capture—the sheer, agonizing fatigue of trying to play perfect hockey when your lungs are on fire and your feet feel like they’re made of concrete.
With four minutes left, I’m back on the ice.
The pressure is suffocating. Philly is throwing everything they have at us, pinned in our zone. I block a shot with the side of my calf—God, that’s going to sting—and manage to clear the zone.
I’m skating toward the bench for a change when I see it. Carter Hale has the puck behind our net, but he’s trapped. Two Wolves players are closing in on him.
He looks tired. He looks like he’s about to make a desperate play.
“Carter! Reverse!” I scream, abandoning my change and skating back toward him.
He hears me. He reverses the puck, sending it behind the net to the other side where I’m waiting. I pick it up, avoid a lunging check, and find Marcus in the neutral zone.
We transition. Fast. Just like the drills we’ve been doing for weeks.
I’m trailing the play, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Marcus drops it to another defenseman, who blasts a shot from the point. Their goalie makes the save, but the rebound is sitting right there in the crease.
I don’t think. I just move.
I dive for the puck, my stick connecting with the rubber just a millisecond before the goalie can cover it. I feel the impact, hear the clatter of sticks, and then—the most beautiful sound in the world. The horn.
3-2.
The boys swarm me, a mountain of heavy jerseys and shouting. I’m buried at the bottom of the pile, grinning like an idiot despite the fact that I can’t breathe.
We hold on for the final three minutes, playing a defensive shell that would make a turtle proud. When the final buzzer sounds, the cheers in the Silverline Trust Arena are the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.
We walk back into the locker room, the air filled with the kind of high that only comes from a playoff win. Everyone is shouting, hugging, and dumping water on each other.
I find Iveline in the middle of the chaos. She’s standing by the coaches’ door, looking at the celebration with a small, quiet smile.
I walk over to her, my jersey soaked in sweat, my face probably covered in ice shavings and blood from a small cut on my chin. I don’t care who is watching. I don’t care about the cameras or the ‘C’ on my chest.
I stop right in front of her.
“The chip and chase worked,” I say, my breath coming in short, jagged bursts.
“I know,” she says, her eyes shining with something that looks a lot like pride. “I told you it would.”
I lean in, just enough so only she can hear me over the noise of the room. “You’re the smartest person in this building, Ivy. I hope you know that.”
She holds my gaze, steady and unflinching, like she’s finally letting me see the part she keeps locked away.
“And you’re the best captain I’ve ever coached,” she whispers back.
I want to stay there, in that tiny pocket of peace, but Rick claps me on the shoulder, pulling me away for the post-game interviews.
We’ve got a long way to go. This series is far from over, and the road to the Cup is paved with a lot more bruises and late-night film sessions.
But as I look back and see Iveline talking to Marcus, pointing at a play on her clipboard even in the middle of a celebration, I know we’re going to be okay.
Because we aren’t just a team anymore. We’re something better.
And I’m not letting go of that for anything.
* * *
Cash changed the name to “MOM’S FAVORITE DISAPPOINTMENTS”
Cash: Does anyone know if the Silverline Trust Arena sells “Iveline St. James Is My Mom” shirts or should I just make them?
Brick: I’m sleeping in the ice bath. If anyone touches me, I’m filing a formal grievance with the NHL.
Me: One down. Rest up.