27. Iveline
Iveline
The guys earned a moment of peace, but the playoffs don’t believe in mercy. Less than twelve hours later, we’re here, walking into Media Day like the blood hasn’t even dried on Round One yet.
It is a scent that is sharper than game day and somehow far less honest. There is no ice here to numb the senses, and there is no adrenaline to mask the nerves.
There are only cameras and questions honed to fine points by people who are pretending they aren’t looking for blood while they are absolutely looking for blood.
I smooth the cuff of my blazer as we approach the arena entrance, the motion small and grounding. My heels click against the concrete in a steady rhythm that I can still control.
It is early, far too cold for this time of year, and the sky hangs low and gray over Boston. It is that washed-out overcast that makes the city feel suspended, as if the city itself is holding its breath, waiting for the first mistake of the playoffs.
Rick walks a few steps ahead of me, his phone pressed to his ear as he negotiates something in a low, urgent tone.
Jenna and her intern trail a few paces behind, quietly arguing about interview rotations and the specific talking points we need to hit to keep the narrative on the game and off the drama.
I don’t notice the cameras at first. I notice the noise. It hits me wrong—too sharp and too sudden. I hear my name being shouted with varying degrees of confidence, butchered by some and then hastily corrected by others.
There is a sudden, violent ripple of movement to my left, a sharp shift in the atmospheric pressure. My body registers the danger a full second before my mind can process what is happening.
“Iveline, over here!”
“Coach St. James, look this way!”
“Is it true you’re—”
The crowd surges forward. Adrenaline spikes through my system, and my stomach lurches.
People spill out from behind a parked van like they’ve been waiting in ambush for hours. Cameras lift in unison. Someone’s shoulder slams into my arm hard enough to sting, and the space around me collapses inward.
They are getting too close.
The microphones look like blunt weapons shoved inches from my mouth, close enough to catch every uneven breath I draw. I can see my own reflection in the curved glass of a camera lens, looking distorted, small, and hunted.
In Finland, the media is polite, almost distant. In Boston, they are a pack of wolves that have been starving for a story, and I am the only thing on the menu.
I can feel the heat of the bodies pressing in on me, the friction of nylon jackets rubbing against my professional blazer.
For a woman who has spent her entire life perfecting the art of the “controlled exit,” this is a living nightmare.
I feel the air thinning, the oxygen being replaced by the rapid-fire clicking of shutters.
Jenna swears and spins around. “Hey, back up!” she snaps, but her voice is swallowed whole by the shouting.
I try to sidestep, to keep moving toward the safety of the doors. I try to keep my footing on the uneven concrete. A hand brushes against my back—it’s not a guiding hand or a protective one. It is just careless, reaching for a better angle.
“Iveline, are the rumors true?”
“What rumors?” I ask automatically, but my voice disappears into the crush before it even leaves my lips.
Another shove comes, harder this time. My heel skids on the concrete. For half a second, the world tilts. My center of gravity is gone, and my body begins to brace for the inevitable impact of the ground.
Then, a hand lands on my waist.
It is firm, it is immediate, and it is unmistakable.
Callahan.
His fingers spread at my side, his grip precise and steady, correcting my balance with an instinctive efficiency that leaves me breathless.
I feel the sudden, intense heat of his body at my side, solid and grounding.
His shoulders angle wide, blocking the worst of the surge like it is part of his muscle memory.
Like he’s done this a thousand times before.
“Back the fuck up,” he spits, looking around.
The shift in the atmosphere is instantaneous.
When Callahan Moore steps in, it is like a riot shield has been dropped between me and the rest of the world.
I realize, with a jolt of clarity, that this is the first time the public has actually seen us together outside of the bench.
To them, this is a scandal caught in real time.
The way he angles his head, shielding my face from the harshest flashes of the cameras, tells me everything I need to know about where his loyalties lie.
The cameras explode with renewed vigor. Flash after flash hits us. Shutters clatter like gunfire in the small space. I flinch despite myself, my vision turning spotty with white bursts of light.
“Callahan, is there something going on between you and Coach Talvi?”
His grip tightens on my waist, just enough for me to register the change. I draw a sharp breath, my chest feeling tight.
Rick finally barrels in, his arms out, forcing space with brute authority.
“That’s enough,” he snaps at the crowd. “We’re done for the day. Move!”
Security finally arrives, shouting orders and herding the bodies back behind the barricades. The noise doesn’t truly fade until the heavy glass doors of the arena slam shut behind us, sealing out the cold and the vultures.
Silence crashes down on us like a wave.
My pulse roars in my ears, and my skin hums with the leftover adrenaline of the encounter. Callahan’s hand drops from my waist instantly, as if he’s been burned by the contact.
I feel a strange, conflicting mix of emotions—a sudden sense of loss that the closeness has vanished, a deep relief that it didn’t escalate further, and a confusing ache in my chest that I can’t quite name.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, looking at me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
“Yes,” I say, because the word is a reflex at this point, even as my fingers tremble when I curl them into my palm to hide the shake.
He nods once, his jaw tight and his eyes scanning me like he’s looking for injuries I would never acknowledge.
Rick drags a hand down his face, looking exhausted. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters.
“They shoved her,” Callahan says, his voice sharp with protective fury.
Jenna is already on her phone, her thumb flying across the screen. “This is going to be everywhere in three minutes.”
She’s right.
By the time we reach the locker room corridor, my name is already trending.
I make the mistake of looking at my screen, and the headlines are already blooming like toxic weeds in a garden.
ST. JAMES SCANDAL: COACH OR COUPLING?
MOORE’S PROTECTIVE PLAY: MORE THAN JUST TEAMMATES?
There’s already a slow-motion gif circulating of the exact moment his hand hit my waist. In the grainy footage, it looks like a scene from a movie—the stoic hero and the vulnerable woman.
I hate it.
I hate that my months of tactical brilliance, my seventy-page playbook, and my record-breaking win streak have been reduced to a three-second clip of a man keeping me from falling on my face.
But then I look at Callahan.
He’s standing by his locker, staring at his own phone with a look of pure disgust. He isn’t worried about his ‘brand’ or his endorsements. He’s worried about what this does to the professional space I’ve fought so hard to occupy.
“Coach.”
I look up from my tablet, my face a mask of practiced calm.
“You’re viral,” Cash says, his eyes wide. “Like—capital V viral. The internet is losing its collective mind.”
Nico appears behind him, his own phone out. “This is… a lot. People are analyzing the grip strength of his fingers on your blazer, Coach. It’s getting weird.”
Kovács mutters from his stall, “That’s bad. Real bad.”
Leo looks genuinely panicked, his young face pale. “Did you do something wrong? Is everyone in trouble?”
“No,” I say, my voice steady. “No one is in trouble for a misunderstanding.”
Cash spins his phone toward me, and I’m forced to watch the video again. Me stumbling, Callahan’s hand on my waist, his body angled protectively in front of mine. The freeze-frame alone looks intimate in a way that context just can’t fix.
“Oh my God,” Cash breathes, looking at the screen. “That’s… that’s very intimate, Callie. You’ve got ‘the look’.”
“It was balance,” I say flatly, my eyes darting to Callahan.
“Balance has chemistry now?” Cash asks, a grin starting to form.
“Shut up, Cash.”
He actually does, though he looks like he’s vibrating with the need to say more.
My phone starts buzzing in my pocket.
Once. Twice.
It becomes a constant, rhythmic vibration that I can’t ignore.
Cash has added you to “MOM’S FAVORITE DISAPPOINTMENTS”
Cash: @Callahan @Iveline UM HELLO???? Is this how we find out
Brick: Find out what
Cash: THAT THEY’RE IN LOVE
Leo: Are we allowed to talk about this
Brick: No
Cash: I SAW A HAND ON A WAIST
Nico: To be fair, it’s a very nice waist. Coach stays in shape.
Brick: Nico, stop. Now.
Leo: Are we going to get in trouble?
Me: Yes
Cash: Worth it
I look up from my phone.
Callahan’s phone is vibrating relentlessly on the bench next to him. He doesn’t look at it. His gaze stays fixed on the floor, his shoulders tight like he’s bracing for a fallout he already knows is coming.
Jenna steps forward into the center of the room.
Her usual chaos-goblin grin is nowhere to be seen, replaced by the steely, media-trained expression that reminds everyone she’s the PR Director for a reason.
“Enough. Phones away. Now,” Jenna orders.
The groans ripple through the room, but the players comply, sliding their devices into their lockers.
“The media is already calling the front office. We’ll issue a formal statement. Nothing inappropriate occurred. It was a crowd-control issue, and the captain assisted a staff member.”
“And if they don’t buy it?” Rick asks, his voice skeptical.
Jenna exhales a long, weary breath. “They never do. But we stick to the story.”
“I’ll handle the questions at the podium,” I say, my voice echoing in the sudden silence.
Callahan looks up sharply, his eyes meeting mine. “No.”
“This is my job, Callahan.”
“So is protecting the team,” he fires back, his voice low and dangerous. “And right now, you’re part of the team. I’m not letting you go out there alone so they can pick you apart.”
Something heavy and significant settles between us—it’s instinct, it’s guilt, and it’s the shared understanding that neither of us chose this moment, but both of us will be defined by it anyway.
“We’ll manage it together,” Jenna cuts in, his tone final. “Iveline, you do the tactical briefing. Callahan, you handle the ‘incident’ questions. Don’t give them an inch.”
I glance at Jenna, her words acting as a final anchor.
My phone buzzes again. I sneak a look.
Scottie: I JUST SAW THE VIDEO. WHO DO I FIGHT? GIVE ME NAMES.
Dean: Just name the outlet, Iveline. I’ll handle the rest.
Despite the cameras, despite the headlines forming in real time, and despite the way control just slipped through my fingers, I find myself smiling.
For the first time in a long while, I understand that being seen doesn’t always mean being diminished. Being protected doesn’t have to mean being weak.
The game has changed. The rules are gone. And for the first time in my life, I’m not looking for an exit.
I’m staying right here.